Chapter 4
ELIZABETH
Istared at a number on the screen that I didn’t recognize. My hand was frozen halfway to my mouth with a forkful of leftover pad thai. Odd numbers were usually spam, someone trying to sell me car insurance or warn me about my vehicle’s extended warranty on a car I didn’t own.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if it was one of the places I’d applied to, calling to say they’d made a mistake, that they wanted to interview me after all?
I dropped the fork and grabbed the phone, swiping to answer before it could go to voicemail.
“Hello?” The word came out slightly strangled. I cleared my throat. “Hello, this is Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth Laramie?” The voice was male, deep, and unfamiliar. And damn sexy. If he was a telemarketer, he was in the wrong business. A voice like that should be narrating steamy audiobooks.
“Yes, this is—wait, who is this?”
There was a pause. I looked at my screen again to make sure the voice didn’t hang up. I was very willing to hear about an auto warranty just so I could listen to his voice.
“This is Adrian Blackwell.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
“I’m a friend of your brother’s,” he said, seemingly unaware that he’d just caused me to have a minor stroke. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Was that amusement in his voice? “Actually, could you meet me this afternoon? I have a business proposition I’d like to discuss with you in person.”
Business proposition. Adrian Blackwell had a business proposition for me. Adrian Blackwell was calling me.
Chris actually did it.
“I—yes. Yes, of course. When? Where?”
“My office. Say, three o’clock? I’ll have your name added to the security list downstairs.”
Three o’clock. His office. I looked at the clock on my microwave: 11:47 AM. That gave me just over three hours to have a complete mental breakdown and then somehow pull myself together enough to meet with the CEO of Blackwell Couture.
“Three o’clock. Your office. I’ll be there.”
“See you then, Elizabeth.”
The line went dead.
I tried to remember how to breathe.
Adrian Blackwell had just called me.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
My phone rang again. I hoped it wasn’t Adrian changing his mind. If it was the same number, I would ignore it and pretend I never saw the call. I wasn’t giving him an out. No way.
I saw it was Chris.
“Did you know?!” I shouted the moment I answered.
“I’m guessing he called?”
“Christopher William Laramie! Did you know he was going to call me? You did this!”
“I had a hunch?” He sounded way too pleased with himself.
“You could have warned me! I sounded ridiculous.”
“Are you hyperventilating?”
“Maybe.”
“Breathe, Lizzie. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
“I can’t do this. I can’t meet with him. What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to wear? Chris, I don’t have anything to wear to meet Adrian Blackwell.”
“You’ll figure it out. You always do. And Lizzie?” His voice softened. “This is a good thing. This is the break you’ve been waiting for. Don’t panic, okay? Just be yourself.”
Be myself. Right. Because that was exactly who Adrian Blackwell wanted to meet.
Forty-five minutes later, my apartment looked like a clothing store had exploded. Every piece of clothing I owned was scattered across my Murphy bed, draped over my couch, hanging from my shower-curtain rod. I’d tried on seventeen different combinations, and they were all wrong.
Too casual. Too tight. Too frumpy. Too much like I was trying too hard. Too much like I wasn’t trying at all.
I stood in front of my full-length mirror propped against the wall because I’d never gotten around to hanging it.
I was wearing attempt number eighteen. Black pants that I’d bought at a thrift store two years ago.
A cream-colored blouse that I’d found at a sample sale, slightly too big in the shoulders but good quality.
A blazer I’d actually made myself in school, tailored to fit perfectly.
It was fine. Professional but not stuffy.
I accessorized with simple jewelry. I twisted my blonde hair that was legit looking dirty blonde at the moment into a low bun.
I wanted to get highlights, but that took money I didn’t have.
I pulled out a few pieces to frame my face.
Minimal makeup because I didn’t trust my shaking hands to do anything more complicated.
I looked at my reflection and tried to see what Adrian Blackwell would see.
A girl who was way out of her depth.
“You can do this,” I told my reflection. She didn’t look convinced. “You will do this. This is your shot. Don’t screw it up.”
The girl in the mirror looked like she was about to throw up. No time for that. I grabbed my bag and shoved my portfolio inside.
