“Oh, look at the chonky boy! I like that one.” I point to a chain made of interlaced gold and red strands. “Can I try that one?”

  The saleswoman opens the case, pulling out the necklace. “We also have the matching men’s chain if you’d like to see that?” she asks, looking at Simon.

  His eyes turn to mine, dark heat rising in their depths.

  “Yes, please.”

  As the saleswoman steps away, Simon places the necklace around my neck. Once again standing behind me, he meets my eyes in the mirror and bends down to growl in my ear. “It’s gorgeous on you. I want to fuck you in this and nothing more, Autumn. Please?”

  A shiver runs through my body. I never want to take this necklace off again. Though I also might never put clothes on again if Simon keeps saying things like that.

  The saleswoman comes back, but Simon doesn’t even look at the men’s piece she’s brought. “We’ll take them,” he says.

  “Ahem,” the saleswoman says, “if I might be so bold as to suggest something . . .” Simon looks up, but his hands are squeezing my hips. “The necklaces have tiny gold medallions on the clasps. They can be engraved, if you’d like?”

  “How long does that take?” Simon asks.

  “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Make it ten if you can, and put AF on mine and SC on hers,” Simon tells the saleswoman, but his eyes are locked on me in the mirror.

  “Oui, oui, Monsieur.”

  The saleswoman disappears with the two necklaces, and I whisper to Simon, “You didn’t even ask how much they are.”

  He bends down, kissing and nibbling at my neck. When he places his teeth right over the tendon to my shoulder, my head falls to the side, giving him more room.

  “I don’t care. Having that on you and yours on me?” He groans. “She’d better hurry or I’m going to fuck you right here.” To prove that point, he grinds the ridge of his rock-hard cock against my ass.

  I swear it hasn’t even been five minutes before the saleswoman returns, a bag in her hands. Hell, I’m not sure how long she’s been standing there when she clears her throat, but I jump as though I’ve been busted doing something wrong.

  Simon laughs and hands the woman a black card. A minute later, we’re out the door and I’m laughing at my overreaction, feeling silly but also naughty for making out in the store while we waited.

  We nearly run, trying to get back to Simon’s car as fast as possible. He covers the streets to his apartment quickly too, his hand moving higher and higher on my thigh the whole way.

  Falling through the door, Simon rips off his shirt and kicks off his shoes. “Strip, Princesse. Now.”

  He’s doesn’t have to tell me twice. I start pulling clothing off, throwing it haphazardly.

  “Yap-yap-yap-yap . . .”

  “Your dog is quite the cockblocker,” I tell Simon, laughing even though I’m quite serious. Covering my bare chest with my shirt, because it seems wrong to greet him naked, I hold my hand out as Xerxes comes swishing in the room like he owns the place. “Hey there. Who’s a monster dog with a bad attitude?” I baby talk to him.

  Not understanding a word but getting the sweet tone, Xerxes actually sits and allows me to get closer.

  “Don’t bite me, and I’ll see if your Daddy will let me get you a treat. Do you like dog biscuits?” I say, still in that high-pitched voice.

  Simon snorts behind me, fighting a laugh. “No, he would never lower himself to eat anything that doggish. But you can give him some pancetta.”

  It must be one of his favorite words because he goes nuts, jumping and yapping and running all over. I realize he’s leading us toward the kitchen, showing us where to get the much-desired fine swine.

  Simon pulls out a bag, handing me a small piece of what looks to be jerky. “Sit, Xerxes.” With the treat so close coupled with Simon’s no-nonsense tone, Xerxes sits happily, his tongue hanging out. “Okay, give him the treat and then run for the bedroom. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Are we using pork to distract him so he won’t pout when we shut him out so you can pork me?”

  “Yep,” Simon says, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. Hell, maybe it is with a dog. I don’t know.

  “Okay, just so I’m clear. On three, two, one . . . here you go, sweet boy.” Xerxes takes the pancetta gently, and I risk petting his head just a little, and then I make a run for it, laughing the whole way with Simon right behind me.

