Page 3 of Hate To Be Mine

Elizabeth laughed, which I appreciated, but my brothers just shook their heads.

“Don’t be late to that meeting,” Briggs warned.

“I’m never late,” I muttered.

Four pairs of eyes stared at me.

“Okay, I’m sometimes late. But I’ll be there. On time. Prepared. Professional.”

“Dinner is ready,” Mom announced as she returned.

We all moved toward the dining room.

“Are you excited for the shoot?” Dash asked Elizabeth after we had all gotten our plates.

“Yes! I’ve been working on this collection for months. It’s terrifying and exciting all at once.”

“It’s going to be great,” I assured her. “I’ve got some ideas for the shoots that are going to make people lose their minds.”

“What kind of ideas?” Adrian asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.

“Good ideas,” I said. “Creative ideas. Don’t worry, I’ll run everything by the insurance narc first.”

This shoot was going to be incredible. Unforgettable. Career defining. And yeah, maybe a little risky. But that was what made great art, right?

Blackwell Couture was known for setting the standard. We weren’t the basic bitches of fashion. That meant we had to have a campaign that stood out. Coming off of our Fashion of Love Week last fall, we had to up our game.

I was the guy for the job. I knew it. I just had to get my family to believe it.

But they were looking at my past behavior and not seeing me for the man I was. Would they ever?

I tried not to sulk as I ate my careful portions of roasted lamb, avoiding the potatoes, and doubling up on the veggies.

While I ate, I decided I was going to prep for that meeting like my life depended on it. I was thirty-five and my body wasn’t going to be my moneymaker forever. Not that I was in any danger of being broke, but I wanted to transition to being the guy behind the scenes and not the one getting all hot and sexy for the cameras.

I would prove to everyone that Sebastian Blackwell was more than just a pretty face.

2

BERNADETTE

The moment I stepped into Blackwell Couture’s gorgeous lobby, I knew I was walking into unfamiliar territory. I took a deep breath and casually glanced down at my navy pantsuit. It wasn’t high fashion, it was Ralph Lauren, and I felt like I was walking down Fifth Avenue in a paper bag.

I was thirty minutes early. Always early. Never late. That was a rule my father enforced.

I glanced around the lobby with massive posters of beautiful people in Blackwell Couture.

Damn. The dude with perfectly mussed dark hair and arctic blue eyes wearing nothing but a pair of linen pants on a beach was staring directly at me.

Holy shit.

He was beautiful. All tanned skin and defined muscles.

Man what I would do to him if I ever met him in a dark room.

Naughty things. All the naughty things. I pulled my eyes away from the poster and focused on the reception desk. I crossed the wide expanse with my Louboutin’s clacking against the hard floor. I loved the extra three inches my heels gave me. It put me right up to average height.

“Bernadette Simmons,” I announced. “Ten o’clock with Sebastian Blackwell.”