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)
“What?” I squawk, pulling my robe tighter on my chest. “No, of course not. I was asleep. Time difference, you know.” I laugh, sounding a bit like a drunk hyena. I have no idea what time it is in New York. Hell, I only know that the sun is just starting to peek over the horizon behind the buildings out my tiny window.
“Oh! Sorry, I did check and figured you’d be up to start your day. I’m wrapping up here, late night, you know, but wanted to hear how things are going.”
Nora works all hours of the day and night, so I’m not surprised that she’s burning the midnight oil back home. And with our being able to work whenever and wherever we’d like to meet the fashion show deadline, I spent hours sketching last night with fabric samples spread out all over my bed. I finger one of the riskier selections I’ve fallen in love with, a pale pink polka-dot fabric. It could go a bit juvenile, but I have plans for it.
“Things are amazing! We officially started yesterday morning . . .” I tell her all about this week’s theme, the supply room, Jeanette, and the dress I made yesterday seemingly all in one breath. It’s exciting to relay everything to someone who understands how a room full of fabric can spark so many ideas that your brain can’t even hold them all at once.
“And then, there was a missing fashion director for a photoshoot, so I got the opportunity to dress Simon for a Vogue Italia spread!” It’s complete bragging, but I know she’ll be happy for me. Nora is the type to celebrate others’ victories, not begrudge them or be jealous.
And she is, her face lighting up. “Whoa, that’s amazing! How’d you feel about the outfits and photos?”
“Surprisingly good. It was more comfortable than I thought it’d be. Simon’s easy to work with.”
“You mean, Simon Corbin?” Nora questions. “That Simon?”
I swallow, trying to decide whether I should say anything about my dinner tonight. Nora’s a friend, and I trust her to give me good advice, but I also feel like this isn’t something I should share with anyone.
I’ve been quiet too long, and Nora can read my face. “Autumn, is Simon Corbin in your bed right now?”
“What?” I shriek. “And no! Keep your voice down!” I look around my apartment, afraid the neighbors heard Nora’s outburst. I spin my phone, showing her my empty bed, and then flash it back to my face.
“But, uhm . . . I am having dinner with him tonight.” I cringe in anticipation of what she’s going to say and rush to add, “Just to go over the photos from the shoot.”
Nora looks down her nose at me, not believing that for a second. “You don’t even believe that yourself, so don’t expect me to. Autumn, he’s Simon Corbin, for goodness’ sake!” she says, aghast. “Issue one, you’re competing at House Corbin. Two, he’s a model. A French model at that. And three, he’s Jacqueline Corbin’s nephew. I mean, couldn’t you tour the Eiffel Tower, find a cute guy who only speaks French, and get swept away for a night of raunchy sex without exchanging names? That would be better than Simon Corbin.”
“Could you quit saying his name like that! You’re gonna give me a heart attack and I’m already worried about this.”
Nora laughs, but suddenly, her face goes slack. She disappears from the screen, and I hear her burp loudly. A second later, the sounds of splattering come through the phone and I’m glad I can’t see that. She retches, panting heavily.
“Nora? Are you okay?”
Is she really that upset about my having dinner with Simon? I didn’t even tell her about the kiss at the club or the way his body responded to my touching him. Or maybe more importantly, the way I felt touching him.
“Do you need me to call David for you? Or is Clay still in the office?” I’ve never felt so helpless, but from thousands of miles away, I can’t do much more than call someone else to help her.
Nora appears back onscreen with a tissue pressed to her face, which has gone pasty greenish-white. “Ugg, sorry. My belly has been giving me fits lately. I keep asking Clay if he’s getting hemp milk in my coffee, but he swears he isn’t.”
“Are you really okay?” I ask again, not sure even though she’s already pinking back up. “You’re not getting an ulcer from missing me, are you?”
The silly joke brings a watery smile to her face, and she nods. “I’m fine. Just need to gargle a little, cut out the coffee, and I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, need to get your shit straight and design your ass off. Be careful with Simon. I don’t want you to mess up a possibly great thing.”