  He slams the door, leaning up against it wearing only his underwear and a smile. He holds up the bag from the jewelry store and his smile turns naughty.

  He stalks toward me, all sex and heat. He takes my shirt, dropping it to the floor and leaving me naked before him.

  “May I?” he asks, pulling one of the two jewelry boxes from the bag. I bite my lip, nodding. He holds up the necklace, and I watch as he swallows thickly. “I like this on you. It feels important.”

  He fastens it behind my neck and then traces the line where the gold touches my skin. I can feel the weight of the necklace, but even more, I can feel what it means.

  He holds the other box out to me, and I pick up his chain. Simon turns, giving me his back, and I stand on my toes so that I can do the clasp. When he turns back around and I see it nestled at the base of his throat, a shot of warmth goes through me.

  “Simon . . .” I can’t form words to express what I’m trying to say, but he nods.

  “I know.” He steps into me, moving me until the bed touches the back of my legs. “Lie down, Autumn. Let me love you.”

  I fall to the bed, lying on his pillows and stretching out luxuriously. “Yes.”

  Simon makes quick work of his underwear, giving himself a long, slow stroke before climbing over me. Cradled between my legs, he leans down on one elbow, and his necklace hangs down between us. I reach up, wrapping it around my finger and smiling.

  “I need you,” he growls quietly, the roughness of his voice making my pussy clench.

  I release his necklace, reaching down between us to guide him to my entrance. He slides inside me easily, and I groan at the delicious sensation of fullness. No, of rightness. Simon feels right inside me, like I didn’t know I was empty until he was there to stretch me.

  We entwine our hands as Simon slowly rolls his hips, entering me again and again. Our eyes lock on each other’s, and in his gaze, I can feel so much more than just this moment.

  I can feel forever taking shape between us. And it’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.

  CHAPTER 24

  AUTUMN

  “Who runs the world?” Molly chants.

  “Girls,” we answer dutifully and distractedly, our voices sounding more like a flat drone than a hoorah anthem.

  “Sing it with me now . . . we run this mutha . . . we run this mutha.”

  I’ll give her credit, Molly is working hard to keep us all hyped. So we do as she orders, robotically singing along with her, but mostly, we stay focused on our labors of love.

  But with less than twenty-four hours till showtime, we’re all feeling the pressure. I’ve already had to slip a small finger condom over my pinkie because I keep poking myself with a needle and I’m not ruining this fabric by bleeding on it. Yori threw up a little while ago, saying she has an ‘angry stomach’, but we figured out she meant butterflies in her belly. Molly’s singing is getting more and more off-pitch. Beatrice took a break to go cry and smoke a little while ago, and Katarina is literally snarling at her outfits and speaking to them in Russian in threatening tones that would have Stalin pissing his pants.

  Shit!

  There I go again, stabbing myself in the finger. I can’t help it, I’m shaking with nerves, excitement, anxiety, and giddiness.

  I love my collection. Every single piece of it has poured forth from my soul, and I feel like I’ve done justice to the theme of Amour while showcasing my own style. Of course, whether Jaqueline Corbin or any of the fashion judges feel that way remains to be seen.

  The models have already left for the day, their final fittings complete, so now we’re planning an all-nighter, Sisterhood of the Sewing Pants style with more of Molly’s forced karaoke, a dinner buffet break, and lots of support as we finish our last-minute tweaks.

  “Ugh!” I groan. I drop the skirt I’m working on to grab another Band-Aid and a fresh finger condom. “Why can’t I sew the one time I need to?” I ask, not expecting an answer.

  Beatrice laughs. “If you figure it out, please tell me because I am having the same issue.” She smacks the sewing machine she’s currently arguing with before beginning to curse at it in French. “Merde inutile. Je prendrai plaisir à te frapper avec une batte.”

  I don’t know what she’s saying, but the evil glint in her eye makes me suspect she’s threatening dismemberment to Maude, as we’ve come to call that particular, and persnickety, machine.

