“Oh. You’ve spent all day cooped up here. I guess you’re dying to go out.” Vivian looked exhausted at the thought.

“No,” Jules said. “I’m not.”

They looked at each other. After a pause, Vivian said archly, “Then what are you suggesting?”

* * *

“Julia, are you into feet?”

“Yes, Vivian. I can finally tell someone. I have a foot fetish.”

“You have a fetish for being a smartass. Oh-h-h.” Vivian ruined her snooty attitude with a groan of relief.

Jules smirked down at the feet in her lap, the feet attached to Vivian, who was stretched out on the sofa. She’d gone upstairs for a shower, then returned in her pajamas. And now she was getting a foot rub that, based on her reaction, was the sensory experience of a lifetime.

She rubbed cream into Vivian’s skin reverently. Vivian got weekly pedicures that kept her heels soft and her toenail polish immaculate. Fetish worthy, if you were into that kind of thing.

“Tell me about today,” Jules said, firmly rubbing her thumb against the instep, eliciting another groan. “I got a lot of panic texts from people, but that’s not the same thing.”

Vivian tapped her lips, clearly sorting through where she wanted to begin. Then her eyes lit up. “Remember what a disaster the Mary Katrantzou show was last year?”

Jules leaned forward eagerly. “Was it even worse?”

Her glee made Vivian chuckle. “The opposite. It was a truly clever collection. A combination of textures and colors that made you want to reach out and touch the pieces. So many designers today live in their heads—”

“But her clothes took up space,” Jules concluded, impressed. “Made them a tactile experience.”

“Exactly. There were several pieces that would have looked great on you.”

She barely managed not to drop the foot in her lap. Vivian was looking at her with a fond little smile she’d never worn before. Jules heard the message loud and clear: I was thinking about you.

“Yeah? What were they?” she asked.

“A patterned linen dress with ostrich feathers at the hem and a pair of blue-striped knitted trousers were my top contenders. But the collection overall fit your aesthetic without reducing it to cliché. Christopher Kane, on the other hand—gorgeous, but not you at all. The color schemes…”

Jules let Vivian talk. She had spent hours imagining Jules in various outfits, thinking about how the cuts of the clothes would suit her body shape or coloring. At London Fashion Week, when she should have been paying attention to broader concerns.

But she wasn’t attracted to Jules. No, sir.