“Sleep, Princesse. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”

  I push a button on the remote that stays on the bedside table, and we are blanketed in darkness. Autumn snuggles into me again, buried to her chin and surrounded by me.

  “What’s tomorrow?” she murmurs.

  I kiss her shoulder and whisper, “Week two of the competition begins.”

  I’m not sure she hears me because she falls asleep quickly, a testament to how spent she is after the hard fuck, but I can’t sleep. I want to watch her in the darkness, listen to her breathe, and bury my nose in her soft hair to breathe her in.

  Tonight, something changed. With us, and within myself.

  I’ve never dated seriously, never even considered it. But when I told Autumn that this was not casual, I don’t think she understood how much I meant that. I could’ve waited on her if she’d asked me to, painfully and agonizingly delaying the inevitable until she was ready.

  But now that I’ve had her, there’s no going back. I’m addicted to her. My Autumn, my Princesse.

  CHAPTER 17

  AUTUMN

  “We’re wasting an entire morning,” Beatrice gripes as we walk along the sidewalk in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré district, checking out the beating fashionable heart of Paris. If Fifth Avenue is the heart of NYC fashion and Rodeo Drive the heart of Los Angeles, we’re here in Paris’s heart, seeing the best the city has to offer.

  We’re supposed to be here to get inspiration for our next show which is themed Seduction.

  I get the feeling Beatrice has seen all this before and definitely doesn’t need any help in the seduction department, but today was arranged by House Corbin so I’m not going to turn down a day out with the girls . . . or the three thousand euros of ‘pocket money’ they’re giving each of us to pick up any little trinkets that spark our imaginations.

  “Check her out,” Molly says, trying not to point to the woman on the other side of the street. She’s definitely a sight, wearing eight-inch-high platform stilettos that would make Gaga at her weirdest lift an eyebrow. To the woman’s credit, she doesn’t so much as wobble as she struts down the street.

  “I am . . . in trouble,” Yori says quietly. “Many, many beautiful fashions. But I don’t know Seduction.” She poses with her hands on her hips and exaggeratedly pursed lips.

  “What is seduction in Japan?” Molly asks.

  “Girl lay back, pretend to be hazukashii, then make sounds like this,” Yori says before starting to squeak like a hyperventilating hamster on helium. “That is sekushii in Japan.”

  “Ugh . . .” Katarina groans, and then quickly adds, “No offense.”

  “No. It’s okay. The pretending is ridiculous.”

  Molly agrees vehemently, “Hell yeah, it is. If you’re pretending, that means you’re probably not getting your own Os. Who’s got time for that? Do seduction that makes you feel sexy. Who cares what he thinks about it?” Molly is caressing her own curves as she makes her suggestions, completely oblivious that she’s drawing the attention of several other people on the street.

  Beatrice clucks her tongue. “Tis true. If left up to men, we would all be dressed either virginal in white, or la putain in black leather.”

  I’m not sure of the exact translation, but I get what Beatrice is saying.

  Meanwhile, Molly’s got her own mental wheels turning as we pass by a boutique with a display of hip-hop inspired outfits. There’s music playing inside, and she’s bobbing her head in time with it. “Yeah . . . yeah!” she says, throwing her hands up. “I love it when you call me Big Momma! Throw your hands in the air if you’se a true player!”

  “What is she doing?” Katarina asks me in a quiet voice. “Is she . . . rapping?”

  “She’s trying?” I reply just as quietly, not that Molly would notice. She keeps going, adding in some hip shaking with her singing. It’s . . . a hundred percent Molly, to be honest. She’s the least hip-hop person I know outside of myself, but she’s going at it a hundred percent, never doing anything half-ass.

  And now she’s putting her whole ass in it . . . literally. She starts twerking in a way that reminds me of Tina on Bob’s Burgers. But Molly seems certain that her moves are worthy of a Twerk 25K contest win.

