“Mille merci,” I reply, dipping my chin deferentially. After all, sucking up is part of the job. “I am glad you enjoyed it.” I consider asking her name, maybe taking the chance to correct her on my own, but it feels like I’m already supposed to know who she is.

  “That first piece? Tres magnifique,” Dead Cat Lady says dramatically, kissing her fingertips in a ‘chef’s kiss’ move. “Shame about the last, though. The model . . . like one of your American biscuit tubes. Pop!” She puffs her cheeks out, her eyes wide and her hands making an explosion-type movement.

  Is she serious? Is she talking about canned biscuits? She cannot be implying that Jeanette is fat, right? I mean, she’s barely curvier than a twig.

  I decide to employ one of the skills my mother taught me and flatly say, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What do you mean?” I add a few innocent blinks to my hard stare for good measure.

  She doesn’t seem the slightest bit uncomfortable, smiling nonchalantly as she explains fully. “The last one, she’s gros. It did not do well with the dress.”

  Gros? It’s actually one of the words I learned from Jeanette. This Dead Cat Lady is describing my friend, who happens to be particularly thin, as fat.

  I grit my teeth, wanting to punch her. I mean, if she thinks Jeanette is fat, what does she think of my curves? Not that I give two shits.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” I say coldly. “My job is to dress the models in a way that flatters them. I felt I had done so, quite well, actually. But there’s always room for . . . personal taste.”

  I’m taking the blame, though there’s nothing wrong . . . with Jeanette, the dress, or my design work. I also pointedly look up at her hat, wrinkling my nose slightly.

  “Well,” she huffs. She says more, but it’s in muttered French, and I can’t understand the rapid-fire, harsh spitting of words.

  Spinning, she throws her scarf over her shoulder, slapping me in the face with it. But I’m more worried that the dead cat on her head is going to fall off and tumble to the floor, or maybe reanimate like some sort of zombie feline. It wobbles slightly, and though my first instinct is naturally to catch it, I step back. I don’t know what that is and I do not want to touch it.

  I try to mingle more, but all I hear are people raving over Katarina’s collection. It’s completely warranted, but the comments that equate to ‘good try’ about my own work set me on edge. Seduction, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, and there’s room for all sorts of interpretations.

  But when it came down to it at the club, when I was presented with all sorts of options, what I chose was also very similar to Katarina’s designs. Though on a much less luxe scale.

  Maybe I did miss the mark with my vintage lingerie-inspired collection? I loved it, but maybe it wasn’t right for a competition setting.

  I look around, not even realizing that I’m looking for Simon until I see him. I instantly feel better, the knot of anxiety in my gut relaxing just from seeing him.

  He’s across the room, holding court with a group of people. They’re looking at him as though he’s a god, hanging on every word. I can understand why. He’s gorgeous, smiling and gesturing as he tells a story. One of the people in the group, a tall, lithe blonde, leans into him, laughing at whatever he’s said as she touches his forearm.

  Simon doesn’t react, not flinching away nor encouraging it. Hell, I don’t know if he even notices. But I most definitely do. I want to rip her fingernails out from the quick for daring to touch Simon. Of course, she doesn’t know that’s unacceptable because he’s not doing anything about it, which worries me.

  I get playing the game, but there’s still that voice in my head telling me that I’m not good enough. Not good enough for this competition given the collection I just put on the runway, and not good enough for Simon given he’s who he is and I’m who I am.

  He takes a sip of his drink, looking away from the group to scan the room. His eyes find mine, and I see the fire burning there, even with the space between us. I lick my lips, wanting to run to him. I want him to take me in his arms and whisper reassurances in my ear. I want him to worship my body and distract me from tonight.

  I want . . . him.

  His kindness, his heart, his strength that lets my worries fade.

  Someone in the group must say something because I blink and Simon is looking back at them.

  Slowly, so as not to draw attention, I turn and make my way out of the warehouse space. It’s a short walk back to my apartment in the cool night air, with the lights of the city glowing all around me. It’s as beautiful as it is every night, but tonight it feels . . . lonely.

