Grabbing the lavender one, she holds it out to me. Instead, I turn, holding my arms out, and she takes the cue, slipping the cotton up my arms. She smooths the fabric over my shoulders firmly before coming around to button me up. Her hands drift closer to my waist with every button, and I want desperately for her deft fingers to go even lower.

  With a deep breath, I resist temptation.

  As though aware I’m walking a fine edge, Autumn hands me the gray slacks. “Think you can manage yourself? I know zippers can be hard.”

  This minx! Is she calling me out for my body’s continued response?

  I put on the pants, telling her quietly, “Admittedly, I’m better at pulling zippers down.”

  She presses her lips together, fighting a smile but losing the battle. Looping the tie around my neck tightly, she takes charge, carefully tying a knot and pushing it up to my throat, just a bit tightly, but not too tight.

  I like sassy Autumn.

  “This is a Merovingian knot, something creative and slightly . . . sexual.” She swallows carefully. “In fashion school, I learned about a dozen different ways to tie a tie other than your standard Windsor.”

  I chuckle darkly. “I know a thing or two about knots and tying too.”

  Autumn shivers as her eyes jump to mine. Her breathing speeds up, and I’m on the verge of kissing her again when the photographer interrupts.

  “Simon?” I’ve worked with Melia before. She’s in her early forties and looks at me as though I’m a piece of meat. Not that she wants to eat me, exactly, but to her, I’m merely a product she’s trying to sell. “Es-tu pret?”

  “Yes, I’m ready.” I smile at Autumn as I move into the set for another round of photos.

  Melia and I make quick work of what amounts to a headshot, and then I’m back next to Autumn for another wardrobe change.

  “How do you get so many good shots so quickly?” she asks.

  I shrug, taking off the jacket and shirt. “Experience. I’ve done hundreds of these, maybe more. It seems like thousands. It was exciting at first, but now? It’s mundane.”

  She laughs brightly. “I’m not sure anything about your life is ‘mundane’.”

  “I’m not that unusual. Still put on my pants one leg at a time.”

  She dramatically gestures to herself and the rack of clothes. “That doesn’t count if someone is literally dressing and undressing you.”

  “Touché.” I laugh at her sauciness. “Well, my aunt insisted I focus on my studies, at least through high school level, like other boys. After that, she helped me follow in her footsteps into the family business, which isn’t all that uncommon. First, with modeling, which was fun and seemed exotic. And then, here at House Corbin. I’ve had to work for that. Still do. Most people only see my face, outright dismissing my brain.”

  “Aww, poor, pitiful you,” she whines, but the tease is accompanied by a soft smile.

  “I’m not complaining,” I assure her. “I’ve put in plenty of twelve- or fourteen- hour days, interning and learning in every department I could, finding a place where I can be useful to the company beyond my face. But I have to balance both, concentrating on my work mentally while watching my nutrition and fitness closely. Add to that, faking emotions with models I detest, playing lapdog to Jacqueline, and pulling the company, fighting and screaming, into relevance.”

  I realize a moment later that I’ve revealed too much. It’s just so easy to talk to Autumn.

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” she promises me.

  “Yes, there is. Friday, you were jealous and I didn’t handle it properly. I should’ve—”

  “I wasn’t jealous!”

  “When those meuf came into the lounge, you wanted to . . . snatch a bitch?” I think I’m using her American slang properly, or at least I hope so.

  Autumn’s eyes spark fire, and I’m not sure whether she’s going to eviscerate me or storm off.

  “You didn’t like Melia touching me, either,” I add.

  “She was spreading your thighs like she wanted to make room for her and her assistant. I’m not down to watch you live out some menage a trois fantasy,” she snarls, flipping her hair over her shoulder and refusing to meet my eyes.

  “Ah, you do know some French, then?” Her head snaps back around, and she glares at me. I answer with a flirty smile. “I am not interested in any of those women at the club, nor Melia, nor anyone else. In fact, until a few days ago, I would’ve said I wasn’t interested in anyone.”

