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)
It comes back to me in a flash. That’s how I described my design style. I agonized over whether ‘with a twist’ was a positive rebellion against the Three Descriptors question that showed my originality or proof that I couldn’t follow basic directions.
I flip through clothes, not knowing what I’m looking for. Finally, after considering an Amish-style prairie dress for way too long, I stop myself and close my eyes.
Focus, Autumn. Choose your words, and that’ll guide your selection.
“Classic. What’s the opposite?” I ask myself quietly. “Trendy,” I answer easily. “Disposable fashion, not something that’ll stand the test of time. Elegant? Trampy? No . . . maybe trashy? And twist.” I’m regretting that one, and then it comes to me. “Basic!”
Trendy. Trashy. Basic.
It’s perfect, the antithesis of my personal style and design aesthetic.
With those words echoing in my head, I begin flipping through the racks as quickly as I can.
Molly lets out a victory cry, and I glance up to see her holding a neon yellow tube top. “Got my dress! Layer one, complete.”
“Uhm, that’s not a dress, Mols,” I warn.
“It is if I say it is.” She’s confident, I’ll give her that. “I need a boa. Move it or lose it! Incoming!” she yells just in time for Yori to move out of her way as she attacks the rack of boas in every color of the rainbow.
I find a neon pink scarf with a satiny sheen and grab it before running over to the jewelry table. I find a ridiculously chunky, long chain that would be enough for Mr. T to only wear one necklace, and weave the scarf through the chain a few times. Pleased with where this is going, I yank my clothes off and lay them over another table.
Nudity, or near nudity, at least, isn’t a big deal in the fashion world. Admittedly, I’m not usually naked backstage, but I’ve used myself during the creation process more than a few times.
I fasten the necklace around my waist, forgoing the expectation of wearing it around my neck, and then tie the scarf around my neck, creating a halter effect. Next, a skirt, or maybe pants?
I somehow come up with the rest of my outfit—the scarf top, a skirt that I rip along the bottom seam for a frayed effect that barely covers my ass, and over the knee boots with tall platforms and spiky heels. I add another scarf as a train, tying it to the waist chain too. A few more bits and baubles, and I’m ready.
Just in time, too, because I realize that everyone else has already completed their outfits and left the room.
“Shit! C’mon, Autumn. Get it together.” I hurry down the hallway, realizing that I’m not entirely sure which door we came out of. They all look the same, and time is ticking.
I grab the door handle I think is the correct one and take a steadying breath to get into character for the razzle dazzle Tobias said Madame Corbin wants. I burst inside and twirl, giving the room my back, dropping it down low to twerk and singing, “There’s some hoes in this house, there’s some hoes in this house! Yeah, yeah, yeah you fucking with some wet ass pussy! Give me everything you GOT! With this wet ass—”
A deep, growly voice interrupts my shenanigans, and I freeze mid-twerk, slowly turning around with my knees still bent. My heart skips a beat when I see a very handsome man with dark hair sitting at a round table with an older man who looks aghast. If a scowl can curdle milk, then the man’s scowl is curdling my stomach, making me feel bubbles of emotion in my tummy.
If he weren’t looking at me with disapproval, I would absolutely be enchanted by his devilishly good looks. His face is perfection, with full, kissable lips, a sharp jaw, and piercing whiskey brown eyes that peer out from beneath exquisitely arched eyebrows.
He says something in French, which of course I have no clue what it means, but it’s clear he’s angry.
His voice is guttural gravel, with a sexy as fuck accent, and the combination of the two sends goosebumps over my skin. Not having a clue in hell what he’s asking me, I squeak out, “I’m sorry! I stepped inside the wrong room, I . . .”
My voice fails me, and when the man’s eyes dip down to where my ass is hanging out from the bottom of my skirt, I squeak and drop my train for some coverage. But it’s too late. Way too late.
I run for it.
In the hall, another door opens and Tobias greets me, “Hurry, Mademoiselle Fisher. We’re waiting on you.”
I want to keep running, right out the front door and all the way home to New York, but I try to stuff down my mortification, praying that the other people in House Corbin know about this crazy challenge.