The subway ride into Manhattan felt like it took approximately seven hundred years.
I sat wedged between a man who smelled like old cheese and a teenager blasting music so loud I could hear every word despite his headphones.
I clutched my bag to my chest and tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
What if I said something stupid?
What if I tripped and fell on my face in front of him?
What if he took one look at me and realized Chris had made a terrible mistake recommending me?
What if, what if, what if.
I stumbled out onto the platform, following the crowd up the stairs and onto the streets of Midtown. The Blackwell Couture building loomed ahead of me, all glass and steel and expensive architecture.
I stood on the sidewalk and stared up, and up, and up. The tower seemed to pierce the sky itself, disappearing into the clouds like something out of a fairy tale. Somewhere up there, Adrian Blackwell was waiting for me.
I was so far out of my depth it wasn’t funny.
I forced my feet to move and pushed through the revolving door into the lobby.
The interior was even more intimidating than the exterior.
Everything was marble and chrome, polished to a shine.
People in expensive suits moved through the space, their heels clicking against the floor and every one of them talking on their cells.
I felt like I’d walked onto a movie set, like I was an extra who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong scene.
The security desk was straight ahead, manned by two guards who looked like they took their jobs very seriously.
“Hi,” I said, humiliated that my voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hi, I have a meeting with Adrian Blackwell?”
The guard didn’t even look up. “Name?”
“Elizabeth Laramie.”
He typed something into the computer. I held my breath. This was it. This was where he would tell me there was some mistake and my name wasn’t on any list.
“ID please.”
I fumbled for my wallet, nearly dropping it twice before I managed to extract my driver’s license. She examined it then handed it back and passed me a visitor’s badge on a lanyard.
“Sixty-third floor. Elevators are to your left.”
“Thank you,” I managed, and walked toward the elevators on autopilot.
The ride up was silent except for the quiet whir of the elevator and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Other people got on and off at various floors, all of them looking like they belonged here. Not me. I looked like a tourist.
My palms were sweating.
Sixty-second. Sixty-third.
The doors opened.
I stepped out into a reception area with the Blackwell logo, an elegant “B” intertwined with what might have been a needle and thread mounted on the wall behind a curved reception desk. Everything was white and chrome and glass.
A woman sat at the desk, headset on, typing away at her computer. She glanced up as I approached, and I watched her take in my outfit, my discount bag, my entire existence in about three seconds.
“Elizabeth Laramie,” I said before she could ask. “I have a three o’clock with Mr. Blackwell.”
She consulted her screen, then nodded. “He’s expecting you. Down the hall, last door on the right. You can go straight in.”
Last door on the right. I could do that. That was just walking. I knew how to walk.
Except apparently I didn’t, because my legs felt like they’d forgotten the basic mechanics of forward motion.
I moved down the hallway in what I hoped looked like a professional stride and probably looked more like a baby deer learning to use its legs.
Thank God I had worn the shoes with a sensible heel.
The door I was directed to opened.
Adrian Blackwell stood in the doorway, and every coherent thought I ever had evaporated.
He was stunning. I had seen pictures. Everyone had seen pictures.
The Blackwell brothers were basically fashion royalty, their faces plastered across magazines and websites and billboards.
But pictures didn’t do him justice. Couldn’t capture the way he commanded space, the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
He was wearing a charcoal gray suit tailored so perfectly it looked like it had been sewn directly onto his body. His dark hair was styled in an effortlessly perfect way that took either incredible genetics or an expensive stylist. Probably both.
“Elizabeth.” His voice was the same one from the phone, but somehow it hit differently in person. Richer. More real. “Come in.”
He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter.
I walked past him into his office, and I was pretty sure I forgot to breathe for about thirty seconds.
The space was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Manhattan that I had never seen before.
It was literally a birds-eye view. The furniture was modern and expensive looking, a massive desk, a leather couch, and matching leather club chairs.
The walls were decorated with framed photos of fashion shows, iconic Blackwell designs through the decades, and what looked like family photos of the four brothers at various ages.
“Please, sit.” Adrian gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.