  “And now?” she asks quietly. But then she shakes her head, firmly stating, “It’s not my business. Don’t answer that.”

  “Now, I find I’m utterly captivated . . . by you.”

  I grab a random shirt and walk away, letting her have a moment to think. On the set, I tell Malia, “Let’s do some shots with the chair.”

  I’m not even dressed. I’m wearing boxer briefs, an unbuttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a watch. I sit down in the low-slung leather chair, and Melia hands me a cut crystal glass with amber liquid in it. “You don’t need to drink it. Just pose with it.”

  “I know.”

  I look deep into the camera’s lens, imagining it’s a lover I want to seduce. Like Autumn.

  I move my gaze to Autumn herself. I hear Melia’s camera clicking away, and I shift and move through poses, but my eyes never leave Autumn.

  “Superbe!” Melia says excitedly. “Fini.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. While Melia and her assistant begin packing up, I go back to Autumn.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She faces me fully, bravely confessing, “I’ve been thinking about that kiss all weekend. I didn’t like those women all over you. But I’ve heard you can have any woman you want. Why would you be interested in me? Especially when I’m only here for the competition. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  I take her hand in mine, brushing a gentle kiss to her knuckle. “Go out with me.” I see excitement and refusal warring in her eyes. “We can look over the photos from today’s shoot. And I can dispel the false impressions you have about me.”

  She’s thinking again, her mind visibly processing behind her eyes. The most important thing I’ve heard from her is that the kiss we shared did something to her too. I’m not sure what I’m feeling, but we’re both feeling it.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight,” I tell her. “Okay?”

  I want her to say yes. I need her to. She’s using the competition as a barrier between us, and I won’t do anything to affect her work, knowing how important it is to her. But all work and no play leads to burnout, and Autumn is far too special for that.

  I wait impatiently, and finally, she puts me out of my misery. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 10

  AUTUMN

  “Mmm,” I moan sleepily, my hand pressed hard between my legs as I arch my back and imagine how incredible Simon looked and sounded yesterday, “Simon . . .”

  A mixture of guilt and pleasure snakes up my spine as a groan escapes my softly parted lips.

  I shouldn’t be doing this, but I need to release some of the sexual tension he’s stirred up inside me. With one kiss and some sweet words, I’m completely under his spell.

  It’s only a few days in, and here I am fantasizing about Simon when I’m supposed to be focusing on winning. Get yourself together, girl!

  But the image of Simon looking powerful in his underwear and the sound of his sexy French accent in my ear is too much to bear, and I feel the fire building in my core as I rub myself with soft circular motions. I’m almost there, and I bite my lip as one tiny last reminder to myself to be quiet because I’ve already learned how thin these old walls are from hearing the neighbors arguing. “Mmm, uhm . . .”

  I’m just a heartbeat away when my phone buzzes beside me. I let out a startled shriek, which probably sounds entirely too sexual, and in trying to grab my phone, I somehow miss and roll out of the bed and onto the floor with a solid thump!

  Shit. The neighbors are going to think I’m doing some freaky shit over here. They probably think I came so hard I passed out. Is that even possible?

  I bet Simon could make me come that hard.

  I shake my head, rattling sensical thoughts to the forefront and shuttering my horny thoughts into a corner. Looking at the screen of my phone, I see that it’s Nora buzzing in with a FaceTime and I’m struck by a sense of panic.

  Oh my God, it’s like she knows, from way across the Atlantic Ocean, that I’m blowing it by turning into a horndog.

  “Shit!” I hiss, grabbing my robe and throwing it on. I’ve been so busy, I haven’t texted her since arriving, and I know she’s excited for me. Hell, she’s the reason I’m here, and then I’m just ignoring her like a bad Tinder date.

  “Nora!” I answer, my voice too high-pitched and tight to be natural. On my screen, I notice my hair, which is fluffed up like red cotton candy. Making a useless attempt to smooth it down, I chirp, “I’m so happy to see you.”

