MALIK :: ZAYN

eight | business

"My next collection," he explained, fixing the beanie on his head. He wore sweats and a t-shirt, something...not expected of him.

She scanned his outfit and snorted. "Why'd you change?"

"Had to, it's a process," he picked up a piece of fabric and held it up to the mannequin's clothes, "a creative process, yeah?"

"I guess."

He sighed. "Okay, when you...when you do hair or whatever, do you feel more comfortable, or do you feel you do a better job, when you're dressed up? Honestly."

She thought about it, closing the room and watching him watch her. "I mean, no."

"So you feel you can do better without the restricting clothes?"

"Yeah."

"Surprise. Me, too."

Crissle bit back a smile. "I get it, I get it. Sorry."

"S'all good," he sat in a chair and stared at the mannequins, "you didn't expect me to wear this, or actually participate in my own work--"

"No, I expected the second one kind of--"

"What does that mean?"

"Like," she huffed, "you input your ideas but I didn't think you actually made your clothes. Makes sense?"

"Yeah, I got you," he chuckled, "my mom taught me how to make clothes, yeah? It was fun and I always got teased for it."

"I wish I knew how to sew."

"But...you did Andrea's--"

"That's a sew in, like, simple stuff," she raised an eyebrow at him, "how'd you know what that was?"

"I've seen some things," he clarified with a smile, "anyway, what do you think? Coral Rose or Watermelon?"

"They look the fucking same."

"How?" he questioned, "one is obviously more pink than anything."

"Well, Zayn," Crissle crouched down on the floor and looked at all the pinks, "you're the designer."

"But I need an opinion," he said, "I have to send the colors and the outfit off by next week for a New York fashion show."

"Um," she stood, taking the colors from his hands and examining them, "they seriously look the same," she muttered under her breath.

"Crissle--"

"Watermelon."

"Really?" he scrunched his nose, "you think watermelon is--"

"Fucking Coral Rose, then, Zayn," she playfully threw the swatches at him, "they're the same."

"No, they're not," he laughed.

"What is this for anyway?"

"A sweater."

"A fucking sweater," she looked around the room and frowned, "usually, fashion show clothes aren't really...fashion. Your clothes are kinda normal."

"Because it's my event," he stood, walking over to another mannequin and staring at it, "I'm giving other young artists that actually have fashion sense a chance."

"How nice of you," she smiled, truly surprised he would do something like that.

"I just thought of it late last year, so now it's gonna be a yearly thing, I think," he bit his lip, "yeah, hope it's fun. And guess who's coming with me?"

"Who?"

"You."

"Me."

"You."

"No."

"That's what assistants do," he explained, "they go with me to my events and my business trips. If it's business, no matter what, personal assistants go with their bosses. Speaking of which," he lead her out of the room and to the elevator, "you're coming with me next week."

"To what?"

"An event in Chicago," the doors opened and they walked out, past the employees who obviously hadn't seen Zayn outside his work attire, "they want to make a deal with me and I need my assistant," he looked back at her, "you, to pull up the numbers."

"Okay," she said, "any particular numbers?" He opened his office door and closed it behind them both.

"I emailed you a list," he sat in his chair and opened his laptop, "that and...it's for the weekend, so pack clothes -- enough -- because it's also supposed to snow. Book a hotel, one room, one bed."

"Alright," she didn't miss the way his mouth turned up when he explained their room situation. She was going to share a bed with this man. "Anything else?"

"I'll get back to you, but," he scanned his computer again, "that's it for now. Wait. There's a file, maybe in your cubicle, about Chicago and business expansion. I need that."

"Okay."

"That's all."

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