  Laughing, I gather Molly in my arms, pushing her out of the store and down the sidewalk, waving an apology toward the store manager. She says something in French, but it ends with ‘American’ so I don’t think it was complimentary.

  We keep going, checking out the people as much as the shops and boutiques. While it’s interesting to see the displays in the windows of such shops like Hermes, Versace, or Saint Laurent along Rue Saint-Honoré, I have more fun and find more inspiration in the streets full of people. Still, we wander in and out of shops, sampling perfumes, fondling luxury lingerie at La Perla, and soaking in so much art that my brain buzzes.

  “Photo time!” Yori calls out suddenly. “Group photo!”

  “You have got to be . . . ah, what the hell,” Katarina says. “How do we do this?”

  Beatrice comes to the rescue, talking a shop worker into taking photos of us with our cell phones while we pose in front of a store window with a dinosaur skeleton holding a purse. I’m not sure of the connection, but it looks fun at least. I kneel in front, smiling, so I miss most of the other girls’ poses, but when I get my phone back, I have to laugh.

  Of course, Molly would be sticking her hand up in a rock n’ roll devil horns pose, her tongue hanging out. And Yori’s perfect with one leg kicked out, her fingers up in a peace sign, while between them Katarina holds her hands over her head like an invisible crown, and Beatrice does a near perfect imitation of the Breakfast at Tiffany’s pose. All she’s missing is the cigarette holder. And I’m simply cheese-smiling in the middle, which ironically seems equally silly when you put all of us together.

  Afterward, we pile in taxis and go to Saint-Ouen to browse the famous flea market there. Molly finagles for me and her to share the second cab, and as soon as the driver pulls away, she pins me with a look of expectation. “You gonna tell me what’s up?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, and Molly snorts.

  “Girl, you’re in la-la land that has nada to do with Paris. You’re walking along, smiling at nothing and shit.” She mimics what I supposedly look like today, but surely, I haven’t been that obvious. She makes it seem like I’m wandering the streets of Paris looking like a blissfully drunk raccoon grabbing at the air with tiny hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you got your back blown out by some top-notch dick.”

  “What?” I shriek, cutting my eyes toward the cab driver who is definitely listening to us now. “My back feels fine,” I reply, and it’s true. My back feels great. My pussy is sore, sure. But in a good way. “I’m just excited about the competition and the day out of the workroom.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her hum says she doesn’t believe one word of what I’m saying.

  The truth is I don’t know what to tell Molly. I feel like I’ve developed some serious feelings for Simon after just two dates, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I want to do my best in the competition, but if I tell the other designers, I have no doubt that their next stop will be Jacqueline’s office and I’ll be removed from the contest.

  I don’t want that.

  But I do want Simon. And the competition.

  Can’t I have both?

  I know that makes me a greedy bitch, but this whole thing is almost too good to be true, so why not go for everything? Go whole hog, as my Grandma Daisy would say.

  “I’m just . . . happy,” I tell Molly. “You know, excited?”

  “Suuure,” Molly drawls out, not offended by my secrecy. “Look, all I’m going to say is good luck. And when you want to tell me all the nitty, gritty, dirty, French details, I’ll be happy to listen.”

  “Thanks, Mol.”

  “It’s what friends are for.”

  When we get to the flea market, we stick together since Beatrice tells us that pickpockets tend to roam the narrow walking spaces between the stalls that make up the fifteen ‘markets’ that comprise the entire area.

  We’ve just turned into the Jules Valles market area, which specializes in stands filled with antiques ranging from classic records to antique weapons, when my phone rings. It’s Nora.

  “Nora? How’s it going?” I ask. “Sorry for the noise. We’re out shopping.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Nora says. “I just wanted to check in. How’re things going with S—”

  I pull my phone to my ear before the other girls can hear, cutting Nora off. “Yeah, sorry. Things went great with those designs I was telling you about.”

  I glance at the other girls, hoping I haven’t been busted. Thankfully, Nora seems to catch on, and I quickly switch from speaker to normal phone. “Autumn, is everything okay?” Nora asks. “You can use code if you want. I’m alone here at the office.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No, those little worries I had about . . . skirt length, I think they worked out. We had our first show and I feel good about it.”

