Page 72 of Unlock My Heart

“Guilty.” Fabien places me on my feet. “The parlor, your meeting space for clients,” he says, watching my reaction intently.

Cozy sitting area on one side of the showroom, with a tea set waiting to serve clients.

Huge dressing room with mirrors at every angle.

Counter with a computer.

Racks waiting to be filled with designs.

But the pièce de résistance is my very first lace creation. The white veil is covering a faceless mannequin’s head, displayed on the mantle above the crackling fireplace.

He kept it. I hate that he kept it.

Fabien studies my expression. “Still on the hunt for your bobbins from Ms. Gail.”

“She died a few years back. Michele wouldn’t let me go to the funeral.” To my utter mortification, I begin to cry.

Fabien wraps me in his arms. “Shhh, baby. It’s alright.”

But it’s not alright, and the man consoling me knows damn well it isn’t. Years of practice have me bottling my emotions as I shrug out of his hold.

There’s a box of tissues on the coffee table next to the dressing area, for sentimental brides. Not a sentimental bone left in my body, I steel my spine as I march over and grab one, dabbing my eyes.

“What do you think of your studio so far?” Fabien asks softly.

It’s my eighteen-year-old’s dream.

“I hate everything about it,” I tell him flatly.

Before I know what’s happening, Fabien charges and scoops me up, hoisting me over his shoulder. Giving my ass a swat, he carries me toward the door.

“Put me down!”

Fabien places his hand on the scanner; the door opens, and he carries me to a large warehouse-type room.

Work tables, rolls of fabric, mannequins, and a top-of-the-line sewing machine are what I can make out from my upside-down vantage point.

“Your work studio. You can hate everything about it later.”

We continue upstairs to the second floor as I pound on his back.

“Our home that you will also hate everything about.”

He’s right: from what I can see, I hate that I love it. But I console myself with the fact that there’s no way Fabien decorated this lovely mix of Italianate and French Second Empire-style elements, with modern pieces sprinkled in.

Over my protest, Fabien carries me outside to a lovely, fenced courtyard. I’m placed on my feet beneath an arch illuminated with fairy lights, the priest waiting on us. Having been upside down too long, I begin to sway.

“I’ve got you.” Fabien grabs my shoulders, righting me.

“Never.” I try to jerk it away, but he pulls me closer.

“Always,” he counters.

A derisive sound is my response.

There’s a loud throat clearing, and Fabien and I snap our attention to the priest, whose wide eyes are taking us in.

“Trust me, Father, no one is more unhappy about this union than I am.” On a loud sigh, I reach over and adjust my soon-to-be husband’s Windsor knot. “Means nothing, other than I hate a sloppy look.”