Page 82 of Pretend To Be Mine

Chris always told me my designs were good, but he didn’t know shit about fashion. It would be like me telling him one of his recipes needed saffron or something. I don’t know cooking and he doesn’t know fashion.

“You okay?” Adrian asked, sitting up against the headboard. He’d pulled on his boxer briefs but was otherwise still gloriously undressed. I tried not to be distracted by the expanse of his chest and just how fucking glorious the man’s body was.

Seriously god tier.

“I’m nervous,” I admitted, clutching the sketchbook. “What if you hate them?”

“I won’t hate them.” He patted the bed beside him. “Come here. Show me.”

I settled next to him, close enough that our shoulders touched, and opened the book up, which had large pages with lots of room for notes and details. The first design was a cocktail dress. It was nothing fancy but that wasn’t what I was going for. It was elegant and classic, with clean lines and a modest neckline. Looking at it now, I would say my inspiration was the sixties era with Audrey Hepburn in mind. Chanel and early Givenchy were my favorites.

I knew Adrian would see the influence. I practically held my breath waiting and watching his expression. He said nothing.

Adrian studied it silently. Then turned to the next page. A day dress with a structured bodice. Then an evening gown with cap sleeves.

Page after page, his expression remained neutral. Assessing. Professional.

And with each passing second, my heart sank lower.

He hated them. He was just trying to figure out how to tell me gently that I had no future in fashion and that I should stick to waiting tables. And because we were both lying in bed after sex, he was trying to figure out how to tell me I sucked while hoping to get laid again.

“They’re not bad,” he said finally.

The words hit like a slap.

Wow. Okay.

I bit back the sob. Then the anger. And then I just kind of deflated.

“But that sounds like they’re not good either,” I said with a sigh. But if I was going to get the critical eye of someone like him, I wanted specifics. I needed specifics. If they were absolute shit, design was not in my future. But if they were just boring, I could work on that.

I hoped.

Before he could say anything, I blurted out, “What’s wrong with them?”

Did that sound defensive? Probably. But I didn’t care. I wanted an explanation.

Oh shit.

What if he was going to rescind his job offer now that he knew I sucked? But no, he had seen the partial portfolio I had brought to our first meeting. He’d said the designs were safe, but that I had skills. I had tried to make the newer stuff bolder.

He was quiet as he studied the sketches. I could see him choosing his words carefully. “They feel like they were designed by someone else. Not the woman I’ve been spending time with.”

I pulled the portfolio closer. Now I was pissed. Was he accusing me of stealing someone’s work? “I assure you, they’re my designs. Every single one.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He turned to face me.

I clutched the sketchbook even as he tried to pry it away from me.

“I mean they don’t match your personality. Your fire. Your boldness.” He sighed, and I could hear the conflict in his voice. “I hope this doesn’t upset you, but to me, these look like you’re still making dresses for your mother, not for yourself. You said your parents are really conservative when it comes to fashion.”

The comment froze me in place. Heat flooded my cheeks, not from desire this time but from anger and embarrassment and the horrible recognition that he might be right.

“That’s not fair,” I said. I didn’t know if I wanted to beat him over the head with the sketches or scramble off the bed and lock myself in the bathroom. “You don’t know. Some of these took me months to design. I worked so hard.”

“I know you did. And they’re technically excellent. The construction would be flawless. The proportions are perfect.”

“But?”