  Nora makes an unconvinced sound. “Okay, I just worry because I want you to succeed. You’re so talented. Please don’t end up messing up a good thing.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Okay, then on to me . . .” She pauses, and I swear I can hear her feet tippy-tapping through the line, but maybe it’s static. “I also called because I’ve got great news. You know all the gas and upset stomachs?”

  “Uh, yeah. Are you okay?”

  “Well . . . the doctors figured out what it is. I’ve got a parasite.”

  “A parasite?” I yell, panicked. “Oh, my God! What can I do to help?”

  “Oh, no, it’s great news!” Nora says, somehow not freaking out about this. “Lots of people get parasites like mine. And after they’re removed, we give them names, dress them up, all sorts of stuff.”

  “Names? Dress up? What?” I’m so confused, my brain struggling to put it all together. And then I get it, and I laugh at the same time tears of joy form in my eyes. “You did it!”

  I can hear Nora crying now too. “Yeah. Five years, all the treatments . . . but we did it. I’ve got a little parasite all my own. I’m pregnant!”

  The scream that comes from my mouth is one of pure joy, but it’s so loud that all movement in the market stops and all eyes turn toward me. I don’t care, full on happy crying now. “Nora, I'm so happy for you!” The girls look over, and I explain, “Nora’s pregnant!”

  Words can’t explain my joy. Nora and I are close, and I’ve wept with her when she told me about the fertility treatments and the miscarriage just weeks after she and her husband, David, thought they had succeeded. I sat in awe of her bravery and how she’d hid her heartbreak behind the mask of professionalism, still smiling and there for us when her world was falling apart.

  Now, after five long years of trying . . . she’s pregnant.

  The girls cheer, and Beatrice calls out to the rest of the market, where I’m moved again as dozens of people start to cheer and applaud. I pull my phone away to switch on the video and show Nora, who’s crying too. Finally, I pull the phone back and give her a smile.

  “You are going to be the best parent ever,” I tell her, but then I point an accusing finger her way. “But if you ever call the baby a parasite again, you’ll have to deal with me, and I’m one of those ride or die aunties.”

  She smiles through the happy tears. “I thought you’d get a kick out of that. It’s from an old House episode.”

  I’m not surprised. Nora jokes that she and David are the oldest young people in existence. An exciting Saturday night consists of TV reruns and Sudoku for them. But I guess there’s a little something else happening on their ‘boring’ Saturday nights too.

  “And tell Clay that I’m planning the baby shower.”

  She holds up her hands in defeat, shaking her head. “That’s between the two of you. He’s already petitioning for Clay as a name.”

  “Well, that’s okay as long as you use Autumn if it’s a girl,” I say, mostly joking.

  Nora leans in to the camera, her eyes cutting left and right as though making sure she’s still alone. “No, he wants me to name the baby Clay, regardless of whether it’s a boy or girl.”

  “Tell him I said over my cold, dead body,” I tease. “And then when he says that can be arranged, tell him that I’ll haunt him until he agrees that you can’t name the baby after pottery materials.”

  Nora laughs, but for some reason starts crying at the same time. “I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you too.” Molly waves at me, telling me to come over and look at something. “Nora, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “It’s okay, I understand. I just wanted you to be one of the first to know.”

  I blow a kiss through the phone and she snatches it up. When we hang up, I feel a new burst of inspiration and bliss blooming in my belly.

  I’m going to be an Aunt!

  “I cannot believe you paid two hundred euros for a set of nearly one hundred-year-old undies,” Molly says as we unpack our finds in the workroom. “Seriously? They probably have some antibiotic resistant STDs we think have been eradicated.”

  I am carefully pinning the delicate fabric to a mannequin so that it sits directly beside my worktable as inspiration.