  “Hey, baby girl! How are—” Nora freezes, eyes scanning. “Uh, am I interrupting something?”

  “What?” I squawk, pulling my robe tighter on my chest. “No, of course not. I was asleep. Time difference, you know.” I laugh, sounding a bit like a drunk hyena. I have no idea what time it is in New York. Hell, I only know that the sun is just starting to peek over the horizon behind the buildings out my tiny window.

  “Oh! Sorry, I did check and figured you’d be up to start your day. I’m wrapping up here, late night, you know, but wanted to hear how things are going.”

  Nora works all hours of the day and night, so I’m not surprised that she’s burning the midnight oil back home. And with our being able to work whenever and wherever we’d like to meet the fashion show deadline, I spent hours sketching last night with fabric samples spread out all over my bed. I finger one of the riskier selections I’ve fallen in love with, a pale pink polka-dot fabric. It could go a bit juvenile, but I have plans for it.

  “Things are amazing! We officially started yesterday morning . . .” I tell her all about this week’s theme, the supply room, Jeanette, and the dress I made yesterday seemingly all in one breath. It’s exciting to relay everything to someone who understands how a room full of fabric can spark so many ideas that your brain can’t even hold them all at once.

  “And then, there was a missing fashion director for a photoshoot, so I got the opportunity to dress Simon for a Vogue Italia spread!” It’s complete bragging, but I know she’ll be happy for me. Nora is the type to celebrate others’ victories, not begrudge them or be jealous.

  And she is, her face lighting up. “Whoa, that’s amazing! How’d you feel about the outfits and photos?”

  “Surprisingly good. It was more comfortable than I thought it’d be. Simon’s easy to work with.”

  “You mean, Simon Corbin?” Nora questions. “That Simon?”

  I swallow, trying to decide whether I should say anything about my dinner tonight. Nora’s a friend, and I trust her to give me good advice, but I also feel like this isn’t something I should share with anyone.

  I’ve been quiet too long, and Nora can read my face. “Autumn, is Simon Corbin in your bed right now?”

  “What?” I shriek. “And no! Keep your voice down!” I look around my apartment, afraid the neighbors heard Nora’s outburst. I spin my phone, showing her my empty bed, and then flash it back to my face.

  “But, uhm . . . I am having dinner with him tonight.” I cringe in anticipation of what she’s going to say and rush to add, “Just to go over the photos from the shoot.”

  Nora looks down her nose at me, not believing that for a second. “You don’t even believe that yourself, so don’t expect me to. Autumn, he’s Simon Corbin, for goodness’ sake!” she says, aghast. “Issue one, you’re competing at House Corbin. Two, he’s a model. A French model at that. And three, he’s Jacqueline Corbin’s nephew. I mean, couldn’t you tour the Eiffel Tower, find a cute guy who only speaks French, and get swept away for a night of raunchy sex without exchanging names? That would be better than Simon Corbin.”

  “Could you quit saying his name like that! You’re gonna give me a heart attack and I’m already worried about this.”

  Nora laughs, but suddenly, her face goes slack. She disappears from the screen, and I hear her burp loudly. A second later, the sounds of splattering come through the phone and I’m glad I can’t see that. She retches, panting heavily.

  “Nora? Are you okay?”

  Is she really that upset about my having dinner with Simon? I didn’t even tell her about the kiss at the club or the way his body responded to my touching him. Or maybe more importantly, the way I felt touching him.

  “Do you need me to call David for you? Or is Clay still in the office?” I’ve never felt so helpless, but from thousands of miles away, I can’t do much more than call someone else to help her.

  Nora appears back onscreen with a tissue pressed to her face, which has gone pasty greenish-white. “Ugg, sorry. My belly has been giving me fits lately. I keep asking Clay if he’s getting hemp milk in my coffee, but he swears he isn’t.”

  “Are you really okay?” I ask again, not sure even though she’s already pinking back up. “You’re not getting an ulcer from missing me, are you?”

