Page 11 of Hate To Be Mine

“Of course you do.” He shook his head. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Come to the Blackwell offices tomorrow. Ask for Annika. She’s our head dressmaker, head seamstress, and Jill of all trades. Tell her I sent you and that you need clothes for the island.”

“I’m not taking charity,” I said, my brows drawing together. “I don’t need to wear couture to a tropical island.”

“It’s not charity. Consider it part of the production. We can’t have our insurance pitbull collapsing from heat exhaustion because she insisted on wearing wool in ninety-degree weather. That would definitely void some clause somewhere, right?”

“Pitbull?!”

Sebastian grinned and waved dismissively. “I’m trying to save you from passing out on the beach. Please don’t get your panties in a twist. Your presumably very practical and very beige panties.”

“Don’t talk about my panties,” I hissed quietly, looking around to make sure no one had heard him.

“Then go see Annika,” he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders.

We finished dinner, and by the time we left the restaurant, I realized we hadn’t talked about the binder at all.

The next morning, I arrived at Blackwell Couture with a sense of impending doom. I should have just ordered some practical clothing online. I didn’t need Sebastian Blackwell’s help dressing myself.

The receptionist directed me to the workshop. I followed signs down a hallway until I found a large, airy space filled with dress forms, fabric bolts, and the hum of sewing machines. Several people worked at various stations, but one woman looked up immediately when I entered.

She was probably in her fifties, with hair pulled back in an elegant twist and the kind of effortless style that suggested she could make a paper bag look couture.

She smiled at me while she looked me up and down.

“You must be Bernadette,” she said in a Swedish accent that made my name sound like music. “I’m Annika. Sebastian told me you’d be coming.”

“I’m sorry to put you out. I don’t need to be here.” I looked around the room, feeling like I didn’t belong.

“It’s no trouble. He was very insistent I take good care of you.” She led me to a section of the workshop where racks of clothing stood waiting. Sundresses, linen pants, light blouses and swimsuit cover-ups that were very glamorous. Nothing like what I usually wore.

“Now,” Annika said, running her hand along the rack. “Miratoa is beautiful but unforgiving. You’ll need breathable fabrics, loose fits, and sun protection. And you’re going to be there for two weeks, so we need enough variety that you don’t feel like you’re wearing a uniform.”

“I like uniforms,” I said weakly.

“We don’t,” the woman said firmly.

For the next hour, Annika pulled pieces from the racks. I tried them on in a small dressing room off to the side. Linen pants in neutral colors that felt very beachy. Loose cotton blouses. A few sundresses that I initially rejected before she convinced me I needed at least two.

“You might have an evening event,” she explained. “Or dinner out. You can’t wear work clothes every moment of the day. Show off those legs, lady.”

Each time I emerged from the dressing room, Annika would assess, adjust, and either approve or veto. She had an eye for what worked and what didn’t, and despite my initial resistance, I found myself trusting her judgment.

Fashion had never been my forte. I might as well leave it up to the expert.

“You have a lovely figure,” she said as I tried on a sleeveless linen dress in a soft sage green.

The dress was simple but flattering, cinched at the waist and falling to just below my knees. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

We had accumulated a small pile of approved clothing when Annika suggested I try another piece—a sundress in a soft pink color with small white flowers. It was feminine and soft and absolutely nothing I would ever pick for myself. It resembled the dresses I had seen in the pictures on the walls in the lobby upstairs. In fact, I was pretty sure the dress I had on was the one the leggy blonde was wearing.

“I don’t know,” I said, holding it up skeptically.

“Just try it. Humor me.”

I changed in the dressing room, pulling the dress on and immediately felt exposed. It was sleeveless, with a fitted bodice and a flowy skirt that moved when I walked. On impulse, I pulled the pins from my bun and let my hair fall down around my shoulders. It reached halfway down my back, copper waves that I usually kept ruthlessly controlled.

I stepped out of the dressing room to show Annika.

And froze.