Instead, she sent: “What’s your favorite thing I’ve worn this week?”
Their faces were close. She could smell his detergent—something clean, like cedar and rain. Her gaze flicked, involuntarily, to his mouth. Then, lower, to the way his linen shirt pulled across his chest. Then, absurdly, back to her own blouse. She felt the weight of her own body, the silk against her skin, the whisper of the gold chain. LoveHerBoobs - Victoria Nova - Coworker Fun Tim...
“This is fashion, Leo. Not a philosophy seminar.” Instead, she sent: “What’s your favorite thing I’ve
Victoria Nova had a rule: never date a coworker. It was a good rule, forged in the fire of a previous disaster involving IT, a misinterpreted meme, and the lingering smell of burnt microwave popcorn. She lived by it, especially now, as the newly appointed Style Director at Silhouette , Manhattan’s most cutthroat digital fashion magazine. Then, lower, to the way his linen shirt
Then: “You made that campaign beautiful, Victoria. You have a way of seeing people… as their best selves.”
She typed a message to him. Not on Slack. On her personal phone.
“Rules are just fear wearing a blazer,” he replied. “And for the record, my favorite thing you wear isn’t an outfit. It’s the way you stand when you think no one’s watching. Straight spine, chin up, like you’re holding the whole world at arm’s length. I’d like to see what happens when you let it get close.”