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)
“Oh,” she repeats. Her smile is uncertain, as though she hasn’t decided whether to be appreciative of the compliment or slap me for it. The indecision is exciting. Finally, she bites her lip, and I can feel that she’s made her decision. “Mr. Corbin—”
“Simon.”
Her eyes narrow, and she says harder, “Mr. Corbin, this competition is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me. I’m here for professional growth.”
I don’t like it, but I’m not a monster. If she wants to keep things professional, I will. I’m not sure that’s what she actually wants, though, given that she’s moved closer to me on the loveseat, her hand flat on the leather mere centimeters away from my thigh, and her eyes have dropped to my crotch more than once.
Maybe she simply needs time to decipher what she wants. I can be patient.
I hold my hand up, gesturing to the waitress who’s been waiting nearby. She instantly comes over with a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne flutes. She pours the bubbly efficiently and hands them off. I lift mine into the air. “To professional growth, then.”
Autumn holds her glass tightly. “I don’t trust you.”
The bluntness is refreshing, nothing like I’m used to. In fact, in my experience, women are typically coy and sly with their words. Autumn is honest and forthcoming, and I find myself doing the same. “American women are so astute. Truth be told, you shouldn’t trust me. You’ve bewitched me, and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stop.” I lift my glass once again. “To distrust and honesty, then.”
Autumn laughs and raises her glass to clink against mine. “That’s an awful toast, but the truth, at least.”
She sips her champagne, and I do the same.
“Tell me about yourself,” I demand gently. “Not what was on your application. I don’t care about something you wrote when you were trying to get into a contest. I would like to know the real Autumn Fisher.”
She relaxes, just a little bit. Still defensive, as prickly as a porcupine, but maybe not one ready to shoot her quills at me. “What would you like to know?”
“Well, work and fashion brought you to Paris. What brought you to fashion?” It’s a calculated move. The topic is professional, but for designers like Autumn, also extremely personal.
“That’s easy. And not so much of a what, but a who. My grandmother Daisy was the sharpest dressed woman in town.” She smiles, seemingly lost to her memories. “Everywhere she went, she went prepped. And seeing her dress up all the time, seeing the way everyone reacted to that, it was just natural to love fashion.”
“I see. And what town was this?”
Autumn waves it off. “A smallish town in Massachusetts called Newton, like the scientist. But Newton’s claim to fame is that the Fig Newton cookie is named after the city.”
“Then hopefully, you’ll become the most famous person from Newton someday and you’ll be their claim to fame.”
Autumn laughs. “Yeah, that’d be cool. Maybe my mom would support me then.”
“Your own mother doesn’t support you?” I ask.
Autumn closes her mouth abruptly, seeming to realize how much she’s accidentally revealed. Slowly, she confesses, “Mom wants me to marry a townie, live nearby, and give her grandbabies. If I need to do something, I could be a seamstress or something. But I want more . . . like this competition. I want to see the world, experience people and cultures, and maybe make it all a bit more special with my designs. Does that sound vain or stupid?”
“To me? No, of course not,” I tell her. “I appreciate that you have broader horizons. If I may say so, the Americans I’ve met are not always known for their desire to learn about other cultures. And fashion is my life as well, so I understand that.”
She takes the assessment well, thankfully, not offended at my mentioning of the stereotype of Americans. A connection weaves between us that wasn’t there when she first sat down, a relaxation of Autumn’s defenses, but also a tension pulling us closer.
“What about you?” she asks. “Other than what I read online about you, tell me about yourself.” She smiles, pleased with herself at turning my words back on me.
I scoot closer, dipping in to whisper, “I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know. You must only ask.”
Her breath catches in her throat, and she looks at me sharply. “Simon.”
My name on her lips in that breathy tone does something to me I’ve never experienced. Instantly, I want to pull her into my lap, fill her, and please her until she forgets every other name she’s ever muttered in pleasure. Until it’s only my name she knows.
I add a scant few centimeters between us, enjoying the cat and mouse game. “I grew up with fashion, with my aunt. Other children learned about sports and video games. I could tell you the percentage of silk in a fabric before I began primary school.” I laugh at a memory and then decide to share it. “I had this coat, navy with white piping. It was a child-size version of a piece from Jacqueline’s collection that year. The other boys were playing outside, digging in the dirt, playing ball and tag, but not me.”