Free Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista by Aven Ellis Page B

it,” he says quickly, interrupting my thoughts. “Get some numbers. Put together a sample basket and show it to Craig. You need to make your own opportunities if you want to be happy at work.”
    I’m so surprised by his kind words that I don’t even know what to say. But as I gaze into his eyes, I can see that he believes in my idea. He thinks I can do this.
    He believes in me , I realize. Deke believes in me.
    And as I stand here, I begin to believe in me, too.
    “Maybe I will,” I say slowly.
    “Maybe you should,” he says, smiling gently at me.
    And the second he does, my spine begins to tingle. A wonderful, warm tingle that radiates me from head to toe. I find myself smiling back at him, drinking him in with my eyes as I do.
    I notice how broad Deke is across the chest, and I instinctively know that if I were to peel that crappy 1991 Chicago Bulls Championship T-shirt off him, I’d find a tanned and sculpted upper body. His shoulders would be muscular from lugging around equipment all day, and his chest would be—
    Suddenly I realize what I’m doing and, horrified, I feel a blush flame across my neck and face. What the hell am I doing? Why am I thinking about Deke shirtless? I should be thinking about Sullivan shirtless. He’s the guy I’m supposed to be interested in, not Deke.
    “Uh,” I blurt out, whipping away from him and back to the dishwasher, “I guess I’ll finish up in here and go to lunch.”
    “Right,” he says quickly.
    I turn around and find that he’s still studying me. Then he abruptly looks away, as if I’ve caught him staring.
    I’m being paranoid again , I reassure myself. Then I wonder if maybe I should take advantage of the mental health services offered in the Premier Airlines insurance plan. They could counsel me on paranoia, because obviously I’m suffering from it.
    “I’ll see you after lunch then,” he says, backing out of the kitchenette.
    “Right,” I say cheerfully. I throw some soap in the machine, turn it on, and scramble to get out of the room, haunted by my fantasizing about Deke being shirtless.
    I scurry back to my cubicle, knowing exactly what I need to do. I’m obviously stressed. Apparently spending all this time on camera is taking a toll on my mental well-being.
    I pick up my cell phone and retrieve the number for my favorite day spa in Lincoln Park. I’m making appointments for me and Bree for this Saturday, and then everything in my world will make sense again. A hot stone massage is perfect for a mental reset.
    And with peace and tranquility restored in my body, I’ll be back to fantasizing about Sullivan shirtless, just like I’m supposed to.
    And scruffy, old T-shirt-wearing Deke will be the furthest thing from my mind on Saturday morning.
    Just like he’s supposed to be.

Chapter 7
    This is supposed to be relaxing.
    I’m lying on a massage table, with soothing music being piped into the background. Hot stones are situated on my back, deliciously warming my skin. Meegan, my masseuse, is expertly working my shoulders, and I can inhale the wonderful aroma of lavender and vanilla in the air.
    I should be falling asleep. No. I should be asleep. I should be drooling on these crisp white linens, as that’s how relaxed I should be.
    But every time I close my eyes, I see Deke. I visualize his mysterious blue-green eyes peering into mine. I see him smiling at me in that way that makes my spine tingle.
    And then I imagine what he’d look like shirtless.
    I instantly flinch. Damn it! What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I fantasizing about my videographer? I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know if he’s funny or smart or if he prefers salty foods over sweet when he’s got a craving.
    I instantly command my brain to shut off thoughts about Deke. Focus on Sullivan . But my redirection instantly makes a U-turn back to Deke, which makes me flinch again.
    “Avery, relax,” Meegan says softly, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re tensing