“What are you thinking?” Molly asks me. “And if you say that gingham is going to be old-lady capri pants, I’m gonna barf.”

  Glancing at the fabric, I hold a finger to my lips. “Shh, don’t tell my secrets yet. I’m totally going Martha Stewart Remix—the country club version, not the prison edition.”

  Molly snaps her fingers. “Dammit, I should’ve thought of that.” To the room at large, she asks, “Everyone happy with their model?”

  There’s a chorus of agreements.

  “I feel like we’re on The Bachelorette, waiting for our dates to arrive,” Molly quips. “Or something like that.”

  “Love Island,” Beatrice says, shrugging nonchalantly when we look over. “What? It’s a good way to practice my English.”

  The door opens and Tobias leads in five girls. They’re all beautiful, clearly models with runway experience given their struts, and all five of them are equally appealing in their own ways. They’re all also dressed identically, in black leggings and T-shirts.

  And of course, all of them have that ‘I’m seductive but just sucked on a lemon’ look that a lot of models have. I chalk it up to high cheekbones and not enough calories. Or maybe they teach that at the modeling agencies?

  “Ladies . . . ladies,” Tobias says, gesturing to each group. “No ceremony, I’m sure you all want to get to work. So I shall leave you be.”

  To figure out who goes with whom, we call out our models’ names. The models split up, and I’m approached by a tall brunette girl. “‘Allo. I am Jeanette.”

  “Bonjour. I’m Autumn Fisher. Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand, and she shakes it with a smile that shows her bright white teeth and makes her look friendly and happy. I make a mental note that I want that expression on her face when she walks the runway. That’s the look of Summer of Youth.

  I need to know as much as possible about her as quickly as possible so I can get to work, so I pick up my measuring tape. “May I?” I ask, and she nods, holding her arms out in a T.

  “How long have you been modeling?” I say, writing down measurements as I go.

  “Twenty-one years.”

  I freeze, the measuring tape wrapped around her right biceps. Her model card said she’s twenty-one years old, but I guess she could’ve been a baby model? “Wow. Uh, where are you from?”

  Jeanette nods her head, smiling again. “Oui.”

  My brows furrow. “Uh, what?”

  Seeming to realize that she’s misspoken, she dips her chin. “Uhm, pardon. My English is . . . non magnifique.”

  Ah, that explains it. But also . . . shit! I definitely have the worst French of any of the designers, and being partnered with a model who doesn’t speak English will be a definite challenge. I look over to Molly, knowing that she can mostly only curse in the other languages she knows, but she seems to be doing fine. They’re chatting it up like long-lost besties.

  “It’s okay,” I assure Jeanette. Fashion is a global, multi-linguistic industry, and I won’t let this first obstacle stop me. “We’ll figure it out.”

  I point to myself. “America. Massachusetts.”

  Jeanette thinks for a moment and then says, “France. Marseilles.”

  I flash her a thumbs-up and then hold up my tablet. Pointing to my eye and then the fabric, I ask, “See clothes?”

  “Yes!” she answers confidently, knowing that word for sure.

  I show her several of the sketches I’ve been playing with, eyeing the screen and then Jeanette’s body. I can visualize the completed outfits, flattering designs that will highlight a woman’s shape and be timeless and exciting.

  I open a new page and sketch a caftan type dress with a low V-neck and mirrored low V-back. I add a belt for shape and side slits to create a flowy drape. I hold up the tablet to let Jeanette see. She looks at it with excitement, but then worry lines appear between her brows.

  “Uhm . . .” She holds her cupped hands in front of her chest and sing-songs, “Va-va-va-voom.”

  I can’t help but laugh. We’re making it work, but this is going to be interesting. Nodding, I explain carefully, “Yes. Peekaboo.” I gesture to the inside edge of my breast—side boob, but on the sternum side.

  She laughs back and gives me a thumbs-up.

  We work our way through several more jolting conversations this way, and I learn that Jeanette is concerned about her curves. Of course, ‘curves’ being subjective.

