“Ava, sweetie. What can I get you?” A woman shorter than me with bright eyes and gray hair peered over the counter the next morning.

“Mmm, I think I’m feeling a latte.” I considered. “Yup, definitely in the latte zone. Thanks, Lindy.” I fished enough cash from my bag for a coffee and a good tip.

Since Lex still worked for Kirsten, an editor at the magazine, we’d got a small office space there part-time. But working in the office made me crazy. It had too many walls and too much white and way too many serious people with stressed-looking faces. I’d stumbled on Ladders Diner in the building next to our apartment after unpacking the other day.

Despite the name, it was more of a café. A comfy place where you could relax, with worn brown leather couches and mismatched chairs and tables. They made a hell of a latte and also sold vintage board games. If you were into that.

The regulars called it Lindy’s, after the owner. Belinda had to be pushing sixty-five and totally rocked a gray pixie cut. Three tattoos peeked out from under her short-sleeved shirt. I’d bet there were more.

Sassy.

I was still struck with a serious case of designer-block. We had less than two months until the spring designs were due, but today things were going to come together for me. I knew it.

Travesty’s trademark look was urban with a side of whimsy. The ready-to-wear pieces included tops, skirts, shorts, and sweaters in luxe fabrics. The fall collection was the best thing I’d ever created, hands down. But in fashionland, after fall comes spring. And spring was turning out to be another story.

Still, time pressure was the least motivating thing on the planet. Lex worried about spending more on fabrics because of shorter lead times, but I hardly cared how much we made so long as we could keep a roof over our heads. What made my heart race was the prospect of seeing clothes I’d designed walk down the street amidst the leaves in NYC.

I spread out on a couch by the window and opened my sketchpad. Two sips into my latte and barely a pencil mark on the sketchpad, my phone exploded with the 1990 Divinyls hit “I Touch Myself.”

I hit the “accept” button without hesitation.

“Hey, babe. What’s up? Thought you might be going into withdrawal.”

“Damn straight. Missing my sunshine and my eye candy.”

I’d had a huge crush on my brother’s roommate when I’d first met him. I was over it now, but he was still one of my favorite people. Kent looked like the cover model for a surf campaign. On top of it, he was really damn nice. We’d asked him to watch our LA boutiques when Lex and I couldn’t be there. Even though Kent didn’t have the business savvy, he had a good eye. Plus, the girls who ran the boutiques would do anything for him.

“Got every dude in New York wrapped around your finger, Tink?” He called me Tinkerbell because of my tiny size and big attitude.

I blew out a breath. “I can’t even get one guy wrapped around my finger. Actually, I think he’s giving me the finger.”

“You done the spring mockups yet? The locals are getting restless. That’s partly why I called.”

Lex and I had emailed a teaser, but we hadn’t sent anything this month. We were planning to do a tour of the boutiques to promote spring when we visited in early October. “Tell them they’ll have the preview soon.”

“Roger. We miss you ladies out here. Dylan’s boring as shit. Maybe next year I’ll come out to see you. Good parties?”

“No time to enjoy them. But we’ll throw you an epic one. Our apartment is sick.”

“Deal.” He paused. “How is she?”

I suspected Kent still had a thing for my best friend, even though he denied it.

“Lex is right at home here. Though she’s the major roadblock in the whole party plan. All the girl does is work.”

“Then show her the fun.”

“Well,” I mused, “we are going to this gala tonight. About time we had a party. I need to blow off some steam.”

* * *

“This is definitely not a party.” I touched up my hair in the mirror that ran the length of the gallery’s massive bathroom. Another ten women were crowded around us doing the same.

“It’s good for business, A. There are editors and bloggers here we need to meet who can promote Travesty in the future. Plus, Kirsten gave us free tickets.” Lex was checking her phone next to me, looking amazing in a silver sheath dress. I’d put on a strapless nude dress from DKNY that hit above the knee and gold sandals with a killer heel. My hair was roped up in a messy updo.

“Isn’t this a fundraiser to end homelessness?” I asked, fixing my eyeliner where it had smudged. I glanced at the stuffy crowd around us. “If everyone in this bathroom would just give their extra homes to the homeless, we could probably wrap up by nine, raid the bar, and get out of here.”

The woman reapplying lipstick next to me looked over in shock.

“You did not say that,” Lex breathed, but I could hear her voice tremble at the end like she was trying not to laugh. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“What?” I asked as she dragged me out to the main gallery. “It’s true.”

Promoting our work to people who’d never wear our clothes felt damn awkward. These men and women could influence where we were bought and sold with a stroke of their pens or a contact on their phones. I’d way rather talk to people who loved to wear the clothes instead of just deal in them.

But I needed to be here for Lex, as painful as it might be.

Which was why I’d tucked a flask in my purse for insurance. And had a couple of shots on my way out the door.

The gallery hosting the event had installed temporary walls to give more spaces to display art. In total I guessed there were five hundred people milling around. I didn’t see any dining tables in the biggest room, so if I wanted to eat I’d have to make friends with some of the black-and-white-clad people carrying trays of miniature food.

When I was growing up and my parents dragged me somewhere I didn’t want to be, I’d entertain myself by noticing what people wore. It didn’t matter if it was a party or the drugstore. So this place should’ve been heaven for me. But while some outfits were breathtaking, some had so much chiffon, satin, and lace I was itching to sneak up behind the wearer and pull some of it off. For their benefit and as a public service.

