Page 42 of Pretend To Be Mine

Elizabeth laughed, a real one this time. “Yeah, Mom was pretty strict. Still is. If she met Sebastian, she’d probably faint on the spot. I try very hard to keep this part of my life separate from her.”

“That must be lonely.”

“Sometimes. But it’s safer. She doesn’t understand this world, and she never will.” She gestured around her small apartment, at the fabric and sketches and evidence of her passion. “This is who I am. And she doesn’t approve of who I am. So I just don’t tell her.”

The contrast between our upbringings hit me then. I’d grown up with a father who encouraged every creative impulse and turned our mistakes into lessons. He’d built an empire from nothing and wanted his sons to reach even higher. Our mother encouraged us to be feral. And we were, but when it was time to rein it in, she gently pulled us back. Even now she parented us that way.

Elizabeth had grown up hiding her talent and keeping her dreams secret, like they were something to be ashamed of.

“My dad started as a simple dressmaker,” I said. “Did you know that? Not a designer—a dressmaker. He worked in a shop, taking in hems and fixing torn seams. But he had vision. And he had determination. Built Blackwell Couture from nothing into what it is today.”

“That’s incredible.”

“What’s incredible is that he never forgot where he came from. Never stopped believing that anyone with talent and drive could make it in this industry. He would have loved your designs.”

“You’ve never seen my designs.”

“I saw your portfolio, remember? The one you showed me before I told you they were too safe.”

She winced. “Thanks for that memory.”

“I wasn’t wrong. But I also wasn’t wrong when I said you had potential. Dad would have seen that immediately. He would have encouraged you, pushed you, believed in you.” I met her eyes. “The way I do.”

Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe, or hope. “You believe in me?”

“I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t. Not just for the fake engagement but for after, too. The job I promised you is real, Elizabeth. I meant every word of that.”

We were closer now. I hadn’t noticed it happening, but somehow the space between us had disappeared. Her shoulder was pressed against mine as she leaned in to look at another photo in the album. It was one of me at thirteen, holding up a finished model plane, grinning at the camera.

“You look happy there,” she said softly.

“I was. Dad had just told me I could display it in his office.” I could smell her shampoo. Or maybe it was a fading perfume. It was light, barely noticeable, and absolutely perfect. “I felt like I’d won the lottery.”

“It’s really cool. You should start building them again.”

“Maybe.” The word came out quiet and thick with emotion I hadn’t meant to show.

She looked up at me then, her face so close I could count the faint freckles across her nose. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes searching mine for something.

The air between us felt electric, charged with possibility.

I should move back. Put distance between us. This was supposed to be about getting comfortable, about helping her see me as human, not about⁠—

She tilted her head slightly, the movement unconscious, instinctual. All my good intentions evaporated.

I leaned down and kissed her.

I gave her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she made a small sound in the back of her throat and leaned into me too, one hand coming up to rest against my chest.

The album slid off my lap onto the couch cushions. I cupped her face with one hand, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She responded with an eagerness that made heat pool low in my stomach.

She tasted like wine. I wanted more. Wanted everything.

This was a mistake. Exactly what Briggs had warned me about.

But God help me, I couldn’t stop.

14