Page 40 of Pretend To Be Mine

He grinned, and damn, he looked like a teenage boy that just got a yes after a Homecoming proposal.

Maybe there was more to him than I’d thought.

13

ADRIAN

The first bottle of wine was empty, sitting on the coffee table next to the decimated charcuterie board. Only a few lonely pieces of cheese remained. Turned out, we were both hungry. And apparently thirsty. The wine was the perfect pairing for the tangy cheese and salty meats. I poured us each a glass from the second bottle.

The single floor lamp in what had to be the tiniest apartment I had ever seen provided adequate light. I said nothing about her home, but damn, I felt like such a spoiled prick after seeing her place. It wasn’t just that it was smaller than my master bath, it was just so rundown. When I found the building, I’d been a little worried. But when I stepped inside and started the climb up, I was a lot worried. I couldn’t believe she lived here by herself. The woman was braver than I thought.

And that’s what I was going to tap into. If she was cool living here and didn’t feel like she was going to be murdered, then she was going to handle the press just fine.

We’d migrated from opposite ends of the couch to something closer to the middle. I was keeping a respectable distance between us. I knew she was skittish and I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. The whole night was about making her feel more relaxed around me, not less.

The photo album lay open across my lap. Elizabeth was curled up beside me, legs tucked under her, looking more at ease than I’d ever seen her. The first bottle had definitely relaxed her. Or maybe it was the fact that we were just talking, no cameras, no pressure, no performance required.

“Oh my God, is that you?” Elizabeth pointed to a photo of me at maybe seven years old, standing next to a dress form with scissors in one hand and a guilty expression on my face. Behind me, fabric scraps littered the floor like crime scene evidence.

“That was the day I decided to join the family business.”

“What happened?”

“I wanted to fix some of Dad’s dresses. Thought I could make them better.” I traced the edge of the photo with my finger. “Turns out, a seven-year-old with scissors and no adult supervision should not be left alone with haute couture.”

Elizabeth laughed. “How many did you destroy?”

“Three. Three very expensive dresses that were supposed to go in the show that weekend.” I cringed at the memory. “Dad was not pleased. My first designs were not well received. The world wasn’t ready.”

“What did he do?”

“Made me apologize to every single person on his team who’d worked on those dresses. Then made me sit through the entire design process for the replacement pieces so I could understand how much work goes into each one.” I smiled despite the embarrassing memory. “Best punishment he could have given me, actually. I was hooked after that.”

“Sounds like he was a good teacher.”

“The best.” The familiar ache settled in my chest, but softer than usual. “He had this way of turning our worst impulses into learning opportunities.”

I turned the page, revealing a photo that made me laugh out loud. Four young boys—the Blackwell brothers at maybe ages six, eight, ten, and twelve—stood in a backstage area, all wearing bras on their heads like bizarre hats, arms outstretched.

“Oh no,” Elizabeth said, leaning closer to see better. “What is happening here?”

“We were moon men,” I said. “Obviously. The bras were our space helmets.”

“Obviously.”

“Sebastian’s idea, naturally. We were backstage at one of Dad’s shows—we were always backstage at his shows. We got bored. Found a box of samples and decided we were astronauts exploring the alien planet of Fashion Week.”

“Please tell me there are more photos of this.”

“God, I hope not. Some of the models thought it was hilarious. Took pictures, encouraged us. Dad, however, did not share their amusement.” I pointed to the edge of the frame where you could just see an adult hand reaching in. “That’s him about to murder us.”

Elizabeth’s laughter did something funny to my chest. It was joy. Shit, when was the last time I felt joy? I found myself grinning at the memory despite the lecture we’d all gotten about respecting the work environment and professional behavior.

“We were banned from backstage for six months,” I added. “Had to watch the shows from the audience like normal people. It was devastating.”

“I can imagine.” She took a sip of her wine. “Did you guys get in trouble a lot?”

“Constantly. We were four boys with too much energy and too much access. Mom used to joke that she should have just gotten a leash with four attachment points.”