  CHAPTER 20

  SIMON

  The show ended over an hour ago and I still haven’t found an opening to track down Autumn. I saw her across the room earlier and wanted to go straight to her. Only the conversation I was having, with a top buyer from Galeries Lafayette, was enough to keep me away. But ever since, I’ve been scanning for her.

  “Tobias, have you seen Autumn?” I ask casually.

  His neutral face pinches slightly. “Uhm, backstage after the show, but not since. Is everything okay?”

  I wave a hand, fighting to keep my expression nonchalant. “Yes, fine. I wanted to speak to each designer and she’s the last I haven’t spoken with.” That’s not true in the slightest. Of the five designers, I’ve only spoken with Beatrice and she approached me.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Tobias answers. He looks over the crowd of people, which is starting to dwindle. Typically, once people have their glass of champagne, get photographed, and have a short audience with Jacqueline, they leave quickly. “If I see her, shall I tell her you’re looking for her?”

  “Oh, no. That’s okay.” I keep my voice steady, my eyes moving over the room. But my attention is on Tobias to see if he’s buying this.

  He’s equally adept at hiding his thoughts, having as many years of experience with it as I do, so I’m not certain of my success.

  I make my way around the room, talking here and waving there, still looking for Autumn.

  “Could you be any more obvious?” Jacqueline asks from behind me.

  I flinch slightly, but I don’t feel any shame over it. There’s quite literally one person on the face of the planet who can set me on edge to this degree, and she’s right behind me. I turn to face my aunt, squaring my shoulders. “Excuse me?”

  “Simon, do not play dumb with me. I’m aware of who you’re looking for, and of who you’re seeing. You haven’t exactly been subtle, gallivanting all over Paris.”

  To any bystanders out of earshot, it would appear to be a polite, congenial conversation between close co-workers. Not family. Though there’s blood between us, we’re not the sort to make public displays of affection. Nor private ones either, actually. Jacqueline smiles wanly, sipping her champagne as she looks at me with shrewd eyes. I mirror her move, taking a drink of my own bubbly and meeting her eyes.

  “Are you taking a sudden interest in my social life?” I respond lightly.

  She clucks her tongue. “I’m always interested in who you see, what you’re doing, how you feel. But this? One of the designers? It’s inappropriate at the least, bordering on harassment.”

  “No need to worry. It’s neither, I assure you.”

  “No need to worry?” she repeats, horrified. “All I do is worry. Whether you’re on the right path, making the right choices, doing your best? And then, am I doing what’s best for you, giving you all you need, steering you correctly?”

  Her outburst surprises me. It’s quiet, but firm and heartfelt. Does she really worry about me like that? In such a . . . motherly way? She’s given me everything money can buy, rescued me from what would’ve been a life of fear and loneliness in the orphanage, and provided me with security, education, and opportunity. But motherly? No, there were no hugs of affection, kisses to scraped knees, or tears wiped away when I cried.

  What gives her the right to step in now and make some decree on what I should or shouldn’t be doing? Or whom I should or shouldn’t be seeing?

  “I know what I’m doing.” I take a step to move past her, and she grips my forearm, stopping me.

  Hard and stern, she orders, “I forbid you to see her romantically.”

  “You mean sexually,” I correct, unyielding, and not touching the idea that she can forbid me from anything because it’s complete and utter bullshit.

  “Simon!” she hisses, looking around to see if anyone’s heard us. “Stay away from her.”

  I shake her off my arm, barely keeping the venom from my voice. “You haven’t seen fit to pay any attention to my social life before. Let’s continue the tradition, shall we?”

  I walk away, leaving her in my wake, though I hear a ‘harrumph’ of displeasure. Jacqueline can be as upset as she wants, I don’t care.

  When I’ve walked the entirety of what’s left of the cocktail hour and haven’t seen Autumn, I realize that she’s left without talking to me. It sits uneasily on my chest. I don’t like it.

