Page 106 of Possessive Ink

“I have someone who does that for Felix and me,” I tell her. “I have all of my appointments stored on my calendar. I’ll see if I can import them onto your system.”

“Knight can sort it for you. He’s handled all the installation for me.”

“Okay, I’ll speak to him,” I tell her.

“Perfect. Do you need me to show you where all the supplies are?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Lemon and I came yesterday, and I got my station set up.”

“Cody mentioned that you wanted to expand your loft because your fiancée moved in. When did you get engaged?” Betty asks with a hint of concern.

“A couple of days ago.”

“Who to? I thought you were single?”

“I was…until I met her.”

“Wait—” Betty starts, her face lighting up.

“Before you start, I haven’t met my wife because of some mythical love-at-first-sight spell for a family I’m not a part of,” I huff.

“So you’ve heard.” She giggles. “Happens to the best of us. When’s the wedding?”

“Six weeks.”

“I want to meet her. Come and have dinner tonight,” she gushes excitedly.

SIXTEEN

LEMON

One month later

Letting my head fall into my hands, I groan. Once Atticus found out that I wanted to be a clothes designer, he was determined that I make my own wedding dress, but despite his unending faith, support, and this amazing studio he had built for me, I can’t do it.

The lace is impossible to sew, the design I created would be ambitious for an experienced seamstress, and even though I measured and remeasured myself, the bodice I’ve made three times just doesn’t fit, and I don’t know why.

The version I made in calico did, and the lace replica is exactly the same size, using the same pattern, but my breasts won’t fit in the cups, and I’m an inch short at the back, and I don’t understand.

Tears fill my eyes, and a wave of sadness washes over me. I can’t do this. Making a simple, pretty dress is one thing, but actually sewing my own wedding dress is beyond my capabilities. But I can’t tell Atticus that, because every time I bring up my doubts, he just tells me he believes in me and that I need to have more confidence in how incredible I am.

But this isn’t a confidence issue. It’s a skills issue. I don’t know enough about sewing and construction to be able to create something this intricate.

The dress I’ve designed is my dream wedding dress. It’s a fitted bodice that flows down into a flowing skirt with a train that billows out behind me and detachable romantic half organza and lace sleeves that cup the tops of my arms, then increase in volume and end in lace cuffs with tiny pearl buttons.

Drawing the sketch was easy, but actually making it is impossible. The organza and lace should be sewn over a nude fabric that gives this sexy but ethereal feeling. Only if the nude layer isn’t perfect, you can see it through the sheer organza. The bodice has both boning and built-in bra cups, and even a single missed stitch is glaringly obvious.

So far, I’ve wasted hundreds of dollars’ worth of fabric and have a scrap pile bigger than the dress will be if I ever manage to finish it.

Atticus spoke to Cody about building me a studio as an add-on to the loft, but it’s going to be a few months before the additions will be finished, so a few weeks ago, this self-contained building appeared in the courtyard, fully decked out with everything I could ever need to make my dress. At the beginning, I was excited to get started. Only now, day by day, when I fail on every level, I’m wondering if I’m an idiot for even considering I could do this.

Dropping the bodice onto my worktable, I slide my feet back into my shoes and turn off the light. When I open the studio door and slip out into the cool early evening air, I immediately hear Felix’s music, and I brace myself for the sheer volume of it to hit me as I slide back the warehouse door and step inside.

I don’t know how Felix usually works, but according to Atticus, in the past, after a few months, he’d still be sketching instead of having two six-feet-high clay models already made. Just like I expected, my soon-to-be brother-in-law doesn’t notice me as I walk through the studio and toward the stairs that lead to our loft.

I’ve been living here for a month now, and I’m surprised by how at home I feel here. Some of my stuff is still in boxes, mainly because I refuse to allow Atticus to ruin the apartment’s aesthetic with all of my random tchotchkes. Although he’s determined that at least one of the rooms in the new addition will be a sea of pink fluffiness. He tried to insist that we get the living room redecorated in my favorite color, but I refused because the loft is stunning, and I don’t love pink enough to want to change what’s already beautiful.

My legs feel heavy as I climb the stairs, and I’m not sure if I want to fall asleep or burst into tears by the time I push open the door to the loft and step inside. Atticus is sitting on the couch, his drawing tablet in his lap, and I stumble over to him, sinking to my knees on the floor in front of him and laying my head on his thigh.