  “Designer say I need to lose weight,” she explains, this time patting her hips and butt.

  Honestly, her butt is nearly non-existent. Whoever said that is a fucking idiot. “No way, José. If anything, you need more ass.”

  “José?” she echoes, lost in translation.

  I shake my head. “Love your ass. ‘Thicc’ is in.”

  She tilts her head, even more confused.

  “Like Autumn!” Molly shouts, having picked up on our conversation. “Men wanna smack that ass everywhere she goes.”

  I blush, not ready to explain what that means to Jeanette. Plus, it’s definitely not true with me, though I do wish a certain someone would . . .

  Unbidden, Molly starts singing, “My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun.”

  She’s dancing around her station with the model she’s working with, and then Molly tries to show her how to twerk, but she’s too busy laughing at Molly’s antics.

  “Okay, let’s work,” I tell Jeanette, leaving Molly to her own work process.

  I sketch, and she nods excitedly, both of us communicating like Neanderthals.

  “Pretty.”

  At one point, I have her stand and mime a skirt. “Here?” I move my hand up two inches. “Here?” Once more, I move my hand higher. “Here?”

  Jeanette grins and then growls, making a paw with her hand, “Rawr. Sex.”

  “Sex-y,” I correct, though she’s not wrong. A skirt this short would be good for sex, with barely a lift for access.

  My thoughts trail back to Simon at the club, his lips pressed to mine. I bet I could’ve sat on his lap in a skirt like I’m thinking, slipped right onto his cock, and no one would’ve been the wiser. I couldn’t have bounced around, that would be too obvious, but I could’ve let it soak, maybe giving him a few squeezes with my internal muscles to drive him wild.

  Autumn! I yell at myself. Stop that thinking right now. Professional growth and competition . . . that’s what you need to stick to.

  Sometime after lunch, the models prepare to leave and I tell Jeanette how much I appreciate her help. “Thank you. Fitting soon.”

  She seems to know the word ‘fitting’ because she nods in understanding.

  After that, I go into machine mode. Nora has praised me time and time again for my ability to tune out the world and hyperfocus on what I’m doing. Despite my earlier internal fantasies about Simon, I don’t give him a second’s thought either. I draw and sketch, pull fabrics, and then begin cutting patterns.

  Toward the end of the day, I’ve already created one entire look—the caftan design I first sketched with Jeanette. The dress is stunning, made from patterned silk with thick trim work around the front and back Vs, and I turned the leather belt idea into a belt bag, complete with a hand-braided, multicolored tassel. There’s a general ease about the classic design, but the details make it special. I slip it onto the adjustable dress form, eyeing it critically.

  There’s silence in the room, and I can feel eyes on me. Well, not on me, particularly, but on the dress as the other designers evaluate it too.

  “Gorgeous!” Molly squeals. “I want to wear it!”

  She dashes my way, and I swat at her hands as she acts as though she’s going to pull my dress on herself. We’re goofing off and being silly after the long day, and it feels good, especially with her, bringing back memories of late-night project work at FIT together.

  The door opens, and at first, I think it’s the dinner delivery. But Tobias comes in, looking harried and speaking fast. “Pardon, mademoiselles, who is furthest along and could perhaps spare a few moments?”

  It’s obviously me, the only person with an entire piece completed. But even if I were still doodling aimlessly, I’d jump at the chance to help Tobias. One, he’s nice, and two, he’s House Corbin royalty. Anything he needs, I’m happy to provide.

  I raise my hand, volunteering.

  Tobias looks utterly relieved and rushes toward me. He grabs my still lifted hand and drags me off behind him.

  “Get him, girl,” Molly calls after me.

  Uh, maybe I should’ve asked what he needed first?

  As Tobias runs with me down the hall, I send a silent prayer of thanks for my flats today. If I were in heels, I would’ve busted it on this tile floor. Hell, I might still fall in the flats with as fast as Tobias is hustling.

  “Did you know ferrets can get the flu?” He keeps running, keeps talking, not letting me answer. But no, I did not know that ferret flu is a real thing. “It’s a big deal because it’s a working ferret, so he’s got to get healthy.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say a ‘working ferret’?”

