Page 13 of Pretend To Be Mine

“Would you like some water?” he asked.

I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice.

He poured water from a glass pitcher into a crystal tumbler and slid it across the desk to me. I picked it up with both hands so I wouldn’t spill it, took a sip, and tried to remember how to act like a human being.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” Adrian said. His eyes were on me, studying me. I had to look away.

“Of course.” Again, my voice was so high I didn’t even recognize it.

“Your brother mentioned you’re a designer. Graduate of the Fashion Institute.”

“Yes.” I forced myself to meet his eyes for approximately half a second before my gaze skittered away again. “I brought my portfolio.”

Adrian nodded and gestured for me to hand it over, which I did. He flipped open the big binder, and to his credit, he spent some time examining each one. My heart pounded so hard, I thought I might pass out.

This was the shot I’d been dying for. Someone with real clout in the fashion industry was checking out my work. I was proud of my designs but my opinion didn’t matter.

He nodded, closed the binder, and placed it on the desk in front of him. “Not bad. Competent. Polished. But they’re too conservative. Too safe.”

I wanted to melt into the floor and disappear in a puddle of shame. I grabbed the folder and hurried to shove it back in my bag. “Sorry.”

He looked at me, eyes narrowed, which made him look hotter. It helped soften the blow a little. Meaning it was like getting kicked by a mule instead of hit with a truck.

“I feel like you’ve misunderstood,” he said.

I shrugged, looking down at my hands in my lap. “You said they’re bad.”

“I said they’re safe,” he corrected. “But don’t worry. The confidence will come over time. You said you’ve been looking for work in the industry.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir. Adrian is fine.”

Adrian. I was supposed to call Adrian Blackwell just… Adrian. Like we were peers. Like I hadn’t spent the last hour having a complete meltdown over the fact that I was in the same room as him.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Adrian.”

His name felt foreign in my mouth, too intimate, like I was claiming a familiarity I hadn’t earned.

“Once you get some experience, I think you’ll find your groove,” he said. “Sometimes we need to get working to figure out who we are and where our creativity will take us.”

“I hope so.”

“Elizabeth.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I’m going to be direct with you because I don’t see the point in dancing around this. I have a proposition for you. It’s unconventional.”

“Okay.”

“I need someone to pretend to be my fiancée for the next month, and I’d like that person to be you.”

I blinked at him. Then I blinked again. The words didn’t make sense, like he’d said them in a language I didn’t speak.

“What?”

“My company is putting on Fashion of Love Week,” he continued, his voice calm and business-like. “It’s a major event celebrating love and romance in fashion. Five shows across four cities. It was my father’s final vision, and we’re determined to honor his legacy.”

I nodded slowly, still not understanding where this was going.

“The problem is, the press has latched onto the fact that my brothers and I are all unmarried. They’re questioning our credibility, wondering how we can celebrate love when none of us have ever committed to a relationship. It’s become a narrative that’s threatening to overshadow the event itself.”