Grounds for Romance (The Coffee Loft Series: Fall Collection)

20. Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Zara

M y hands shake by my side. A strange mix of happiness in seeing my sister and the anxiety of not knowing what she’s going to do. Stacy strides into the arena like a war hero returning home to save the day.

She’s dressed like the cheerleader she is, bright-white, tight, short-sleeve top and a blue-pleated skirt the same color as the Magic. This isn’t a random fashion statement. She spins, and I recognize the four-foot wireless sound bar hooked over each shoulder, backpack style. It’s the speaker she brings every time we picnic on the quad of her dorm.

She’s magnificent, and I can barely pull my eyes from her. A rhythmic instrumental beat streams from the speaker she carries, and my eyes flit to who’s behind her. Marching in a perfect two by two formation are ten men I don’t recognize. Each stands the same height. Each, I suspect, weighs within one pound of another. Each wearing one of my designs.

My hands rise to cover my mouth.

Stacy has come to my rescue. How? Where? A thousand questions flood my head. Questions I know will remain unanswered until this plays out. I lower my hands to display a sense of calm when all I feel is the opposite.

Gorgeous men of every hue and nationality stream into the arena. African American, Hispanic, Asian, East Indian, White, and Native American. She’s assembled a walking Benetton ad.

Stacy stops three feet in front of David, takes a bow, then juts her chin at me. She’s passing the baton to me. I don’t know how she did it, but she somehow retrieved my outfits from Devon. I’ll figure out later if she used the carrot or the stick.

“David, I’m happy to present to you my vision of the Magic collection.” I find my voice. My pitch isn’t over. My sister is handing me a second chance.

The earth stops shaking beneath me as I realize I’m back on solid ground. My original pitch had Devon standing in front of David, wearing my designs. I had written pages of material to cover off the time it would take Devon to perform his quick change from one outfit to another.

With the photo presentation earlier, I didn’t need to fill the void with details. I gave just the highlights. Now with the designs here in front of him, designs I know inside and out, I can flip the script. A script I’ve written in my head for months as I worked every evening on these designs like a mother hen lauding over her chicks. Everything is as it should be, except for the man I expected to be with me on this journey.

As I complete my description of the tailored team blazer, noting the details of the hidden pocket to hold autograph sharpies and designer sunglasses, I appreciate the skill of the chosen models. I only had enough faith in Devon to stand in one spot, afraid if I had given him the task of strutting and spinning, he’d either end up on the floor or might kick his shoe off his foot, striking David in the forehead.

The model struts around David, giving him a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the blazer in motion. He hits his mark, back in front of David, unhooks the button, and fans the jacket out a la Neo in the Matrix . The perfectly executed move nearly brings me to cheers. I sneak a glance at my sister and shoot her a quick wink. What she’s been able to pull off in less than a day is incredible.

Rather than give me a thumbs up, she gives me a nervous headshake before dropping her gaze to her hands. The pads of her thumbs press to her palms. I’ve seen this look on her before. It’s the I’m not sure about this next part look she gives when she thinks she’s overstepped. My sister rarely settles for good enough. When she commits, she shoots for the moon. Even if everyone on the ground has told her it’s an impossible gamble. It’s one of the million reasons I love her.

The model with the blazer struts away, falling into formation with the others. There’s only one model left—the team sweat suit. As I describe the comfortable outfit, my mind races ahead to try to decipher what could place my sister on edge. This is the final outfit, and she must know she’s knocked it out of the park. After this, we’re done.

Then it hits me. What if we aren’t? What if there’s one more?

The mascot.

The pace of my voice picks up as does the tension in the arena. If the mascot is here, why didn’t he enter with the others? Did something happen to my head again? Is that why Stacy’s nervous? Did she find out where Devon lives and broke through a tiny basement window to steal my designs, and the head wouldn’t fit through the window? My mind constructs scenarios quicker than Google can map directions.

I open and close my hands into tiny fists and recenter myself. I construct beautiful things out of thin air. Stacy has delivered me the materials, it’s up to me to spin it into gold. It’s what I do. I have the skills, I have the experience, I’ll make it work.

