I think she’s ready, though. Or if she’s not, she’ll have to make peace with where the designs are because time’s almost up. It’s Wednesday afternoon, a mere forty-eight hours before model call for the showcase.

  The door buzzer downstairs rings, and I can see excitement rush through Autumn, from her head to her toes. Her cheeks flush, and she curls a red lock around her finger.

  “Nervous?” I ask.

  “A little,” she confesses.

  We’ve talked about this moment and her concerns. She’s still upset with Beatrice, but also, she’s worried that the other designers will hold her tantrum against her, or like Jacqueline, think that Autumn went after me to get a leg up in the competition. There’s a whole slew of possible landmines, and Autumn wants to address them without making them go boom!

  I escort Autumn down the elevator, ready to go to battle for her if need be, though I seriously doubt that will be needed. She can fight her battles on her own and does a better job than I usually do, given the way Jacqueline has been nearly eating out of Autumn’s hand over the last two weeks.

  Downstairs, I open the door, and there’s a moment of still silence before . . .

  “The show may begin, now that I’ve arrived,” Katarina says airily with a glint of humor in her eye.

  “Some crazy shit you got going on here, bitch.” Molly, of course.

  “Thank you for hosting us,” Yori says politely.

  Any concerns seem to have vanished into thin air as they rush Autumn for hugs. Except Beatrice holds back, standing behind the other women at Jacqueline’s side. Albert and Tobias also stay back, silently watchful about what’s about to go down.

  Autumn moves toward Beatrice, and the other designers step out of the way like they’re not sure if a hair-pulling fight is going to break out. Or maybe just a slap of Beatrice’s cheek? Or hell, I never know what to expect with Autumn, so she might simply hug Beatrice.

  We all wait with bated breath to see. Autumn told me that she’s not even sure what her reaction will be. Beatrice awaits her judgment with tears on the verge of spilling over as she bites her bottom lip.

  “Why?” Autumn asks gently, but Beatrice flinches as though she yelled it.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I went along with it. It seemed like the only way to . . .” Beatrice glances at Jacqueline, who frowns.

  “I’ll admit that I did quite a fair job of encouraging Mademoiselle Dupont to go along with my plan. I made it seem as though it was in her best interests to do so.” Jacqueline’s admission is delivered matter-of-factly, and everyone can read between the lines that she promised Beatrice a win if she went along. That’s a hard prize to turn down when you’re an aspiring designer, truly willing to do almost anything to make your dream come true.

  I know Autumn understands that more than others might, given the bumpy road she had to take to reach her dreams. She’s had to go against her mother, work while going to school, and do extraordinary things while assisting Nora. If someone could wave a magic wand and make that journey disappear, I don’t know many who would be strong enough to turn that down.

  “Thank you,” Autumn tells my aunt before turning to Beatrice. “I forgive you. Fashion is cutthroat, we know that. But friendships are more valuable than any outfit.” Beatrice sags in relief, the tears finally falling over. “And it turned out for the best in the end. Otherwise,” she warns, not a pushover in the slightest, “I might not be nearly so forgiving. Now come here.”

  They embrace, Beatrice’s head resting on Autumn’s shoulder. Well, as close to it as she can get. Autumn is on her tippy toes, but Beatrice still has to bend her knees to reach her with their significant height difference.

  Molly, Katarina, and Yori join the hug-fest, and it’s girl time. They laugh and cry, talking over one another and generally ignoring that the show starts in less than two days.

  Jacqueline clears her throat, ready to get to work, but I catch her eye and hold up one finger. Let them have this, I tell her with my eyes. She looks at the women again, and I can see something in her expression that looks like affection. Or maybe longing. When my aunt began her fashion journey, she didn’t have friends and cheerleaders to support her, and witnessing the women coming together to do just that must seem both strange and wonderful.

  After several minutes, I hear Autumn say my name.

  “You aren’t mad about me and Simon?”

  They laugh, and Yori tells her, “We all knew.”

  Autumn shakes her head vehemently. “You did not!”

