More than Fashion

30

They’d come off, but had ripped the fabric in the process. “Oh my god.”

“It’s this goddamn fabric,” he said, throwing the ruffle on the table. “I told you we should have chosen the thicker one.”

“That one was way more expensive! We wouldn’t have had any money left to buy fabric for the shirt.” I put my hands on my hips, staring him down. “And don’t you dare try to pin this on me. You should have been more careful removing the ruffles instead of yanking them off.”

He scowled and inspected the damage. “I think I can patch this up. I’ll try to attach the ruffles in a way that covers the seam. It won’t be perfect, but we don’t have time for anything else.”

“No, you still need to fix the adjustable length of the skirt.” I grabbed the ruffles and searched for the correct thread. “Here, let me help—”

He snatched the ruffles out of my hand. “I don’t need your help!”

“Um, hello, we’re on the same team.” God, what was his problem? It wasn’t like I was trying to change his design or anything. I just wanted to get this done in time.

“You worry about your part of the dress, and I’ll worry about mine,” he said, his voice sharp. “That was the deal.”

I turned away from him, fuming. “Fine. Whatever. Just don’t screw this up.”

“Me? You were supposed to get the corset fitted to Carla. You had one job, and you properly buggered that up. One job!”

I spun back around, glaring at him. “Oh, I’m sorry! Maybe your stupidity is contagious!”

With that, he burst out laughing. A second later I had to join in because what else could I do? It was all so ridiculous, and we were fighting over nothing. But when you’re held captive in a stressful environment, running on very little sleep and stuck with your competitors 24/7, it was no wonder silly little things blew up into giant dramas.

He placed his tattooed hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Julie.”

“Me too.” I took a deep breath. “God, could anything else possibly go wrong?”

“Don’t tempt the fates, love.” He placed his fingertips on the table. “Touch wood.”

“You mean knock on wood,” I said, rapping my knuckles three times on the same spot.

“Why would you knock? Do you expect it to answer? It’s not a door.”

“I don’t know. But at least I’m not feeling it up like some creepy wood-lover.”

“If I remember correctly, you’re the wood-lover.”

A laugh escaped me. “Okay, I’ll give you credit for that one.”

He grinned. “Score another point for me.”

“That totally doesn’t count!”

***

The teams were seated together to watch the runway show, but I could barely hold still while we waited. Gavin and I had worked so hard on this dress, but it was such a risky gamble and I wasn’t sure if it would pay off or not. It was hard to tell what the judges would like.

And if we were on the bottom, I would be the one sent home, not Gavin.

The lights went up and the music started. Trina and Dawn’s model was first, wearing a sheer, floor-length dress covered in tiny flowers and butterflies they’d created with fabric that cleverly hid all of her naughty bits. It was a beautiful dress and definitely had a whimsical fairytale feel, but I could already hear the judges saying it was “too crafty.”

Tom and Jeff’s model was next, wearing a long silvery dress that fell straight down her body and had pointed shoulders, giving it a slight sci-fi feel while still looking modern and sexy.

Carla came out third, and I held my breath the entire time she walked down the long strip of runway. Every step she took felt like a mile, and I was torn between watching her move (and damn, did she work it) and watching the judges on the other side of the stage to gauge their reactions. But with the bright lights, it was tough to see their faces.

Our steampunk saloon girl look definitely stood out from the others. The over-bust corset was made of a beautiful dark-brown-and-gold brocade, with matching laces in the back and black leather piping and trim. We’d also added buckles along the front and thin chains that hung across her ribs, along with a pocket watch Gavin had found somewhere.

Underneath the corset, Carla wore the white, long-sleeved shirt Gavin had created, which dipped low to show off her cleavage and had big shoulders to give it more of an authentic period look. Below it, Gavin had created a bustle skirt in a nearly identical shade of brown as the corset. It was tiered in the back with three layers of ruffles, each one edged in black lace, which hid the rip he’d made earlier. The skirt fell to the ankle, but the front could be raised to Carla’s thigh while remaining long in the back. The raised front would then clip on to metal rings at her hip, giving her a Wild West saloon girl feel with a distinct steampunk edge. Assuming it worked, that is.

The entire thing fit Carla perfectly, even with all the problems we’d had redoing it for her. We’d also given her knee-high brown leather boots and those awesome goggles I’d found in the accessory room, which were perched on top of her head. When Carla reached the end of the runway, she posed for a split second, then raised the front of the skirt up to mid-thigh, showing off her beautiful dark legs. It worked! I let out a little squee, unable to help myself, and Gavin laughed beside me, sounding relieved. Carla posed another instant longer, then turned around and walked back down the runway.