Head parallel with your desk and shifting side to side on your spinning chair, you do your best to continue the man's suit sketch, and dull the noise of his seemingly never ending flirting.

Running one of the most reputable new fashion houses of the generation was no easy work but it was agreed- from those who loved you at the very bottom to those who detested you at top- that you made it look easy. They said you had hands made of gold, gossamer silks and brocade velvets cut and hemmed to create pieces of art that made their wearers shine. It was what you did, your art, your talent. But you'd met your match today.

Monty Benoit.

The southern heartthrob himself. He swept up acting roles like it bored him, claiming awards with a charming accent and a pretty smile. And God how you hated him right now. Instead of being helpful and suggesting any kind of ideas for his own suit that he'd wear to an award ceremony he'd been triple nominated for, the Cajun had instead decided to try and worm his way into your heart. Try being the objective verb.

"Alright sugar, what 'av I gotta do-" he starts on another tangent about a date, moving further from the original topic of conversation. You groan.