She believes in me and my dream. It’s time, I do too.

The last model returns to the group. The ten men all snap to attention at the same time as a finale.

I use the cue as a signal. I plead my case to David. I tell him this is just the start of the vision I have for his brand. I speak of seasonal derivatives for the collection. Fashion lines geared toward children. Co-branded opportunities with sponsors.

All the time I’m speaking, I read the room. Picking apart his body language, listening for a signal from Stacey.

When the music returns, and the arena fills with the sound of kettle drums, I punch a triumphant fist by my side. “Hold that thought, David. We’ve saved the best for last.”

She did it. The mascot is the linchpin of the collection. The piece that pulls everything together. Showing David design specs and photos on a flat screen would never be enough to convince him. He needs to see it like this.

“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready?” Michael’s loud, boisterous voice echoes across the suddenly darkened arena. Only the overhead warming lights above David and me are left on. When another light flicks on by the arena entrance, Stacy holds her camera in front of her, the phone light creating a moving spotlight. It’s not powerful enough to light more than two feet in front of her, but one look at who’s standing next to her lets me know that’s all she’ll need.

Mr. Magic, my mascot, is standing inside the door, Stacy’s spotlight highlighting him pumping his oversized fist to a non-existent crowd. He waits for three heartbeats. Three long seconds for me to admire and appreciate all the hard work it took to get here. Not just me, Michael, and Stacy. But also for Mrs. Whitehead for allowing me to hang out in the café all day, always being there to lend an ear. Even for Devon, a stranger who has had more belief in me and my dream than my co-workers ever had.

Stacy races toward us, her phone lighting a path for the mascot who races as if he’s attempting to break the Olympic one-hundred-meter dash record. I fail in my attempt to suppress my giggle. If this were Devon, three steps in, he’d be splattered across the arena floor. Whoever Stacy put in the costume must have a side gig as a track star.

They reach the center of the arena, and the lights flicker back to life, Stacy’s spotlight fades away, and she peels away toward the scrum of models watching from the sideline.

The familiar song, which I’ve listened to a hundred times watching Stacy and Michael rehearse, kicks in. The mascot takes up a hero pose. Hands on hips, shoulders back, head held high. I whisper to David, “Picture this. Packed arena, this is Mr. Magic’s first appearance since the match began. People on their feet, he makes this entrance. Kids stand on their seats, parents snap pictures, people on the concession lines suddenly tell the cashier to add a Mr. Magic doll to their order. He’s going to be everyone’s new best friend.” He’s seen my design skills. I now sell him on the other side of his brain. The business side.

Mr. Magic strides toward us. “Posters, appearances, commercials, the intellectual property on a character like this is priceless.” The mascot crosses his feet and spins, giving David a close-up view of his back.

My gaze lowers to his backside. A tight, perfect rear which makes me think of Devon. I’ll never get a chance to tell him about this moment. Just that thought stings.

I shake away the distraction. David is oblivious as he stares at the mascot’s name stitched between the shoulder blades. “If you take a closer look, you’ll see I’ve used a special ink for the uniform number. I’ve designed it with a few different numbers and shapes that are activated by a special overlay on the spotlight. One flick of the lights, and the numbers can disappear, change color, shift to a different number. To someone sitting in the stands, it will appear to be…”

“Magic.” I hear the wheels turning in David’s head. This unique element opens options few others have considered.

The sound of cymbals crashing echoes off the walls, and Mr. Magic is on the move again. He spins on the tips of his toes and performs a sidestep followed by a moonwalk, and I gasp. Not only did Stacy find someone who’s a perfect fit for the costume, but she found time to teach them the mascot dance.

She’ll never have to pay for a beverage in the café for the rest of her life.

David crosses his arm, one hand grasping an elbow, the palm of the other hand cupping his chin. I take advantage of every additional second I have with him. “We can hire a professional choreographer, but the vision here is to have a unique Mr. Mister dance. One that people will imitate. They’d post their versions of it on TikTok, across social media, creating FOMO moments that will have families crossing state lines to get to the next home game for the Magic.”

