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Autumn laughs and raises her glass to clink against mine. “That’s an awful toast, but the truth, at least.”
She sips her champagne, and I do the same.
“Tell me about yourself,” I demand gently. “Not what was on your application. I don’t care about something you wrote when you were trying to get into a contest. I would like to know therealAutumn Fisher.”
She relaxes, just a little bit. Still defensive, as prickly as a porcupine, but maybe not one ready to shoot her quills at me. “What would you like to know?”
“Well, work and fashion brought you to Paris. What brought you to fashion?” It’s a calculated move. The topic is professional, but for designers like Autumn, also extremely personal.
“That’s easy. And not so much of a what, but a who. My grandmother Daisy was the sharpest dressed woman in town.” She smiles, seemingly lost to her memories. “Everywhere she went, she wentprepped.And seeing her dress up all the time, seeing the way everyone reacted to that, it was just natural to love fashion.”
“I see. And what town was this?”
Autumn waves it off. “A smallish town in Massachusetts called Newton, like the scientist. But Newton’s claim to fame is that the Fig Newton cookie is named after the city.”
“Then hopefully, you’ll become the most famous person from Newton someday and you’ll be their claim to fame.”
Autumn laughs. “Yeah, that’d be cool. Maybe my mom would support me then.”
“Your own mother doesn’t support you?” I ask.
Autumn closes her mouth abruptly, seeming to realize how much she’s accidentally revealed. Slowly, she confesses, “Mom wants me to marry a townie, live nearby, and give her grandbabies. If I need to do something, I could be a seamstress or something. But I want more... like this competition. I want to see the world, experience people and cultures, and maybe make it all a bit more special with my designs. Does that sound vain or stupid?”
“To me? No, of course not,” I tell her. “I appreciate that you have broader horizons. If I may say so, the Americans I’ve met are not always known for their desire to learn about other cultures. And fashion is my life as well, so I understand that.”
She takes the assessment well, thankfully, not offended at my mentioning of the stereotype of Americans. A connection weaves between us that wasn’t there when she first sat down, a relaxation of Autumn’s defenses, but also a tension pulling us closer.
“What about you?” she asks. “Other than what I read online about you, tell me about yourself.” She smiles, pleased with herself at turning my words back on me.
I scoot closer, dipping in to whisper, “I’ll tell you anything you’d like to know. You must only ask.”
Her breath catches in her throat, and she looks at me sharply. “Simon.”
My name on her lips in that breathy tone does something to me I’ve never experienced. Instantly, I want to pull her into my lap, fill her, and please her until she forgets every other name she’s ever muttered in pleasure. Until it’s only my name she knows.
I add a scant few centimeters between us, enjoying the cat and mouse game. “I grew up with fashion, with my aunt. Other children learned about sports and video games. I could tell you the percentage of silk in a fabric before I began primary school.” I laugh at a memory and then decide to share it. “I had this coat, navy with white piping. It was a child-size version of a piece from Jacqueline’s collection that year. The other boys were playing outside, digging in the dirt, playing ball and tag, but not me.”
“What were you doing?”
“Sitting on the steps, watching and wishing I could play. It was the first time I realized that fashion has limits, although I didn’t have the words for it then, of course. I loved that coat so much, but I also wanted to be a child. I know it’s a bit like complaining about being privileged, but I’m not. I know how fortunate I was... how lucky I am to live my life.” I truly mean it, not that most people would believe me. They see a pretty face and don’t give me much more thought or credit beyond that.
“I bet your life is amazing. Fashion, VIP rooms, and I hear you have rabid fans who’ll do anything for you, Mr. Corbin.”
I can hear the information that Beatrice planted in Autumn’s mind coloring her words, and it makes me angry. Typically, when people write me off as nothing more than my last name, I don’t give a shit. It speaks more to their lack of vision than anything. But this time, I want to be seen by Autumn. And she’s using my name against me to create a wedge between us when things were going well.
I lean in close, growling, “I said to call me Simon. And is that jealousy I hear?”
Slowly, she turns her head, her lips a mere breath from mine. Her voice is sultry and hot as she whispers, “Nothing to be jealous of. You can give wet, sloppy French kisses to a different woman each night if you’d like. It’s no business of mine, Simon.”
She sounds as though she’d like to believe that and is doing her damnedest to convince herself. But she’s jealous, all right. And she called me by my name again as I instructed her to. She’s a beguiling mix of submissive and strong, calling me out in one moment and giving in to me the next.
And opening doors I’m excited about.
“Wet, sloppy French kisses?Mon Dieu, have you never been properly kissed?”
She bristles tellingly. “Of course I have.”
“It doesn’t sound like it. A proper kiss is not wet and sloppy. It’s warm and soft, tasting and exploring one another as it becomes passionate. Fire erupts as breaths become one, the hunger building between souls who desire connection. It’s a beautiful experience like no other.”
