Page 1 of Meant to be Mine

1

DREW

Upstairs in the manager’s office of the Blackwell Couture store, I was sitting at my desk when a text message lit up my screen and taunted me.

Edith: We need to talk now.

Grumbling, I dropped the phone in my pocket and crossed my office in half a dozen strides. I was her boss, not the other way around. Where did my assistant manager get off sending a text like that?

On the other hand, she was amazing at her job, and running this place without her would be a nightmare. I clasped my hands behind my back and surveyed the view fifteen feet below where I stood. Dealing with her prickly attitude was better than Edith quitting on me.

Blackwell Couture had been a huge name in the fashion world for decades, and this was their first ever retail space, nestled in the heart of Beverly Hills. The space fanned out in every direction, spanning nearly eight thousand square feet of glossy marble floors polished to perfection, framed by exposed beams that cost a fortune to import. At Blackwell Couture, our customers weren’t just shoppers. They were our guests, and we strived to make sure their experience would bring them back for more—and that they would bring their friends.

My gaze roamed the sleek display cases, the deep-cushioned chairs in crushed velvet scattered through the open floor instead of crammed into corners, and the crystal chandeliers overhead.

A woman in heels click-clacked across the marble toward the bridal section, speaking animatedly with her bridal party and mother while two sales associates hurried along behind them to keep up. She pointed at the gowns on display with a red manicured nail, and some of her entourage visibly flinched when she turned her attention to them. I smiled. Up here, from my vantage above the first floor of the shop, a bridezilla was easy to spot and a hell of a lot of fun to watch.

I should text Edith and tell her to bring some popcorn up here with her for this “talk.” Make it worth my while.

The bridal section anchored the far end of the store near the windows. The walls were painted a champagne color so specific Cleo had spent three weeks picking it out and I still couldn’t tell it apart from beige. But I’d never tell her that.

Soft, flattering light washed over that whole corner. Every woman who stood in front of one of those oversized mirrors felt like a queen, as intended. A few tuxes were on display as well, but like the dresses, they were just a starting-off point. All the wedding stuff was tailored exactly to every individual client’s needs.

Beside the wedding section, a wide marble bar curved along the east wall, lined with high stools and tended to by a mixologist in a black vest who’d been pouring espresso and prosecco since ten in the morning. Drinks were free if you bought clothes or had contracted with Blackwell Weddings.

Like I said, our customers weren’t shoppers. They were our esteemed guests. And they thanked us for our hospitality with their limitless credit cards and repeat visits.

Edith stalked like a predatory cat through the accessory section, weaving through the belts and handbags as if her prey was just around the next corner. Her focus shifted from the marble floors up, up, and up, until her gaze locked with mine.

Shit, here we go.

She gave me a tilt of her head that I understood in Edith-speak to mean, “I’m coming up.”

I nodded back and stepped away from the window to make myself comfortable behind my desk. My office had been curated to my preferences. Dark walls, dark furniture, minimalist art, and a bar cart stocked to the nines with my liquors of choice.

Six months ago this had all been a wild dream and now it was a business turning a profit. And I was the guy running the place. I’d been around for most of the building process helping where I could, glad for something to throw myself into after a few years of bouncing between half-finished projects with no real direction. Now, being the guy up here, I felt like I was where I belonged.

This was everything I could have wanted. And by default, it should be enough.

It is enough, I corrected myself. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

My father, Max Blackwell, ran a movie studio surrounded by people who lived and died by creative instinct. I’d never had an ounce of interest in that world. I wasn’t an actor. Mom was in the business but not me. I missed the creative gene and got an extra dose of the business brain. That’s my thing. Numbers, investments, keeping a hundred plates spinning without anything crashing. So when the doors opened and the cousins all needed to get back to their lives in New York, they’d looked at me and asked if I wanted to run it full time.

I’d said yes before they finished the sentence.

My cousins, Adrian, Sebastian, Briggs, and Dash, all lived in New York. They had inherited Blackwell’s fashion empire, and opening a Blackwell Couture store had been in the works for a few years. But living on the opposite side of the country from where the store was located in Beverly Hills, they wanted someone else to oversee it. Someone they could trust. Especially since now they were family men these days. They had all fallen in love, gotten married, and were populating the earth with adorable little Blackwell babies.

I was guessing my brother Callum was headed that way as well. He had helped supervise the building of this store, but he didn’t want to run it. He had his own business to run, Blackwell Weddings, with our sister Cleo and their friend Mandy. It was their designs featured in the wedding section of the store and we had been sending a lot of business their way.

I had stepped in at the store, and most days were great, but occasionally I missed the freedom of my old life, doing whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. Especially on days when Edith was on the war path.

Knuckles rapped on my office door seconds before it swung open and Edith announced herself with a curt hello. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a soft click and adjusted her fitted blazer. “Is now a good time?”

“It is, unless you’re giving me your resignation. Then you can turn around and we’ll both pretend this never happened.”

“You wish,” she said, already moving toward my desk. She looked every part the professional she was, just like all the staff here at Blackwell Couture. “I want to talk about the promo event at the beach.”

I gestured to the empty chair across from my desk and she settled into it, crossing one leg over the other.