  Molly pushes her shoulder. “You’d bust ass to get as much done as possible, and then leave to ‘work at home’ or ‘visit the park for inspiration’ and come back the next day with barely anything else done since you left. And you’d have a dreamy smile on your face.” Molly makes a vacant-eyed, open-mouthed smiling expression that I think is supposed to be what Autumn looked like.

  I did that to her, I think cockily.

  Katarina nods, agreeing. “We thought you’d found a French Romeo, and then we saw Simon wearing the same necklace you’d started wearing. It didn’t take much to put one and one together.”

  Beatrice adds quietly, “We were a bit worried for you, as he has quite the reputation. And it didn’t seem to be helping you in the competition. We weren’t concerned about that until . . .” She trails off, and I know that my aunt turned that particular screw to get Beatrice to do her bidding.

  “Okay, so no hard feelings?” Autumn asks them all.

  Molly leans over to loudly whisper to me, “No hard feelings already? I hear that can happen to old guys. Mother Nature’s a bitch, ain’t she?”

  “Molly!” Autumn shouts. “Not like that. Simon is . . . I mean, we’re . . .” she rambles, before deciding on, “I don’t mean about sex.”

  Autumn is blushing furiously, and I pull her to my side, tucking her under my arm. “We’re more than fine there,” I reassure them all, only a little defensively. And not old, definitely not old.

  “Perhaps we could get to work?” Jacqueline says, steering the conversation back to more productive topics and away from my sex life. We’ve come a long way in the last two weeks, having conversations about my mother, House Corbin, and my childhood, but my prowess in the bedroom is not one of the things I wish to share with her.

  “Yes, come upstairs!”

  I escort the women to the elevator, and though it’s a bit stiff, I place my arms around Jacqueline in a polite, warm hug. “Good to see you,” I tell her truthfully.

  “You too, Simon.” Her eyes are brighter than I’ve seen them in ages, maybe ever. “In some convoluted way, I do think things worked out for the best.”

  I know what she means, though I never would’ve predicted the way things have turned out.

  I watch the women oohing and ahhing over the newly renovated apartment Autumn and I have been working in. They run from table to table, and even wall to wall, as they exclaim over how large the space is. I can see the joyful smile on Autumn’s face, and I tell my aunt, “Me too.”

  “Okay, what do we need to do first?” Jacqueline asks, surprising us all. Me, especially. A question, not a command? When I catch her eye, she explains, “This is your house. You tell me.”

  Wow. I never thought I would hear her say anything of the sort. Judging by the wide eyes everyone else shoots my way, they didn’t, either.

  “Okay, Tobias . . . if you can, go to Nora Jacobs’s place and see Clay. He has a trim that Autumn wants. Jacqueline and Albert, can you go check the venue? Make sure everything is set up and there’s adequate lighting and logo signage in place. Ladies, your designs arrived this morning and are waiting for you over there.” I point to the racks of black garment bags lined up for each designer. “Anything else?” I ask Autumn.

  We’ve gone through the to-do list at least a dozen times . . . today.

  “Kiss for good luck?” she answers. Not minding the audience, I cup Autumn’s cheeks, lifting her to her toes, and kiss her firmly. Her hands go to my chest, her nails digging into the flesh beneath my shirt deliciously.

  “Whoo . . . do we all get one of those?” Molly teases. “I could use some good luck myself.”

  When I release Autumn, she falls to her flat feet with a sigh of desire. She turns, planting herself firmly in front of me. “Touch him and die,” she tells the women threateningly. “He’s mine.”

  “Is that like ‘I peed on it, it’s mine’ the way dogs do?” Yori asks in confusion.

  Katarina corrects her. “It’s lick it to make it yours,, and it’s a sex thing I think, but English isn’t my first language either, so . . .?”

  I place my arm around Autumn, my forearm resting over her chest. Kissing the top of her head, I tell the other designers, “Regardless of sayings, I’ll agree that I’m hers. And she’s mine.”

  With that settled and Autumn’s territory—AKA me—claimed, we all get to work.