  Tobias laughs at my confusion. “I didn’t know either. He’s trained to run cables through walls. They cut a hole for him to start and one where he needs to exit. Release him inside, and then use a little clicker at the exit, and he’ll go along until he gets there.”

  I blink, not sure if he’s fucking with me. His expression is earnest, but seriously?

  “Well, I hope he’s okay.” It seems like the safest response. “So do you need me to run cables?” It’s all I can think of based on whatever he’s talking about.

  Tobias blinks, looking at me like I’m the one not making any sense. “No. Simon is doing a photo shoot today for our men’s line. He’s doing the wardrobe selections, but we need someone with a keen eye to examine the photos as they’re being shot for feedback. And the sick ferret belongs to the director. You’re replacing her.”

  Tobias stops in front of a door, and dumbfounded, I ask, “What? Why can’t Simon do that?”

  “Silly, he’s the model today. It’d take too long for him to go back and forth from posing to the preview screen. Don’t even worry about it. You’ll probably just be observing and that’s all.”

  Tobias opens the door, leaving me shocked and my jaw hanging to the floor.

  I want to run the other way, back to the workroom, back to my apartment. Hell, maybe back to New York.

  Sure, doing director work on a photo shoot is a dream come true, but with Simon? There’s a chance this could turn into career suicide.

  I need to stay away from him and keep things professional, not kiss him again, and definitely, undoubtedly, not think about fucking him in the bathroom of a club. Or anywhere else.

  Like the desk he’s perched on right now. He’s wearing a sharp black suit, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and black-rimmed glasses. And when he sees me, he smirks victoriously as if he knew I’d be the designer to come.

  Shit! I’m in trouble here, and not only because I’ve never done fashion director work. But because that confident smirk is sexy as fuck.

  “Autumn, thank goodness you came. I need you.”

  Is he for real?

  On second thought, if this is a dream . . . do not wake me up!

  CHAPTER 9

  SIMON

  “Thank you for coming,” I say invitingly. “Tobias tell you about our situation?”

  “Uh . . . yes. The ferret is sick? And you need me to be director?” She answers politely and formally, her hands clasped in front of her and her back stick straight.

  Ah, the chase continues. At the club, I had considered it a bit of cat and mouse, but with Autumn’s flaming hair and elegant grace, I’ve decided she’s more of a fox. Smart, coy, confident, intuitive, skittish. All of which make me the hound in this hunt.

  “Yes, I know the pieces we want to highlight, but it’s difficult to be in front of the camera and behind it to evaluate whether the images are coming out correctly. Can you do that for me?” My voice is husky, testing her response.

  She licks her lips, and delight blooms, but then she uses a professional, customer service type voice. “Yes, Monsieur Corbin. May I have the details of the shoot?”

  She’s trying diligently to keep distance between us, but little does she know that I have plans for this shoot. “Of course. The spread will be in Vogue Italia. We want our men’s line to appear luxurious, but also fresh. This is outfit one. What do you think?”

  I hold my hands out, welcoming her to get a complete eyeful. To her credit, she doesn’t shrink away from the task. Her eyes narrow, measuring the jacket fit at the width of my shoulders and then down my arms to my wrists. Her eyes go left to right at my waist and then drop to my crotch. I know she’s critically checking my slacks, but I can’t help but feel aroused by her eyes on me there. Her cheeks flush ever so slightly, telling me that she’s noticed. Continuing her appraisal, she traces down my legs to my loafers.

  “Well, what’s the verdict? Can you work with this?” I ask baitingly.

  “It’ll do,” she teases back, curling her lip in faux distaste. “However, I’d like to make a few adjustments. Do you trust me?”

  As a rule, I don’t trust anyone, but my curiosity is piqued. “Do your best. Have your way with me.”

  She moves over to the wardrobe setup, looking over all the available options. She touches this and that thoughtfully as she glances back and forth. Finally, she smiles confidently. “The suit is perfection, you know that. But the styling could be fresher, like you said.”