  “Hey, Jacqueline said seduction, and this is my idea of seductive,” I reply, gesturing to the 1930s silk and lace three-piece set. It’s definitely different from what the other designers found, but I think that’s a good thing, showing our different aesthetics.

  The other women are already hard at work, sitting in various spaces around the workroom drawing on their tablets or down in the fabric supply room to find options. I am curious what they’re thinking, given the variety of inspiration pieces we bought, everything from hard-edged leather strapping from a horse bridle to a classic marble figurine of a nude woman.

  Me? I’m flying, with a brain already so full of ideas that the designs are begging me to hurry up and bring them to fruition. I think a collection where there can be some mixing and matching among the outfits is where I want to go. I eye the inspiration set again and add some lace trim to a bustier I’m drawing.

  Ready, I head to the fabric room and make my selections, then get to work.

  It seems like minutes later, but judging by the progress I’ve made, it must be hours, when the door to the workroom opens. “Yes! Dinner!” Molly calls out. “I was gonna start eating Katarina’s left leg.”

  “I thought the expression was ‘eat my arm’,” Yori questions.

  Molly wiggles her eyebrows. “It is, but what’s the fun in that?”

  Katarina kicks out said left leg, making it look extra-long and shapely as she coyly tells Molly, “My legs are not where I like to be eaten.”

  “Ooh,” Beatrice sings.

  Molly props her elbows on her table, her chin resting on her fists. “Do tell.”

  We laughingly work our way over to the table to see what’s been provided for dinner tonight. One thing’s for sure, it’ll be something delicious. Everything I’ve had in France has been mouth-watering and memorable. Tonight, it appears we’re having salmon, asparagus, and roasted potatoes.

  I pick up a plate, filling it from the family-style offerings, but then see that Yori has frozen, looking scared.

  “What’s wrong? You loved the salmon last time,” I remind her.

  She lifts her chin, eyes focused over my shoulder. “Bonjour, Monsieur Albert.”

  I turn around, surprised to see Jacqueline’s assistant. He’s nearly always at her side—for the fashion shows, when she tells us of the week’s theme, and when she walks around House Corbin. I’d believe it if someone told me he even presses the bidet button for her. They’re like two peas in a pod, though with a significant power dynamic difference.

  Albert dips his chin at Yori’s greeting, but his eyes are locked on me.

  Uh-oh.

  I instantly have that pit in my stomach like you get when you get called to the principal’s office. Not that I was ever in trouble at school. I was more like the hard-working teacher’s pet.

  “Good evening, ladies. Miss Fisher, if I could bother you for a moment?” Albert says politely.

  It’s a question, but it’s not like I can decline. “Of course. What can I help you with?”

  Molly, always having a friend’s back, interrupts with a teasing purr. “I can help you, Albie. It would be no bother.”

  Albert responds with a tight smile and then to me says, “I’m afraid this is in regard to Miss Fisher, specifically.”

  I nod, setting my plate down without eating a single bite, and follow when he indicates I should do so. We walk side by side down the hallway in silence and my unease grows. Finally, I try. “Is this about the photoshoot images?”

  Albert cuts his eyes my way as he presses the button for the elevator. “I’m afraid not, Miss.”

  I search his blue eyes, finding nothing there. He’s gone emotionless like the professional he is, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and knowing nothing. I won’t get any information out of him.

  But I still have to try. “Where are we going? Surely, you can tell me that, at least.”

  There’s a tiny glimmer inside me that hopes Albert’s been sent downstairs to bring me up to Simon’s office. But Albert isn’t Simon’s assistant. I know where he’s taking me. I only hope I don’t know why.

  Please let it be to get feedback on the first fashion show.

  Up the elevator, my nerves grow. I’m glad I didn’t have a chance to eat or I’d probably lose it. Salmon sounds disgusting right now. On the top floor, Albert strides down the hall easily. I haven’t been here yet, but it’s as beautifully appointed as the lower floors with lots of modern white, chrome, and glass. Albert stops in front of Jacqueline Corbin’s office and gives me a look I can’t decipher.