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)
Simon argues, “You don’t have to go.” But when I continue getting dressed, slipping my heels back on, he gives in. “All right, let me get dressed and I’ll take you if you must go. But next time? Plan to stay.”
Next time? There’s going to be a next time? Whoop-whoop!
My pussy perks right up at that, getting wet like the little slut she is. But I do think a bit of processing after tonight would be a good thing. Simon says he wants to worship me, and damn, did he, but there’s still a little seed of worry in my gut about this whole thing.
Actually, two seeds of worry. Neither of them particularly small.
One, the competition and whether this is some form of cheating even though we’re not talking about the contest or designers. And two, how can Simon Corbin really be this interested in me?
I’m still rocking my 7.9, and now, knowing that Simon is also kind-hearted, witty, and a fantastic lover, he’s moving on up the scale. I gotta go at least fifteen now, which makes him even further out of my league. But if he keeps making me come like that, I could probably overlook that, I think with a shiver of satisfaction.
CHAPTER 13
AUTUMN
“Wow,” says Molly, looking around the huge space before us with enormous eyes, “this place is humongous.”
She’s usually much more dramatic. I would’ve expected her to compare the room to the Grand Canyon or outer space. But she’s as gobsmacked as the rest of us at seeing the converted warehouse that House Corbin is using for the fashion show.
We’ve already been feeling the pressure, the five of us working all hours of the day and night on our designs, struggling with choices that feel like life or death but are ultimately mere fabric. But the results of our creativity will affect our lives, determining whether our dreams come true or fizzle. And that’s way more important than sleep, food, or calling home.
I haven’t seen Katarina consume more than coffee and cigarettes in days. Yori has taken to muttering to herself in Japanese, the sounds so repetitive that they've become melodic. Like a song I don’t know the words to, but understand on a visceral level. Beatrice threw away a piece she’d worked on for hours before going into the restroom and screaming for ten minutes nonstop. Molly moved outside to work, claiming she needed the sun’s rays to bless her hand-stitching. And me? I’ve been near red-level freakout mode on every front.
My work. The competition. The almost-sex with Simon.
This space isn’t helping. It’s another trigger that’s moving me closer to the edge. I gawk, trying to imagine what it’ll look like tomorrow.
The stage is in the middle, wider than some runways I’ve seen but not super-huge, with a triangular split at the base that creates a clear entrance and exit track for models to walk.
Beside either side of the stage are multiple rows of chairs . . . or there will be once the workers who are scurrying around, getting everything set up, get the final touches done.
There’s a lot going into this. This isn’t going to be some student runway or in-house only competition. No, this is the real deal, with lighting, cameras for broadcasting over the internet, seats for press, for buyers . . . this is what I got into fashion for.
It’s my idea of success.
My first real show.
I mean, I’ve helped Nora before, of course, but this is going to be the first show with my name attached. I can hardly believe it.
“Look,” Katarina says, pointing to the first row of chairs. “Those have nameplates already.”
“Ooh, lemme see,” Molly says, pushing her way through to get closer to the front row of chairs that have been set out. Following her, I see the names and grab Molly’s arm, shaking her wildly.
“That’s . . . isn’t he an editor for Allure?”
“Harper’s Bazaar,” she corrects. “As of last year.”
“Merde! She’s a buyer for Harrods!” Beatrice shouts, pointing at another chair.
More comments go around, each new name adding to the excitement and the pressure. This isn’t some collection of junior assistants or wannabes.
These are top-flight guests.
“Hey! Take my picture,” Molly says, squatting down and making kissy lips at a nameplate. She shoves her phone to Yori who takes it as the perfect opportunity for a photo shoot.
“I don’t know who that is, but I’m happy you are happy,” Yori tells Molly.
Molly’s surprise is obvious and immortalized in Yori’s next shot. “He’s an American actor. A supremely hot one that I would kill for the chance to lick all over.”
“Did you see his last movie?” I ask Molly.
She frowns. “Yeah, not his best work for sure. Othello’s a hard sell, even with that ass in some crack-hugging tights. The bedroom scene was hot, though. But I’m a fan of his other work . . . the ones with the six-pack abs, sexy smirk, and heart-wrenching confessions of love.”