  I’m mostly here to be everyone’s assistant and keep the to-do list updated with checkmarks as jobs are completed to get us ready for Friday night, and I do my best to provide everyone with what they need to work because the show is going to be an exciting and major event for us all.

  CHAPTER 31

  AUTUMN

  Friday arrives faster than I thought it would. I haven’t slept in days, unwilling to waste precious minutes with something like sleep when I could be working to improve the pieces in my collections. We’ve all had a chance to make changes, repair pieces (mostly me, of course), and rethink our designs. The result will be a presentation from each of us that is exactly what we want and how we want it.

  This show will be different from the previous ones because now, we all have fifteen pieces under the three different theme umbrellas. As a group, we decided it would be best to showcase by theme, each designer’s Summer of Love collection walking, then Seduction, then Amour.

  Simon offered to walk with the finale models in the Amour collections again, but I sat on his lap, holding him down while I gave him a hickey just over the line where his necklace sits. It was my version of marking him as mine and answering not just ‘no’, but ‘fuck no’. He’d laughed and agreed his modeling days were over unless I decide to create menswear. But only in solo poses.

  I’ve never considered myself a jealous person before Simon, but seeing him with anyone else is a danger to them and a risk of jailtime for myself. The same holds true for Simon with me.

  He’s wearing a T-shirt, proudly showing off his hickey like a weirdo. Meanwhile, I’ve got an assortment of hickeys on my inner thighs covered with a skirt like a normal person. Of course, the handprints on my ass also mean I’m not doing much sitting today, either. Thankfully, I’m too busy to have a chance.

  From backstage, I watch the monitor as the models walk for the Summer of Love collections from each designer. As one group finishes, they scurry off to change into the Seduction outfits.

  I chose to go last, and as my fifth Summer of Love outfit walks, I can’t help but tear up. Jeanette looks amazing in it. I curl into Simon’s side and tell him, “Thank you for bringing her here. I can’t imagine doing this show without her.”

  Most of the models are local to NYC, but I’d lamented that my Amour mourning dress was meant for Jeanette and that I was sad she would never get the chance to walk it. So Simon secretly surprised me by flying Jeanette in to do it. I’m not wishing the show away, but I truly can’t wait to see Jeanette strut in that gown. No one can do it justice the way she can.

  I swear, I blink and the time flies past until I’m standing backstage with Jeanette in the voluminous black gown. “Remember, slow. Eyes forward.” I demonstrate the defiant gaze I want Jeanette to have, tackling the future with strength after the loss of love. “Pose, small smile of hope. Then back like a queen.”

  “Slow. Strong. Hope. Queen,” she repeats clearly. Her English has gotten much better. My French is improving daily, too, from listening to Simon.

  “Tue cette piste, fille,” I tell her, snapping my fingers.

  Jeanette looks at me in surprise. “Oui, I will kill the runway for you.”

  She does. It’s exactly what I’d hoped it would be—the dress in perfect condition, Jeanette dramatically making her way down the runway so slowly that I don’t breathe, the audience’s gasp of delight at the little quirk of her lips, and then her return, equally slow but steady.

  “Wow,” I breathe finally.

  “Gorgeous,” Beatrice says from beside me. I don’t know when she got there, too caught up in Jeanette and my gown. But she’s watching the monitor closely too. “It nearly killed me to damage your other pieces. That one, though? I couldn’t bring myself to do anything to that gown other than unlock the zipper. It’s too beautiful.”

  It’s an odd, twisted compliment, but I can appreciate what she means.

  After the show, we go out to the floor where everyone is mingling and discussing the collections. Of course, with it being Fashion Week, some people have to leave immediately, jetting from runway to runway, but I’m pleased with how many people stick around.

  “It was amazing,” Jacqueline tells all five of us proudly.

  I can’t help but be pleased at the feedback. She might’ve sabotaged me, but she is a fashion icon with decades of experience. And she does not give compliments lightly or untruthfully.

  We all say some version of ‘thank you’, and then the other designers wander off to meet people, hoping to meet buyers, magazine editors, and other industry insiders who can help them grow.