  The silly joke brings a watery smile to her face, and she nods. “I’m fine. Just need to gargle a little, cut out the coffee, and I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, need to get your shit straight and design your ass off. Be careful with Simon. I don’t want you to mess up a possibly great thing.”

  “I hear you,” I promise.

  “Okay, I’m going to let you go. I’m suddenly starving now that my dinner is gone. But call me if you need anything—design or dick related.”

  “Drink some water! Your kidneys will thank you,” I add before we hang up.

  I think about what Nora said. Am I ruining a great opportunity here? Or is dinner an additional adventure? And what the hell does a man like Simon Corbin see in me?

  I’m not down on myself. I know I have certain assets. I mean, I have seen my tits. But on a scale of one to ten, I’d give myself a solid and respectable 7.9, with the extra 0.9 being for the unusualness of my hair and freckles. But on that same one to ten scale, Simon’s a conservative twelve. It’s weird, especially considering he’s in the fashion industry too, where thin is always in, something I vehemently disagree with.

  I’m still trying to decide about dinner and Simon as I get dressed and make my way to the workroom. Yori and Molly are already hard at work and barely look up in greeting. Yori is squatted down, looking over a swath of fabric she’s spread out on the floor.

  “That’s pretty,” I say about the abstract floral she’s eyeballing as though it offended her entire family line.

  Yori glances up. “It doesn’t fit the theme, but I like it.”

  I can see her point. Though it is floral, it’s black and gray and would be more suitable for a winter design, or springtime for Goths. “Maybe work with it and play around. If the result isn’t what you want, you can always cut it out of the final show. You’ve got to respect your muse, though. Sometimes, she knows more than you do.”

  “Arigato,” she says, her eyes still locked on the fabric.

  I settle in at my worktable and begin pulling together fabrics for the designs I worked on last night.

  At some point, Katarina and Beatrice come in. Together, but working on our own projects, we make magic happen. We chat about fashion and our families while we work. At some point, when Molly starts growling at a particularly ornery sewing machine, we even have a dance party to break the stress.

  As bass beats fill the space, we make our own circle, cheering each other on through moves that are more silly than sexy. As Katarina unironically does the sprinkler, I break out some sick ‘jump around with your hands in the air’ moves. Molly acts like she’s making it rain dollar bills over Beatrice who’s doing her best with a step-touch. She was much looser on the dance floor at the club, but that was after a drink or two, so that’s understandable. Surprisingly, given her previous awkwardness on the dance floor, Yori is the best of us all, especially when she breaks out in a moonwalk.

  Laughing and catching my breath, I say, “Damn, I needed that.”

  We drift back to our tables as the models come in for a daily check-in. Jeanette and I work together on a pair of shorts out of the pink polka-dot fabric, and once they’re finished, I consider what else I’d like to add to them. Jeanette looks in the mirror with me and then makes wiggling fingers by the hem. “Frou-frous?”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about at first and then it hits me. “Ruffles!”

  But not just any ruffles. I gather the fabric into small, tight, precise pleats. It’s perfect—classic, with a twist. And it would be better at the waistline to emphasize or create curves depending on the wearer.

  “Yes!” I hug Jeanette in excitement as the image comes together and run for the sewing machine.

  Work is rarely quiet, with conversation bubbling around the room constantly. Of course, in a room full of ten women, all of them in fashion, men and clothes seem to be our favorite topics. Whether it’s stories of old flames, favorite ‘bloopers’, or just gossiping, we never seem to run out of things to say.

  Really, it feels like I’ve found a sisterhood. The Sisterhood of Sewing Pants, perhaps? I don’t know, but it’s a good feeling. I’m having the most fun since fashion school. It totally doesn’t feel like a competition. It’s more like working with co-workers who have the same passionate mindset I do.

  As it gets later, the models leave, and we begin to head out to our own apartments as well. Gathering my tablet and a few fabric samples, I decide to head home.

  I haven’t seen much of Paris yet, only the walk from my apartment to House Corbin, but I’m looking forward to exploring . . . eventually.