  Holding up my freshly re-bandaged hands, I tell Beatrice, “Normally, I’d be down to back up whatever you’re planning, but I would leave DNA all over the place right now. I can be your alibi, though.” Grinning, I add in a saccharin, innocent voice, “Officer, Bea was with me the whole time. Right by my side.”

  I go over to her, hooking my elbow through hers, and when she stands, we spin each other in a circle. Switching elbows, we turn a circle the other way, laughing and smiling.

  “Oh! I needed that.” Bea plops back down to her seat, seeming ready to take on Maude once again, given the steely eyed gaze she throws it now. “Merci.”

  The door to the workroom opens, and expecting it to be dinner, I let out a whoop. “Ding-a-linga-ling, dinnertime, bitches!”

  I’m grinning as I turn, but somewhere in the space of the quick second, I see that Molly and Katarina have looks of horror on their faces. Yori hasn’t looked up from her work, but something tells me she would too, though I don’t know why.

  Completing my turn, I find not our dinner delivery, but Jacqueline Corbin.

  Her face is pinched, her lips pursed, and her eyes narrowed as they look down on me. And that has nothing to do with the height difference but rather with the power dynamic. I bet she’d manage to look down on just about anyone, though, not only young designers or ones she’s doing her damnedest to keep away from her nephew.

  I get it. Simon and I don’t make logical sense, but when he’s with me—and inside me—that doesn’t seem to be an issue for us.

  I try to remember that as I meet Jacqueline’s eyes. “Sorry, I thought you were the dinner delivery.” I keep my tone friendly, apologetic, and not the least bit embarrassed, which is a tough combination to pull together.

  “Indeed,” she sniffs. “I wanted to ensure that we’ll be ready for tomorrow’s big show. There will be many eyes upon House Corbin, and you. Do not let me down.”

  She pauses, and I realize that nothing she said was a question. It’s not ‘are you ready?’ but rather ‘be ready and don’t embarrass me.’ She’s here to twist the screws and increase the pressure already on our shoulders.

  “Also, I thought of a fun little twist I wanted to inform you of.” Her eyes scan down the line-up, landing and staying on me. “For the final show, with the Amour theme, it only seemed appropriate to have your models escorted down the runway. We will have a group of male models headed by my nephew, Simon.”

  The five of us gape at her, though I suspect for different reasons.

  “Male models? Do we need to dress them as well?” Katarina asks.

  Thank God she’s asking the important questions, because my brain is stuck on Simon walking with a bunch of hot models down the runway. It’s his job, I know it is. That doesn’t make me any less jealous. Or less insecure.

  I fiddle with the necklace around my neck, twisting it around my finger to remind myself that I have nothing to worry about. Not with Simon, despite my self-doubt trying to creep in and whisper in my ear.

  “No, they will be dressed in black suits. Nothing to distract from your designs, but if you have accessories or parts of your designs that need to be adjusted, I wanted to give you time to do so.”

  Time? She must mean the less than twenty hours we have till showtime now.

  Seeing no more questions, she claps her hands, smiling serenely. “Excellent. A good designer must be able to adapt and be flexible.”

  She delivers the mentor-sounding advice with a kind tone, but as she turns to leave, she looks at me and her expression morphs into something more feral. She knows she’s getting to me by having Simon walk with the other models. In fact, I wonder if she’s doing it intentionally to bother me. Surely not? That seems excessively paranoid, but why else would she give me that gleeful grin?

  When the door closes behind her, I look around and find the others just as shell-shocked as I am. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, on the verge of a freakout times five.

  “Sixty seconds, that’s all we get to freak the fuck out, and then, it’s back to work. Deal?” Molly suggests.

  I don’t think any of us consider not agreeing. Instead, we all take a deep breath and then at once, we break out . . .

  “Oh, my God! What the hell is she thinking?”

  “I’ll show you flexible . . . by hanging you from your toes.”

  “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Baka, baka, baka, baka, baka!”

  Beatrice mumbles a whole lotta French that I don’t understand.

  There’s more, each of us ranting and rambling in mixes of languages and sounds that express our frustrations, fears, and freakouts.

