Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(31)

“Feng has it.” She pointed down the hall.

Normally he would tell her to find an assistant to deal with it, but Bev was watching and could use the education. “I’ll have Rachel check it out.”

Shirley nodded her satisfaction and went back to her table as he and Bev walked where she had pointed.

“The cutters are down here, next to the patternmakers.”

“I thought the sewing was contracted out,” Bev said. “Like to China.”

“Production is all over the world. But we need in-house staff for development.” He found Feng and talked to him for a moment until he found the fabric he was looking for and hooked it under his arm. “Feng agrees it’s no good. I’d introduce you,” he said to Bev, pulling her away, “but he hates to be interrupted, and has lots of sharp blades. They’ve got Darrin breathing down everyone’s ass this afternoon. FedEx goes out at three.” Of course, Darrin was pushing them because Liam was pushing Darrin.

They continued walking.

“Do you still swim?” Then she looked away, blushing, as though regretting the question.

He raised an eyebrow and looked down at her. Had she been checking him out? “I hurt my shoulder and never quite recovered enough to compete again.”

Her blue eyes filled with pity. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard.”

Out of habit he didn’t mention how much he’d loathed swimming. For some reason people found that remarkable. Dad had been dead for over a decade—no point dwelling on it now. “I do a lot of running these days.”

She grimaced.

“Not a runner?” he asked.

She propped her hands on her hips. “Do I look like a runner?”

Not minding to have a reason to stare at her body, Liam let his gaze drift down over her breasts. “We make clothes that would help.”

“Help?”

He kept his face blank. “With the bouncing.”

Instead of being offended, or laughing, or looking embarrassed, she shrugged and said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I have other problems.”

“Oh?”

“I lack physical coordination. Always have. The rest of my family is fine—jocks, all of them.”

“You don’t have to be a jock to move around.”

She patted him on the arm. “Said by the Olympian.”

“Exercise should be non-negotiable. For anyone.”

“That’s the kind of talk I can’t stand. Who’s negotiating? With whom? This is my body. Nobody else’s.”

“It’s a pact you make with yourself. To be a complete, healthy human being. Basic maintenance, like brushing your teeth.”

“No, it’s a chore to look good to other people. If you’re not into it—and I will never, ever be into it—you do it for the status. People don’t talk about brushing their teeth like, ‘Oh, sorry I’m late. I was brushing my teeth. I’ve been brushing my teeth so much lately and it’s really wearing me out. I’ve been working with a dentist on how to brush my teeth more effectively.’ And then their friends jump in, ‘Oh, I can totally tell. They’re so white! so strong!’, and, ‘who’s your dentist?’”

He stared at her. Had Ed known this about her when he put her in the will? “You have just inherited a fitnesswear company.”

“No shit. Thank God it’s clothes, because if this was like a gym or something, I might be in trouble.”

Momentarily speechless, Liam led her into a carpeted hallway away from the sounds of the sewing machines. Maybe her aversion to exercise would make it easier to keep her out of the way, which was a good thing.

He lifted the bolt of bad goods in his arms and strode past a short, fuzzy cubicle wall with a strip of two-inch wide gray facing material pinned across the entrance, like the yellow tape of a crime scene warning away intruders. Rachel resented anyone who had a real office.

“You have to get it lower,” Rachel said into the phone. She wore a fitted white t-shirt, black slacks, and silver ballet flats—her typical uniform. Practical, like he was; Liam wished the other assistants would follow her example. “They’re narrow goods. There’s no way we can retail over thirty.”

“Rachel.” Liam shoved the fabric under the tape across the entrance. “Shirley says this stuff is crap. Keeps getting holes.”

Rachel swung around in her chair, her phone to her ear under the angled bob of her reddish-brown hair. She gave Liam an unimpressed eyebrow lift, took the fabric without moving the phone away from her shoulder, and slid her gaze over to Bev. Surprise flickered in her bright blue eyes, then was gone; she threw the fabric down to the ground and swung back to her computer.

Liam gripped Bev’s elbow and guided her down another hallway to the stairwell. “I would introduce you, but she’s obviously busy.” She’d have plenty of opportunities to meet Rachel later, like it or not. He grinned to himself in anticipation.

Bev looked around with a smile on her face, immune to the lip-curling looks of merchandising assistants around the walls of their cubicles, the way they stared at the car wreck of her black clogs and uneven black ponytail. “It’s cool. I didn’t realize the desk people would be right next to all the action.”

When he got her into the stairway Liam stopped walking, eager to relieve her of any glamorous fantasy as soon as possible. “The desk people hate all the action. It’s noisy and full of fumes and they get constantly interrupted.”