We found Lex’s boss talking in a small group. Kirsten’s black dress was asymmetrical, ending high on her toned thighs. She’d set it off with a bold gold necklace and thin bracelets. She fit the part of up-and-coming lifestyle magazine editor perfectly.

Kirsten made introductions, and I listened with half an ear while someone gushed about someone named Muffy buying a plumbing vase.

“What the hell is a plumbing vase?” I whispered to Lex.

“Blohm and Voss,” she whispered back. “I’m not sure, but I think it’s a boat?”

Stupid names. For people and boats.

“The fundraiser is for one of New York’s biggest charities,” Kirsten said to us when the yacht groupies finally moved on. “After the speeches it’s music and drinks the rest of the night. The big feature is the auction. But before I forget, I want you to meet Rolf Stephens. Muffy’s brother—” she gestured “—has taken over as fashion director at Cosmopolitan UK. I’ll introduce you later. Looks like they’re starting.”

My heart picked up a little at the name. Lex would be excited to meet someone like that. At least she, unlike me, would know what to say.

Then maybe I could convince Lex to stop at a club on the way home to dance. We were already dressed for it. Cheered by the thought, I followed Kirsten’s gaze toward the front of the room, where an inconspicuous platform was raised about six inches off the floor.

My good mood was snuffed out as quickly as it’d come.

“Is that Alistair Townsend’s son?” Kirsten asked her husband, Jeremy, who had just joined us on her other side.

“This is one of the Townsends’ charities. Alistair chairs the board.”

“What is he, president?” I demanded.

Jeremy laughed. “Not quite. But rumor has it Al’s going to run for Senate. He’s one of the city’s top attorneys and has huge support from the corporate sector.”

My gaze ran over Nate as he spoke with another man at the side of the stage. I told myself I was sizing him up, not checking him out. There was no lingering on his chiseled jaw. The breadth of his chest.

None at all.

When Nate stepped to the mic, the crowd fell silent, expectant.

“Good evening, everyone.” His rich tenor voice caressed the microphone. “I’m Nathan Townsend, and it’s my honor to welcome you on behalf of the board. My father wanted to be here, but it looks like you’re stuck with me instead.”

The crowd tittered. Translation: every woman under eighty wasn’t disappointed to get Nate instead of his father.

Yeah, he’s hot. Keep your damn panties on.

“Homelessness is an epidemic in this city. Most of us don’t have the first clue what homelessness feels like. But those of us in this room believe—we know—that everyone has a right to a home. To shelter. To dignity.

“The individuals who run shelters, provide training, and support outreach programs give their hearts and souls every day to this work. But despite these efforts, the epidemic is growing. It’s time for us to stand up and turn the tide. And through the people in this room, we can.”

Nate didn’t once look down for a sheet of paper or waver in his delivery. I’d figured Nate would be smooth, but it was more than that. It was as if he were speaking from his heart to every person here.

“Close your mouth.” A whisper sounded near my ear.

Lex was right. I’d been watching with my mouth open wide enough the waiters could’ve flipped mini-quiches in from twenty feet.

The way he spoke intimately, passionately, to a roomful of strangers made it harder to remember he was damaged goods. If I’d seen him tonight for the first time, I would’ve been on the superhighway to crushdom.

When Nate finally, thankfully finished, the crowd applauded enthusiastically.

“I need a break,” I whispered to Lex. The room was too hot. “When I get back I’ll smile and kiss any asses you want.”

I ran to the bathroom, downing a shot on the way.

Splashing some water on my neck helped me calm down. I braced my hands on the sides of the sink, wishing I had that check on the bulletin board to look at.

After last winter I’d put Nate in a box. When we met he’d been magnetic, charismatic, intriguing. He was also scarred, argumentative, and a jerk.

Alone in this bathroom I could admit it to myself: he wasn’t an entirely unattractive package. But every man had some redeeming qualities, and with him the good couldn’t be enough to outweigh the bad. I’d just ignore the way my heart had picked up when he’d spoken in that room.

And definitely wouldn’t think about him naked.

Sharing a lawsuit and a building, we were bound to cross paths. But there was no reason I couldn’t do it with grace.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror, lifting my chin. The more I thought about the idea, the more I liked it. I could be mature. Poised. Channel Jackie Kennedy or Princess Grace. When I saw him I’d nod, but not smile. Acknowledge him but not engage.

“Mr. Townsend.” I tried it on. Weirdness.

“Nathan.” Better.

I was proud of my newfound resolve. I could totally handle being around Nate Townsend without my head or my girl-parts exploding.

When I left the bathroom, people were milling around the art that covered the walls, the floor, and, in the case of one big installation, the ceiling. I took my time, wandering past sculptures and paintings. They were beautiful and diverse.

I stopped in front of one particular painting that called to me. The giant canvas was splattered with grays and reds and titled Apart. Looking at it wrenched at me, like I was being ripped in two by invisible forces. What had the artist felt when she’d painted it? Had she set out to move people? To make them feel what I felt, or something else? Or just to put paint on a canvas because that’s what she got up every morning burning to do?

I picked up her card and stashed it in my clutch.