  Simon comes up behind me, his voice low as he says, “Absolutely stunning.” I turn to face him, a smile already plastered to my face. “And I’m not talking about the fashion. I’m talking about the designer.”

  He winks playfully, and I laugh. “You’re the worst. But keep going.”

  “Shall we?” Simon offers me his elbow, which I take, and together with Jacqueline, we work the room.

  Before I know it, we’re standing with Nora and . . . my mom.

  “That was . . . I didn’t expect . . . I just . . .” Mom stutters, sounding a lot like me when I’m overwhelmed. Finally, she just lets out a big breath. “Wow.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I reply, giving her a quick hug. “I appreciate your coming all the way to New York for this.” When Simon suggested I invite her, I hadn’t been sure. In fact, I’m pretty sure I laughed and said she’d never come. To my surprise, she’d been ecstatic at the invitation and drove down this morning. She’s going to stay a few days too, in a hotel since the studio is still a partial construction zone.

  “Your first show? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world! I’m so proud of you, honey.” She tears up, and Nora puts her arm around my mom’s shoulders, patting her affectionately.

  “Don’t cry. I’m hormonal as hell, and if you cry, I’ll cry. We’ll both be a runny panda-eyed mess and things will go downhill from there. I’ll probably eat a whole tub of ice cream to console myself over losing my best assistant ever, and I’ve figured out that Baby doesn’t want me to have lactose. It’s ugly and gassy, so don’t cry.”

  Nora’s silly chatter as she pats her belly, which is starting to pooch out a tiny bit, makes Mom laugh a little, and her tears dry up slightly.

  “Thank you for taking good care of her all this time, Nora,” Mom says.

  “She’s the best, and I’m excited to be a page in her memoir one day,” Nora says lovingly. She’s been an amazing support through everything, letting me bounce ideas off her as I learn what it means to have your own design studio.

  “It made it a little easier to know she has friends here,” Mom answers.

  I blink, shocked as hell at my mom’s words. “What? I thought you’d be dragging me home and forcing me into the Apple Sauce’ing contest next month.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Mom waves a dismissive hand at me. “You’ll be way too busy here, and you haven’t so much as peeled an apple in years. I’m too old to be the Apple Sauce Queen anymore, but I’m going to win that apple butter contest this year. I’ve been working on my recipe. The secret is nutmeg and vanilla.” Mom whispers the last bit like someone might be eavesdropping on her and hear nuclear codes, not baking secrets.

  “Apple butter?” Jacqueline tilts her head, as though she’s trying to make the two words make sense together.

  “Oh, yeah, I make the best around. Way better than Patty Wilkins’s, that’s for sure. I’ve got some in my suitcase. I’ll get you a jar before you go back to France,” Mom tells Jacqueline.

  “That sounds delicious,” Nora adds, her stomach growling loudly. “To the both of us. Do you think that would taste good on ice cream? Ooh, I’m going to put ice cream on a sweet roll, and then drizzle apple butter on top. A bit like strawberry shortcake, but all dense and warm for fall.”

  Mom tilts her head, imagining. “Great idea. I might have to demo it that way for the contest, if you don’t mind.”

  Nora shakes her head. “As long as I get a jar, I’m good. I don’t even need a spoon at this point. I could lick it straight from the jar.” To her belly, she teases, “See what you’re doing to me already? I used to have manners and eat like a rational person. And now, I’m like Gollum . . . my precious!” Nora makes grabby hands at a passing waiter, snagging a small piece of chicken on a skewer and then nibbling it in ecstasy.

  It’s a weird collision of my worlds—my mom, Nora, and Jacqueline Corbin standing around casually talking fashion and food. I look and see Clay and Tobias chatting too, looking like they’re having a good time. Though I’d guess they’re not talking about apple butter.

  “I’d like some too, if you have enough,” I tell Mom.

  “I already gave some to Simon. You got yourself a good one here.” She gives Simon a smile of approval as she fans herself playfully.