Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
I open a new page and sketch a caftan type dress with a low V-neck and mirrored low V-back. I add a belt for shape and side slits to create a flowy drape. I hold up the tablet to let Jeanette see. She looks at it with excitement, but then worry lines appear between her brows.
“Uhm . . .” She holds her cupped hands in front of her chest and sing-songs, “Va-va-va-voom.”
I can’t help but laugh. We’re making it work, but this is going to be interesting. Nodding, I explain carefully, “Yes. Peekaboo.” I gesture to the inside edge of my breast—side boob, but on the sternum side.
She laughs back and gives me a thumbs-up.
We work our way through several more jolting conversations this way, and I learn that Jeanette is concerned about her curves. Of course, ‘curves’ being subjective.
“Designer say I need to lose weight,” she explains, this time patting her hips and butt.
Honestly, her butt is nearly non-existent. Whoever said that is a fucking idiot. “No way, José. If anything, you need more ass.”
“José?” she echoes, lost in translation.
I shake my head. “Love your ass. ‘Thicc’ is in.”
She tilts her head, even more confused.
“Like Autumn!” Molly shouts, having picked up on our conversation. “Men wanna smack that ass everywhere she goes.”
I blush, not ready to explain what that means to Jeanette. Plus, it’s definitely not true with me, though I do wish a certain someone would . . .
Unbidden, Molly starts singing, “My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.”
She’s dancing around her station with the model she’s working with, and then Molly tries to show her how to twerk, but she’s too busy laughing at Molly’s antics.
“Okay, let’s work,” I tell Jeanette, leaving Molly to her own work process.
I sketch, and she nods excitedly, both of us communicating like Neanderthals.
“Pretty.”
At one point, I have her stand and mime a skirt. “Here?” I move my hand up two inches. “Here?” Once more, I move my hand higher. “Here?”
Jeanette grins and then growls, making a paw with her hand, “Rawr. Sex.”
“Sex-y,” I correct, though she’s not wrong. A skirt this short would be good for sex, with barely a lift for access.
My thoughts trail back to Simon at the club, his lips pressed to mine. I bet I could’ve sat on his lap in a skirt like I’m thinking, slipped right onto his cock, and no one would’ve been the wiser. I couldn’t have bounced around, that would be too obvious, but I could’ve let it soak, maybe giving him a few squeezes with my internal muscles to drive him wild.
Autumn! I yell at myself. Stop that thinking right now. Professional growth and competition . . . that’s what you need to stick to.
Sometime after lunch, the models prepare to leave and I tell Jeanette how much I appreciate her help. “Thank you. Fitting soon.”
She seems to know the word ‘fitting’ because she nods in understanding.
After that, I go into machine mode. Nora has praised me time and time again for my ability to tune out the world and hyperfocus on what I’m doing. Despite my earlier internal fantasies about Simon, I don’t give him a second’s thought either. I draw and sketch, pull fabrics, and then begin cutting patterns.
Toward the end of the day, I’ve already created one entire look—the caftan design I first sketched with Jeanette. The dress is stunning, made from patterned silk with thick trim work around the front and back Vs, and I turned the leather belt idea into a belt bag, complete with a hand-braided, multicolored tassel. There’s a general ease about the classic design, but the details make it special. I slip it onto the adjustable dress form, eyeing it critically.
There’s silence in the room, and I can feel eyes on me. Well, not on me, particularly, but on the dress as the other designers evaluate it too.
“Gorgeous!” Molly squeals. “I want to wear it!”
She dashes my way, and I swat at her hands as she acts as though she’s going to pull my dress on herself. We’re goofing off and being silly after the long day, and it feels good, especially with her, bringing back memories of late-night project work at FIT together.
The door opens, and at first, I think it’s the dinner delivery. But Tobias comes in, looking harried and speaking fast. “Pardon, mademoiselles, who is furthest along and could perhaps spare a few moments?”
It’s obviously me, the only person with an entire piece completed. But even if I were still doodling aimlessly, I’d jump at the chance to help Tobias. One, he’s nice, and two, he’s House Corbin royalty. Anything he needs, I’m happy to provide.
I raise my hand, volunteering.
Tobias looks utterly relieved and rushes toward me. He grabs my still lifted hand and drags me off behind him.