While he held the plant, Simone gently touched the velvety flowers, admiring the intricate shape of the petals. Five stems surrounded by green leaves and white rocks arced from a white bowl. Each stem bowed under the weight of flowers the color of twilight, more than Simone could easily count. There was no personal card tucked into a plastic holder or the ribbon wrapped around the pot, just one from the florist explaining that another arrangement would arrive every four weeks for the next five years. She mentally revised her estimate from “expensive” to “the height of extravagance.”
“Who sent it?” she asked, her brain alternating between displaying it on the showroom counter and covetously keeping it in her apartment.
“I’m just the messenger, ma’am,” he said. “The florist might be able to tell you that. Sign here.”
Simone signed for the plant and took it from the bike messenger. He shifted his shoulders, rolling them back, a movement that seemed automatic to Simone, the kind of thing people did to ease an ache that was never actually going away. She did the same thing with her hands, massaging her palms and wrists in slow, steady motions, the way Ryan did when he told her about Jade.
Ryan, who now stood in Simone’s workroom with an actress that stole this year’s Best Actress Oscar as a dark horse in a field of thoroughbreds. Ryan, who had taken her hand in his and massaged the aches away, following them up her forearms to her elbows, where the tendons and muscles had tightened into intricate knots.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked the bike messenger. “Water, or a pain reliever?”
He jerked as if she’d poked him hard in the ribs. His hand fell away from his shoulder and he straightened. “No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Thank you,” she said again, but he was already through the door and taking the stairs to the street two at a time.
She carried the orchid into the workroom and set it on the table closest to the three-way mirror. Daria was still behind the screen. Ryan leaned against the table, legs crossed at the ankle, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. He glanced at the orchid. “Nice,” he said.
He lived in a world where a monthly delivery of four hundred dollars worth of orchids was nice. “It is,” she agreed.
“Who’s it from?” he said absently.
“No idea,” she said, but she had an idea, and it was as bad as if Ryan had sent it to her.
Daria emerged to stand in front of the three-way in a strapless gown of rich cream brocade that set off her flawless skin and eyes to perfection. The gown hung open, baring her slender back to her tailbone. Tucking his phone in his front pocket as he walked, Ryan stopped behind her and zipped up the gown. As the zipper went up, his fingers grazed her spine. Standing slightly behind them, Simone watched Daria’s eyelids flutter as a frisson chased up her spine.
Chemistry. It couldn’t be manufactured or bought. Two people had it or they didn’t. Ryan and Daria had it.
“A beautiful choice,” Simone said as she studied the cut of the dress’s back and bodice. “Allow me to bring you some items that may suit.”
“Oh, please do,” Daria said with a smile. “Thirty-two B, probably.”
Simone made a whirlwind tour through the showroom, selecting structured bras with lines that would suit the dress, and matching panties. Lorrie seemed to have the showroom under control, so she brought the selections back to Daria. “That one,” Daria said after they retreated behind the folding screen again. She pointed at a bra made of cream silk charmeuse. “You’re French,” she said as Simone helped her into the bra then into the gown. She wore white cotton bikini underpants, a practical choice that made Simone smile. No artifice here.
“Yes,” Simone said. “I began my career in Paris and moved to America about a year ago.”
“Which houses were you with in Paris?” Daria said as she studied her reflection in the three-way.
“I was with Demarchelier,” Simone said. “Perhaps something with more lift?”
“Agreed,” Daria said. They made the exchange, and returned to stand in front of the mirror. “Demarchelier designed my gown for the BAFTAs last year.”
Simone did not remember that, partially because she never worked in the evening-wear division of her family’s house, and partially because last year they designed gowns for two actresses far more recognizable than Daria. “Did you work with Julian, or with Genevieve?”
“Julian,” Daria said as she studied herself in the mirror. “Do you know him?”
“He’s my brother.”
“That certainly explains the showroom,” Daria said. “You have a similar eye for fabrics and structure. He knew how to design for a woman’s body so she made something beautiful out of the dress as much as the dress made something beautiful out of the woman.”
“Thank you,” Simone said, genuinely pleased. “Our father taught us as his father taught him, and his father taught him.”