  “Time!” Molly calls out. Breathless, we all stop, but inside, I’m still somewhere between ‘try me, bitch’ and ‘how do I want to change my collection with this new information?’

  The door opens again, and we all shout, “No!”

  But this time, it is our dinner delivery. Thankfully, because I could really go for some feeling-stuffing right about now, so I hope it’s something good.

  “Dinner and then back to work?” I propose. Wordlessly, we pick up our plates, and instead of sitting at the small table we’ve eaten at many times now, we lower to the floor to the makeshift picnic area we set up earlier when Molly laid out our plans for this last night as the Fab Five Sisterhood.

  The pillows and spread fabric are comfy and cozy, and my croque monsieur is warm and filling. But mostly, I enjoy the conversation with the women who have become friends. We don’t discuss what we have left to do tonight or what tomorrow is going to bring. Instead, we discuss what’s waiting for us at home.

  Yori can’t wait to see her daughter, who’s only three and adorably proud of her mother for being a ‘fashion icon’. Their nightly FaceTime calls have made the little girl a familiar face to all of us, and when I’m home, I’m going to miss the bedtime songs in Japanese that Yori sings to put her to sleep. Katarina says she’s going home to visit friends and family. Molly isn’t sure where she’s headed next, saying she’ll spin a globe, close her eyes, and point to see where fate takes her. The very idea stresses me out. Beatrice shrugs, saying there’s no one at home waiting for her and that she’ll likely return to her job at a high-end department store by day and designer by night.

  Then they look at me, but I don’t know.

  My plan all along was to return to New York and Nora, using the experience from the contest to grow my own voice and designs. But Simon makes things much more complicated. He can’t leave Paris and House Corbin to come to New York with me, and if I don’t win the competition—which is wholly unlikely, given that Jacqueline selects the winner—I don’t have a way to stay in France. I need to design and make a living, and without the contest, I can’t afford a place to live, don’t have a job, and don’t even have a work permit to allow me to stay.

  “Go home to NYC, I guess. Nora’s waiting on me to help with her next collection, and with the baby shower,” I answer, giving one possible outcome. A month ago, that would’ve sounded awesome, but now, it’s missing one big factor—Simon.

  We chat a little longer before returning to our work, then go quiet as we get closer and closer to the finish line.

  Palms sweaty? Check.

  Knees weak? Check.

  Arms heavy? Check.

  Seems Eminem was right. I thought I was ready, or as ready as I could be. But I’m missing one key thing. And it’s not Mom’s spaghetti.

  “Where the hell is Jeanette?” I hiss for the millionth time in the past hour. I look around the backstage area, hoping she will have magically appeared in the single second since I last scanned the entire room.

  I still don’t see her, but I do see Simon. He’s across the room, wearing black boots and slacks with no shirt. His abs are chiseled, his shoulders broad, and he’s smiling as he talks to a group of models, both male and female. They’re all also in various stages of undress, standing around and chatting like their nudity is completely normal. I guess to them, it is.

  To me? I want to go over there, shove a shirt at Simon, and gouge out everyone’s eyes who’s daring to look at him. Okay, maybe he’s right and I do have a jealous streak?

  But there’s another voice in my head that suggests, “Maybe he likes the other models because they’re like him.”

  The tall, thin, beautiful people.

  As though he feels the weight of my gaze, he flicks his eyes to me. A small lift of his brow says he can read my mind despite the distance between us. Casually, he fingers the chain at his throat, making sure I see that he’s wearing it despite models typically not wearing anything personal. My matching chain is tucked in below my buttoned-up shirt, but I press my hand to my throat in response.

  It soothes a small bit of my doubt and jealousy. But mostly, the only thing that draws my attention away from Simon is that I’m freaking out because I still don’t see Jeanette.

  I go over to the hair and make-up zone, checking in on my models. “Hey, have you seen Jeanette? She’s late,” I ask one of the makeup artists.

  She shakes her head, her hands never stopping their precise mascara application. I wish I could do that! “No, but did you hear about Marisol?”