  I consider going straight to her apartment, knocking on the door, and pushing my way in once more . . . into her apartment and then into her body.

  But Jacqueline is staring me down, and I know she’ll check up on me tonight. That’s annoying too, but I can play her games and still check on my Princesse.

  “Hello?” Autumn answers.

  She might as well have picked up the phone for a sales call. Her voice is flat, blank. I don’t like it at all.

  “What’s wrong?” I demand.

  She sighs heavily, and I hear squeaking in the background that lets me know she’s lying down on her bed. “Nothing.”

  A laugh of disbelief escapes before I can hold it back. “Try again, with the truth.”

  “It was a long day, and I wasn’t happy with my collection,” she replies, and this time, her words have a ring of honesty. “But I don’t want to talk about my collection. One thing I learned from Nora is that if you have a bad day, learn from it and let it go. I’m still evaluating so I can learn and do better.”

  “That’s admirable,” I admit, “but I’m happy to listen. I’m here for you.”

  I don’t argue about her feelings about her collection. They’re her own, and it’s not my place to tell her the pieces were lovely and romantic, an understated and elegant interpretation of the seduction theme.

  “Thank you,” she says quietly. “There was a woman at the cocktail hour who called Jeanette ‘gros’ and I nearly swatted her gross, dead cat looking hat off her head. I mean, seriously?”

  She’s gaining momentum and strength, nearly ranting as she tells me about the woman who insulted her designs and Jeanette in one fell swoop. There’s something about American biscuits, but I don’t get the chance to ask what those are as Autumn’s tirade continues.

  “She sounds dreadful,” I agree, “and completely wrong, of course.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Things are changing, or they need to. And I’m not going to design based on some Old Cat Lady’s opinion when she thinks taxidermy chic is fashion.”

  I nearly choke on my spit as I laugh. “Sounds like you’re done evaluating. I, for one, support no taxidermy in fashion.”

  Autumn laughs. “Oh, my God! Right?”

  Now that she’s in a lighter mood, I hesitate to tell her about what else happened at the cocktail hour. But she needs to know.

  “Jacqueline talked to me after the show. She told me, and I quote, ‘I forbid you from seeing Autumn.’” I say it as fast as I can, hoping that somehow, we can glaze over it without too much drama.

  No luck . . .

  “She what? I mean, she got all bossy with me, but I can see where she thinks she has the right. But with you? How’d she think that would go?”

  I guess Autumn wasn’t completely over her feistiness. I rather like her this way, though, giving me a glimpse into the woman who left home against her mother’s wishes to chase a dream, made a life for herself in a new city that intimidates even the strong, and used her passport for the first time to come to Paris for a competition with one of the most renowned fashion houses in the industry. She’s a vision, even if I can’t see her.

  Actually . . .

  I push a button on my phone, requesting to change our phone call to a FaceTime call.

  “Oh! What are you up to?”

  I hear her smile before I see it, but then she’s in front of me on the small screen of my phone. “Hello.”

  My voice has gone deep and husky at seeing her. Her eyes are bright, but whatever makeup she was wearing tonight has been smudged, giving her a smoky effect. Thankfully, it doesn’t look as though she’s been crying. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from going to her if that were the case.

  “Hi,” she answers, a bit breathless. “So, what did you tell her?”

  I’d forgotten what she asked me, but the question jogs my memory. Jacqueline’s decree. “Essentially, that she hadn’t taken an interest in my social life before and we should continue that way.”

  Her laugh surprises me. Her eyes wide, she searches my face through the screen. “Are you serious? You told Jacqueline to keep her nose out of your business? The Jacqueline Corbin?”

  “Well, when you say it like that . . .” I shrug casually but grin at the amusement in her voice. “I did manage to stay mum about what her previous warning led to.”

  The reminder is intentional, a distraction from Jacqueline and from the processing Autumn is still doing about the show.

  She taps her chin, teasing me. “I forget . . . what happened after that?”