  “You don’t like my glasses?” I pull the fake specs off, biting one tip playfully.

  “I do, but you need more than those. Here.” She brings over a few chunky rings, pushing them onto the index and ring fingers of my right hand, and my left pinky. She then fastens one additional button, showing less of my chest.

  “Too much for you?” I whisper hotly, enjoying her proximity and her hands on my body. Or at least my clothes.

  She shakes her head. “We’ll go back to that, but first, you said fresh. That’s what we’re doing.”

  She steps back, looking me up and down before dropping low. Involuntarily, my breath catches at seeing her very nearly on her knees in front of me. Is she trying to drive me crazy? If so, it’s sure as fuck working.

  “Take these off,” she orders.

  Unfortunately, she’s talking about my shoes, not my pants. She assists, pulling the loafers off, followed by my black dress socks. As a model, I’m accustomed to dressers helping me put on pieces or take them off. Sometimes, they’re fragile, or one of a kind, or they don’t want me bending around and getting things wrinkled. It’s never seemed as intimate as it does now.

  “Put these on.” She’s holding out a striped sock, and though I’m not sure of her vision, I lift my bare foot and she slips the sock over my toes. I can’t help but wiggle and she laughs. “Ticklish?”

  “A little,” I confess. She looks up, shooting me a small smile.

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” she vows with a playful wink. She grabs a pair of black leather lace-up shoes and ties me into them as well. Finished with her styling, she stands up. “Better,” she decrees. “Now, sit on the desk, one foot up on it with your arms like this.”

  She moves me into the pose she wants, and I let her lift and place my arms. She makes a few adjustments to my jacket, and then I feel awkwardness wash over her. “Uhm, I need to fix your slacks.”

  My lips quirk, daring her to have her way with me.

  She huffs haughtily and then squares her shoulders. She brushes her palms over my thighs, smoothing tiny folds in the fabric, and with her blocking the photographer and Tobias’s view, I tense my muscles. My cock jumps behind my zipper, and I delight at the fresh dusting of pink on her cheeks. “Is that a hot dog in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”

  The juvenile joke surprises me, and I bark out a laugh. Autumn seems surprised at my good-natured response and laughs along too.

  “Sorry. I can’t fight biology or my body’s response to having you close. I’ll try to be professional, as you said.”

  To her credit, she finishes her tweaks and then stands back, looking at the photographer. “Ready.”

  I’m a pro, so I kick into gear. I hit all the classics . . . big smile, tense jaw, sullen and broody, looking left, looking right, and more as the photographer clicks away. Autumn isn’t watching me, but rather is staring at a screen where each shot appears in real time. She touches the screen to note ones she prefers, but I’ll make the final decisions.

  “We got this one. Next outfit,” the photographer says.

  Autumn goes to the rack of wardrobe options, flipping through them. “You need color. Something softer.” She pulls out a gray suit, a lavender shirt, and a deep purple tie. She gives me a questioning look, and I nod in agreement. “This should be a top-half image to highlight the colors.”

  I slip out of my jacket and then pull my shirt loose. Autumn freezes and then whirls in place, giving me her back as though I need privacy to disrobe. I unbutton the shirt and toss it over Autumn’s shoulder, signaling that she need only look back if she’d like to see me shirtless. She gasps, but I’ve already got my belt off and it gets the same treatment . . . right over her shoulder.

  She glares back at me. “What are you doing?” she snaps. As I expected, her eyes instinctually trace down over my bare chest. Fire sparks between us, her lips parting in a silent pant.

  “Changing,” I answer casually. I toe off my shoes and undo my slacks, letting them drop and standing confidently in my boxer briefs and socks. It’s not the best look, but I have faith I’m rocking it. “Help me get dressed?”

  Autumn is standing stock still, her mouth dropped open even more now. She looks hungry . . . for me. I want to tell everyone to get out of here, take her in my arms, and lay her back on that desk. But she makes a squeak of recognition and then starts moving rapidly, her hands flitting about as she hangs the shirt I took off.