Bedwrecker(41)

L. O. V. E.

Seriously, I’m afraid to look at a girl without giving her the wrong vibe.

The dance club is named Cupid, and the owners definitely believe in peace and love, because let me tell you, they aren’t shy about flaunting it.

It’s everywhere.

This isn’t the Hollywood super club I remember from Brooklyn’s MTV reality-show days, but aside from the hearts and flowers plastered on the walls, it is pretty damn close. Eight thousand square feet of play space with three rooms, a sunken dance floor, and an elevated DJ booth.

Green screens line the perimeter and burlesque dancers have a stage of their own in the next room. I think pole dancers are one room from there.

I’m content right where I am.

I take the glass of scotch from the cute bartender, who makes certain to make eye contact while she mixes another drink. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Anytime.” She smiles and gives me a nod.

I can read the gleam of interest in her eyes.

Cocktail waitresses, bartenders—they are always an easy score, but like the last six weeks I’m not into scoring, especially tonight.

Without another glance her way, I swirl the liquid in my glass and then take a sip, relishing the tang of the cool liquid on the back of my throat. It’s my second, although technically not really; I never finished my first. It’s been sitting here, untouched.

The club is crowded, the thump of top-forty music loud in my ears. I scan the open space, then the row of low benches against the railing that separates the bar from the dance floor. Not for any reason in particular, but I am curious where Maggie is. After dinner she hopped in another car, and Jordan rode along with me.

I have yet to see her.

Jordan’s body shakes with amusement, and for a moment I had almost forgotten I wasn’t alone. “Come on, Camden Waters, a Gen Ex’er?”

Handing him his freshly poured Cosmo, I take another sip of my scotch and let my eyes wander as I continue my conversation with the head designer at Simon Warren, who, if I take this job, will report directly to me. “No fucking joke. As a reformed Gen Ex’er myself, I probably should come clean that before my days on Wall Street, I lived in jeans and baseball hats worn backwards.”

“But you’d never know it,” he responds, glancing at my black dress shirt and gray dress slacks.

Considering he selected them for me earlier, I’m not so sure about that.

After all, dog-and-pony shows are a Wall Street tradition. And here in LA, I’m not quite sure it’s any different, just that the brass and balls have been replaced with fake hugs and air kisses. Yet, I have a gut feeling Jordan is genuine. “Trust me, Jordan,” I tell him, “any style I have comes from walking into Bergdorf’s men’s department and informing the salesclerk that I worked on Wall Street. Like magic, the suits, shirts, ties, and shoes were presented to me in a mix-and-match kind of way. It wasn’t quite like Garanimals, but it was pretty damn close.”

Practically recoiling, Jordan crushes his hand to his chest. “Never say that word in my presence again.”

Laughing, I have to push the envelope; it’s just my nature. “Garanimals? It’s a shame you don’t like the concept, because I was thinking about having you come up with some kind of mix-and-match coding system for the fall line.”

The little speech he gives me in return about the value of selection and individual style is enlightening. I’d like to think I learned a thing or two over the past five years about fashion, but spending the day in the workroom made me realize that I don’t know shit.

I have a lot of fucking studying to do.

Deep pockets, shallow pockets, cuffs, French cuffs, zippers, pleats, tucks, tapers, folds, plain seams, counter seams, slot seams, metal buttons, wooden buttons, plain buttons, shirt buttons, and that’s not all. The list of fashion terminology goes on and on.

Sure, running a company comes down to knowing your costs and your market, but I’m not stupid, I also know that I have to understand the product, which is why Cam arranged this little two-week lesson of his.

The issue—I am not a good student.

And there is no way Maggie can be my teacher.

Well, there is a way.

Yet, I can’t go there.

Okay, so I can.

Truth is, forcing me to spend time with Maggie wasn’t a bad business decision on Cam’s part. She certainly knows her shit. But I have to say, having her around me is distracting as hell. After the coffee incident, and the memory of her on her knees in front of me, I did my best to ignore her. To listen to what Jordan had to say and step away whenever Maggie and I were left alone.

Her little game was too much for me—and I really hate to admit that.