Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“I’ve only done that twice. You’re making it sound like I keel over every time I’m there.”
“Can I pour you some coffee? I want to wash the pot, and there’s a little left.”
“Absolutely.” I studied Lark as he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and emptied the last of the coffee into it. It was easy to tell that he and Logan were brothers by their dark hair and eyes and similar features, but no one would ever guess Lark was the older of the two. Besides being a few inches shorter, he tended to dress in things that made him seem like a kid. The rainbow footie pajamas he was currently wearing were a perfect example.
He handed me the mug, and I thanked him and asked what he had planned for the day. Then I tried not to grimace as I took a sip. It was a huge step down from the expensive, freshly ground stuff Logan and his husband bought, but it still did the trick.
“Dylan and I are heading to the East Bay in a few minutes. He designed a gorgeous water feature for his parents’ backyard, and we’ll be building it in stages over the next three weeks. That’s our Christmas gift to them. What about you, what are you up to?”
“Yolanda and JoJo have that big holiday party coming up, so I need to finish their dresses.”
One of my landladies regularly hired me to make things for her, and this time she’d asked me to sew something for her wife as well. JoJo claimed she was a huge fan of my work, but I suspected these were really just acts of kindness because she knew I needed the money. She always insisted on overpaying me, even though I would have done it for free.
Lark asked, “You’re not working today?”
“I am, but not for a few hours. Lucky me, I got the six-to-midnight shift at the department store.”
“They’re open that late?”
“Sadly, yes. They have extended holiday hours all through December.” I’d been leaning against the kitchen table, and I pushed myself into an upright position and said, “I’d better get busy. See you later.”
I went upstairs and deposited my shoes and the mug in my room before heading to the bathroom. One of my housemates had just taken a shower, so it was warm and steamy.
After hurrying through my morning routine, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and ran a hand over the mirror to wipe away the condensation. What I saw made me frown. I looked pale, even thinner than usual, and unmistakably tired. A bit of concealer could take care of the shadows under my eyes, but there wasn’t any way to hide the weariness in them.
Logan was right, I’d been pushing myself way too hard. There was so much I needed to do, though. I turned away from the mirror with a sigh and went back to my room.
Aside from the twin-sized bed in the corner, it easily could have passed for a design studio. Every wall was covered with sketches, and a messy desk, sewing machine, two racks of clothes, and four dress forms made the room feel cramped. So did the shelves loaded with fabrics, books, and sewing supplies.
The clutter was overwhelming, but I couldn’t do anything about it right now. My top priority was finishing my landladies’ cocktail dresses. Yolanda’s dark red dress was short, tight, and sparkly, while JoJo’s was a plum-colored retro style with a fitted bodice and a flouncy, calf-length skirt—exactly what each woman had asked for.
My plan was to hand-stitch the hems, because the fabrics were so delicate. I threaded a needle and pulled up a chair in front of JoJo’s dress. That full skirt was going to take some time.
I made my way slowly and carefully, rolling back the fabric a fraction of an inch, creasing it with my thumbnail, and securing it with tiny stitches that disappeared into the dark purple fabric. I’d taught myself to sew when I was fifteen. A decade later, I could do this blindfolded.
My mind wandered as I worked. Inevitably, I started mentally cataloging everything I needed to get done today, and this week, and this month. Both school and my unpaid internship were on hiatus until January, which should have taken some of the pressure off. Somehow though, it really didn’t.
I might have felt better if I had some solid ideas for my senior project. We had to design and sew a six-piece collection, which would be presented in a fashion show at the end of the school year. It was about more than just a grade. Since my college had produced a lot of successful artists and fashion designers, the student showcase was always heavily scouted. A good collection got you interviews. A bad one got you nothing.