A snicker escapes David’s mouth, and it’s quite honestly the best sound in the arena. For the first time, I sense a crack in the detached demeanor he maintains. He’s looking at me as if I finally belong alongside the other competitors. “Belts and suspenders,” he whispers more to himself than me. I have no idea what it means, but I’m smart enough not to ask.

Mr. Magic races away as the kettle drums return. All that’s left is for him to take a final bow and exit.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he races toward us, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. He bends, his giant hands landing on the floor in front of him, and he does the impossible. Two front flips. How his head doesn’t smack against the floor defies physics. It’s a move worthy of a trained gymnast and when he performs a layout, his feet stomping to the ground in perfect synchronization with the last beat of the song, I wonder if he’s also a musician.

It takes everything in me not to clap. I laugh when David catches himself, his two hands suspended in the air, less than six inches from one another.

My gaze finds Stacy. The nervousness from earlier is gone, nothing but joy and glee on her face. I give her a nod and turn to Mr. Magic.

He tips his giant head in acknowledgment before placing his hands on his hips, his feet assuming a kickstand position.

My heart races. Kickstand is a remedial position, a safe pose. The only pose I felt comfortable enough having Devon assume giving his history of destruction. Stacy wouldn’t know this.

“Impressive performance.” David’s words snap me out of the mystery in front of me. “I don’t do committees. You’ll hear something in a few days.”

All I can muster together are two fumbled words, “Of course.” I walk with David as he heads to the exit, my mind too blown by what I’ve just witnessed to speak. We reach the door, and he confirms we are his last presentation for the day. He says goodbye, and I wait for the door to close before turning.

I expect to find Mr. Magic still in a kickstand position at the center of the arena. Instead, he’s joined the other models at the other side of the room.

Relief spreads through me, and I practically race toward the troop. “I can’t believe…” My sister steps forward, and I pull her into a crushing hug. “I love you so much. I can’t believe you did…” I wave to the group. “How did you find this many? How did you get my designs back from…” I stop short of saying Devon’s name, not sure what it might bring. Anger, pain, longing, hurt?

I step in front of the blazer model. “Thank you. When you unbuttoned the jacket and flared it out, I nearly died. It was perfect.” I shake his hand and work my way down the line. I give each of them a handshake, a hug, and an appreciative comment. I picked up the little details of each of their performances. Each one of them took the materials in front of them and put a little piece of themselves into it. That’s what makes a great design. It’s why no two designs are the same. Because no two people are the same.

The models step to the side, leaving only Mr. Magic. He’s still wearing the giant head. “And thank you, Mister Magic. I had given up on ever seeing that dance routine again. How in the world my sister found someone who was the right size and could pick up the routine in a day is beyond me.” I give him the well-deserved applause I couldn’t earlier. “Those last two moves. I would have never had the courage to even draw those up; it would take a specially coordinated and trained person to even attempt those.”

Stacy slips next to me, a gentle nudge of her shoulder to mine. “That was all him. He insisted on giving it his all.”

I take a step forward, attempting to look through the mesh sewn in his eyes. Stacy’s words are filled with clues. It can’t be.

The mascot is too important to give to anyone. It would need to be someone talented enough to do this on short notice. It would need to be someone she trusted, and that list is impossibly short.

I take a small step forward. Logic dictates it can only be one person. But that would be impossible. Michael is on the other side of the country.

If not him—who?

My pulse picks up again as my mind catches up to my heart.

It can’t be.

I press my palm to his chest. The hitch of his breath echoes in the silent air. He knows I know.

Slowly, he lifts the head off his shoulders.

My pulse races quicker with every inch it rises. I can’t stop the smile forming on my face. Gone is the concern of what my reaction might be, how I might react if our paths cross again. My heart knows. It always has.

It’s Devon.

He’s here. He’s here for me. He’s giving me what he believes I need from him.

So, I do the same. I give him two words to let him know I appreciate his effort.

“Hey, you.”

***