𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙒𝙉 𝙈𝙀𝙉𝘿𝙀𝙎 ;
[completed&edited]
❝call it what you want. but sooner or later, I'll be more than just a rebound.❞
in which shawn mendes continuously chases a girl who only sees him as a rebou...
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welcome to part one! aurora versini 04/02/18 8:54am toronto, canada
"In and out, ok?" My mother instructs me on the phone from back in New York, the sound of her voice foreign. "No nonsense, you know what he can be like. Get the designs, and go. Don't let him persuade you into anything else."
"You make it sound like a heist, mama." I laugh, gesturing for my driver to pull over once the glowing sign of her— Our Toronto office building comes into view. "I'll be fine, it's not like I didn't help with last year."
"I know you will. But you know me. Always worrying. I want this year to be the best."
"You say that every year, mama. And they always are." I step out of the car, mouthing thank you to the driver.
"I love you." She whispers before we end the phone call. "Now, go do me proud."
"Stop making this more of a big deal than it is, ma." I sigh, checking my reflection in our adjoining shops window. I spot one of my designs out of the corner of my eye and smile to myself. "I'll talk to you after."
I walk into the office, straight over to the front desk. "Uh, can I help you?" the young receptionist says, not bothering to looking up from her computer.
"Yes. I'm looking for Francesco. Tell him Aurora Versini is here for the designs. He'll know what you mean." She looks up now, after I say my surname. After all, it's hard to ignore when it's lit up in huge letters behind her desk.
"Oh, uh, right. He's currently in another meeting, but he'll be out in around 15 minutes?" she blushes. "I just want to let you know, I'm such a fan of your designs. Your urban winter collection is just... wow. My boyfriend got me the velvet boots for Christmas and I haven't taken them off since."
I smile. "Thank you," I read her name tag, a habit I've fallen into over my years working here. In this industry with the reputation I seem to have built, it helped to be polite. "Nadia."
"Of course." she nods. An awkward silence inevitably forms.
"Let him know I'm here and that I've just gone to get some coffee." I tell her. She types rapidly, her eyes flitting from her computer screen to me quickly.
"Done." I smile in gratitude and walk away, across the street to the café I know makes Francesco's favourite coffee. It wouldn't hurt to soften him up before I ask him to hand over the designs. It's quiet, which is to be expected for an early Sunday morning. My eyes scan the small room, noting a change in decor since the last time I was here. There's a group of teenage girls in the corner, drinking their (no doubt excessively complicated) beverages and laughing over their phones. And then there's a man, tapping his foot to the beat of the coffee machine as he waits for his drink. With only the back of his figure in view I study him, quickly realising I'm staring. He's tall and well-dressed, the two features of this stranger enough to heighten my interest in him.