  I growl, bringing the phone closer so she can only see my face. “We went on an adventure that ended up with your ass pink, your pussy wet, and both of us exhausted and satisfied.”

  “Riiiight,” she drawls out. “I do recall there was a little something like that.” She’s provoking me on purpose, reveling in it.

  “Take your shirt off for me.” The command is full of heat and sex, and I see Autumn catch her breath, enthralled.

  Before her hands can move to her shirt, she freezes and goes serious on me. “Is this . . . I mean, am I . . . a way to get back at her? At Jacqueline? Your aunt?”

  She stutters the questions out as though the thought hasn’t fully formed in her mind yet, but she still needs to know.

  “Of course not. Non, non!” I’m shocked, but her concerns aren’t unreasonable. They’re just not the case . . . at all. “Granted, I am defying my aunt, and she could toss me out on my ass. In theory, at least. But that only shows that I am putting myself at risk as well. Like you . . . with the competition.”

  “Oh,” Autumn replies. “So we both have something to lose?”

  “Listen to me, Princesse. I’m not losing anything. I’m gaining . . . you. I would burn the world to see you. You can hear it in my voice, see it in my eyes, and if you were here with me, you would hear it in the beating of my heart.”

  “Or maybe feel your pulse in other places?” Her flirtiness has returned, and though she can’t see any more than what’s on the screen, which is my face, she looks down pointedly as though she can see lower . . . to my dick.

  “Take your shirt off,” I order again, certain that she’ll be onboard with a bit of play now that we’ve addressed her concerns.

  She holds the phone out, using one hand to awkwardly remove her camisole. Her full breasts fall free, lush and perky, with her nipples already standing proudly.

  “Touch them. Pinch them.” As soon as her fingers make contact with the pink nubs, plucking them firmly, my cock hardens painfully.

  I don’t bother with more than a couple of buttons before I pull my shirt over my head, taking my undershirt with it. Holding the phone out, I toe off my shoes, watching as Autumn’s jaw drops open on a soft moan. She squeezes and massages her breasts, playfully shaking them up and down as though she’s wrapping them around my cock.

  “I have to be quiet,” she tells me. “My neighbors.”

  I smirk, not giving a fuck about her neighbors or what they might hear. Hell, I want the whole entirety of Paris to hear Autumn screaming my name, hearing that I am hers and that I bring her pleasure.

  I watch Autumn’s face as she roughly tugs on her nipples, twisting them sharply. “Can you suck yourself?” I ask. My breath catches when she shoots me a naughty look. And then she lifts her left nipple to her mouth and sucks, digging in with her teeth.

  “My Princesse likes it rough,” I say. “Mon Dieu, you’re fucking sexy.”

  I make quick work of undoing my pants, shoving them off and pulling my dick out. I give myself a slow stroke, angling the phone so she can see what she’s doing to me.

  “Yeah, show me how you jack yourself,” Autumn says. I would almost believe she’s comfortable with the command, except then she bites her lip as though surprised those words passed her lips.

  “You want to see me?” I tease. I recline on the couch, holding the phone up high so she gets a view down my abs to my dick as I stroke again and again.

  “Fuck,” Autumn whispers.

  “Take your bottoms off. Show me that pussy.”

  The screen bounces wildly, showing me the bed, the ceiling, and flashes of Autumn as she rearranges herself on her bed. Her shorts and panties are gone and she sits with her knees bent.

  “Look at me.”

  She holds the phone between her knees, aimed at her sweet, silky soft pussy. She’s gleaming with desire, and I wish I could taste her essence.

  “Close your eyes,” I rasp, my hand picking up speed. “Imagine me, my hands on your skin, pushing your thighs apart as I lower my mouth to your pussy. Show me.”

  Autumn whimpers, her fingers sliding over her lips before spreading herself. She pushes two fingers inside, gathering her wetness and spreading it over her lips and clit before going back, pumping her fingers in and out of her hungry opening. She throws her head back and gasps for air. “Yes, Simon . . . yes, baby, God, you feel so good . . .”