and then directly to the stained carpet at her feet. But in that fleeting glance, I noticed that Nicolette shared Emerson’s unfortunately beady eyes and sharp, defined cheekbones, though she had clearly gotten the luxe end of the stick when it came to hair. Hers was cut in a cheeky bob and glistened a pretty blond. “I have all the garments steamed if you want to take a look.”
“Hi,” I said casually, “who are you?”
“She’s my sister,” Emerson snapped. “And Nicolette, even you can’t mess up steam. There are a few more things in the bathroom, though.”
“Sisters?” I said. “How very Little House on the Prairie.”
Even with her face turned toward the floor, I could see Nicolette’s cheeks push up into a smile. “I’m Nina, by the way.” I pushed out a hand and Nicolette shook; the female equivalent of crossing enemy lines. I could practically see the steam shooting from Emerson’s ears and it gave me a happy.
“Your sister was telling me all about her cute little fashion line.”
“Cute? Apparently you forgot who spanked who in Seattle?”
“It’s whom. Who spanked whom. And of course I didn’t forget. I generally find it hard to forget when someone steals my designs,” I said.
“Steals? I prefer to call it ‘borrowed inspiration.’”
“I prefer to call it a death wish.”
“Um,” Nicolette said, her voice soft as she addressed the floor. “Isn’t there a third person in the competition?”
Emerson rested her fists on her love handles and threw back her head, looking like a stupid statue of some sort of conqueror. “There is a third person, but he’s hardly part of the competition.”
“He?” I hated being caught unawares, but I hadn’t read my welcome packet (hello? I’m in New York. Is someone seriously expecting me to read?) and didn’t know who was behind door number three.
Emerson jerked a thumb in the vague direction of the hallway. “Reg.”
“Reginald Fairfield?” I gaped.
Reginald Fairfield was the Queen Elizabeth of the up-and-coming fashion world: regal, benign, and basically a figurehead who kept plaid walking shorts and seersucker fabrics alive and kicking. Every one of his lines was crisp and came in shades of Martha’s-Vineyard-slash-old money, and the rumor around town was the man himself had never actually wielded a pair of scissors—he left the dirty work to his “traveling companion,” an exceptionally well-tanned young gentleman with a heavy accent and a resumé that I am completely sure contained the words “cabana boy.”
“They moved in about a week early.”
I nodded. “I suppose it would take some time for Reginald to unpack his marble busts and Felipe’s Speedos.”
Nicolette sniggered behind her hand and Emerson went from remotely tolerable back to grade-A horrible. “Didn’t you have some fabric to steam?”
Nicolette scampered away like a sad little pup and Emerson turned her eyes—and her stench—back to me.
“Look LaShay, you and I both know that this competition boils down to only two people: you and me.”
I pursed my lips. “So you admit I’m competition.”
Emerson just rolled her eyes and continued. “Your designs may have impressed a few lesser judges and”—she made air quotes—“spanked mine, but this time, make no mistake. I. Will. Bury. You.”
I cocked an eyebrow, not the least bit bothered by Emerson’s attempt at threatening me. “Don’t you mean your designs will bury mine?”
She smiled this time, poking the edge of her tongue out to moisten her bottom lip as she shrugged. “Semantics.”
I stood in the hallway, staring, as she slammed the door.
It was the next morning and being a vampire with no need of sleep, I spent the midnight hours checking out the town, frowning at the all beautiful clothes locked behind plate glass and CLOSED signs, and ultimately decimating two more blood bags than I needed to while watching Susan Lucci hock obscene-looking Pilates equipment and god-awful jewelry. When the sun finally began to peek through my drawn blinds, I gathered up my wares—rolls of gorgeous, plush fabric that was hand-sewn decades before the word vintage was coined (one of the huge benefits of having a shopping habit that spanned centuries rather than seasons), spun gold thread, bugle beads, and my absolute favorite, number-one must have: a good pair of scissors. I rolled the pair I had across my palm, enjoying their heft, the Swarovski-crusted handle, the ultrasharp blades, and the swirled-letter engraving there: Not friend, sister. Love always, Sophie.
It gave me a little pang when I ran my fingers over the words. Sophie Lawson is my San Francisco roommate and though so fashion-challenged it’s terminal, she means the world