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’ve only made it a few steps away when Tobias appears out of nowhere. “There you are! Jackie is looking for you at the cocktail hour. I told her you needed to use the restroom urgently, so take it easy on the champagne.” He’s pulling my arm, dragging me along as though I’m an escaped toddler who needs to be returned to his beleaguered parents.
I shake him off. “I’m good, man. Just wanted to tell the designers ‘good job’ as thanks for their hard work. Tonight’s not all about schmoozing the critics. We need to woo the designers too.”
Tobias raises one perceptive eyebrow. “Meaning?”
I glare at him for suggesting that I mean anything other than the obvious, trying not to go too Lady Macbeth on him. “We want them to work with us. Yes, we’re House Corbin and all that entails, but that doesn’t mean that someone as talented as these women would choose to work for us when they could go out on their own.”
He takes that at face value, thankfully not implying that I’m wooing any particular designer more than another, or for anything other than fashion. “Okay, but Jackie’s looking for you.”
“I’m going to tell her you call her Jackie behind her back,” I threaten, knowing I would never do such a thing to my friend.
Rather than being defeated, Tobias replies, “Want me to tell her what you call her?”
We have a momentary staredown and then both laugh. “Come on, chap. Plaster that panty-dropping smile on your face and I’ll grab you a champagne.” Tobias pats my cheek in a brotherly affectionate move, which is to say a bit too hard, and I do as I’m told.
“Make it a scotch,” I call out as he disappears, probably to first tell Jacqueline that I’ve been found and then get me the drink he promised.
CHAPTER 15
AUTUMN
I’m not sure this narrow passage actually qualifies as a road, at least not in my experience. This is where you go to get mugged in New York, as it’s little more than an oversized alleyway, but my phone is telling me to go this direction to get to my destination.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. But after yesterday’s show, I found the note and knew that I had no choice. Oh, Simon would have respected me if I’d skipped this . . . but I might not have respected myself. And while I want to follow the rules of the competition, I have to at least do this today.
Because I want to see him.
I still have worries —lots of them, in fact—but the idea of not seeing Simon again is downright dreadful.
Overhead, the sky is beautiful blue, with puffy clouds and golden sunlight. I’ve dressed in a favorite pair of shorts that are so wide-legged, they appear to be a skirt, a scoop-neck white T-shirt that makes my breasts look amazing, and platform fashion tennis shoes since I’m not sure what we’ll be doing.
I make one more turn as my GPS directs and then stop. I’m here, right on time. Just like magic, or maybe a well-wound watch, a distinctly colored Bugatti with the top already down roars down the street.
He stops, getting out to open the door for me. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, which seem surprisingly casual, both for a fashion icon and a Parisian, but he’s rocking them. He’s got on a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses that emphasize the lower half of his face, especially his strong, powerful jawline which is covered with a few days’ growth.
“Were you watching for me? Or do you just have impeccable timing?” I ask.
“Perhaps,” he replies without answering either way. “Climb in.”
I settle into the luxurious leather seat, buckling up. “I can barely see your face,” I tell him as he gets back in the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb.
“I have a few disguises when I don’t want to be noticed so we can enjoy our day in peace,” he says, completely serious.
I laugh so hard that I lose my breath and start wheezing a bit. “You think glasses and a hat are going to keep you from being noticed when you’re driving a bright red, million-dollar car?”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s not the only one in Paris.”
“Any of the other Bugatti owners have a jawline you can cut glass with?” I ask, tracing a finger along the scruff there.
“Non, probably not.” He catches my finger and places a soft kiss to the fingertip. “I wasn’t sure you would come today.”
Pulling my hand back, I settle them in my lap. “I wasn’t either. I’m still not sure, honestly.”
Worries are building again, getting stronger every time I try to push them down. I’ve never been one to let fear stop me, though. Leaving home to move to NYC when I didn’t know a single soul . . . crushed it. Tackling an industry with all the passion I have in my heart knowing success is near impossible . . . let me at it. Working with an established designer and providing feedback like my opinion means a damn thing . . . checkity check. Crossing the globe to compete for an opportunity to work with a major fashion house . . . yep, that too.