Chapter 26
ELIZABETH
My hands shook slightly as I pulled the sketchbook from my luggage.
It was nothing fancy. Nothing like the professionals used.
I’d made good use of it. It was filled with the designs I’d been sketching for years.
The pages were worn from how many times I’d gone back to change something or add more details.
The designs represented everything I’d dreamed about, worked toward, and dared to hope for.
And now I was about to show them to Adrian Blackwell. An actual designer. The designer. He would go down in fashion history as one of the greats and he was really just getting started. And now he was going to be looking at my stuff.
No pressure or anything.
I felt more exposed than I had minutes ago when we’d been tangled together naked.
This was different. This was my soul on paper.
My worth as a designer was about to be judged by someone whose opinion mattered more than anyone else’s.
And the worst part, I would have to accept his criticism.
It was fine when you could dismiss someone as a hater, but Adrian knew what he was talking about.
If he told me they were shit, it was because they were.
I was about to face reality. My worst fears were about to be confirmed. Maybe the reason I couldn’t get a job in the industry was because I sucked. No one had the heart to tell me I sucked so they sandwiched the dismissals between empty platitudes.
Chris always told me my designs were good, but he didn’t know shit about fashion. It would be like me telling him one of his recipes needed saffron or something. I don’t know cooking and he doesn’t know fashion.
“You okay?” Adrian asked, sitting up against the headboard. He’d pulled on his boxer briefs but was otherwise still gloriously undressed. I tried not to be distracted by the expanse of his chest and just how fucking glorious the man’s body was.
Seriously god tier.
“I’m nervous,” I admitted, clutching the sketchbook. “What if you hate them?”
“I won’t hate them.” He patted the bed beside him. “Come here. Show me.”
I settled next to him, close enough that our shoulders touched, and opened the book up, which had large pages with lots of room for notes and details.
The first design was a cocktail dress. It was nothing fancy but that wasn’t what I was going for.
It was elegant and classic, with clean lines and a modest neckline.
Looking at it now, I would say my inspiration was the sixties era with Audrey Hepburn in mind.
Chanel and early Givenchy were my favorites.
I knew Adrian would see the influence. I practically held my breath waiting and watching his expression. He said nothing.
Adrian studied it silently. Then turned to the next page. A day dress with a structured bodice. Then an evening gown with cap sleeves.
Page after page, his expression remained neutral. Assessing. Professional.
And with each passing second, my heart sank lower.
He hated them. He was just trying to figure out how to tell me gently that I had no future in fashion and that I should stick to waiting tables. And because we were both lying in bed after sex, he was trying to figure out how to tell me I sucked while hoping to get laid again.
“They’re not bad,” he said finally.
The words hit like a slap.
Wow. Okay.
I bit back the sob. Then the anger. And then I just kind of deflated.
“But that sounds like they’re not good either,” I said with a sigh. But if I was going to get the critical eye of someone like him, I wanted specifics. I needed specifics. If they were absolute shit, design was not in my future. But if they were just boring, I could work on that.
I hoped.
Before he could say anything, I blurted out, “What’s wrong with them?”
Did that sound defensive? Probably. But I didn’t care. I wanted an explanation.
Oh shit.
What if he was going to rescind his job offer now that he knew I sucked? But no, he had seen the partial portfolio I had brought to our first meeting. He’d said the designs were safe, but that I had skills. I had tried to make the newer stuff bolder.
He was quiet as he studied the sketches. I could see him choosing his words carefully. “They feel like they were designed by someone else. Not the woman I’ve been spending time with.”
I pulled the portfolio closer. Now I was pissed. Was he accusing me of stealing someone’s work? “I assure you, they’re my designs. Every single one.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He turned to face me.
I clutched the sketchbook even as he tried to pry it away from me.
“I mean they don’t match your personality.
Your fire. Your boldness.” He sighed, and I could hear the conflict in his voice.
“I hope this doesn’t upset you, but to me, these look like you’re still making dresses for your mother, not for yourself.
You said your parents are really conservative when it comes to fashion. ”
The comment froze me in place. Heat flooded my cheeks, not from desire this time but from anger and embarrassment and the horrible recognition that he might be right.
“That’s not fair,” I said. I didn’t know if I wanted to beat him over the head with the sketches or scramble off the bed and lock myself in the bathroom. “You don’t know. Some of these took me months to design. I worked so hard.”
“I know you did. And they’re technically excellent. The construction would be flawless. The proportions are perfect.”
“But?”
“But they’re all so safe, even the newer ideas.
They’re what you think you should design, not what you want to design.
” He brushed his hand over my cheek. I practically melted.
“Elizabeth, I’ve seen your passion. I’ve watched you work.
You have vision, you have voice. But I don’t see any of that here. ”
“Maybe this is my vision,” I snapped. “Maybe I just design differently than you expected. Maybe I’m not as edgy or avant-garde as you want me to be.”
“Hey.” His hand moved to my chin, gently turning my face toward his. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you.”
“Well, you’re doing a terrible job.” I tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go.
“Elizabeth, look at me.”
I did and saw nothing but sincerity in his dark eyes.
“As designers, our whole job is to share our creations with the world. Which means you need to get used to people having opinions about your work. Including criticism.” His thumb stroked my jaw. “I’ve had thousands of my designs rejected over the years. By buyers, by critics, by my own father.”
“Your dad rejected your designs?”
“Constantly. Especially in the beginning.” A sad smile played on his lips. “I’d show him something I was proud of, and he’d look at it and say, ‘You’re giving me good, but we only make amazing.’”
Despite my anger, I felt my ruffled feathers relax a bit. I was pretty sure it was only male turkeys that fanned their feathers when they were pissed, but that’s what I felt like in that moment. And that’s not an image I wanted to project or envision. A naked turkey.
“That must have been hard,” I said.
“It was devastating. But it also made me better. Made me push harder, dig deeper, and find what was truly mine instead of what I thought people wanted to see.” He released my chin. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. These designs—they’re good. But you’re capable of amazing.”
I looked back down at the portfolio, at designs I’d labored over, and been proud of. But now that Adrian had voiced what I’d been trying not to see, I couldn’t unsee it.
They were conservative. Safe. Nothing that would make buyers—or anyone—remember my name.
They were exactly what my mother would approve of. Which meant they weren’t really me at all.
“I don’t know if I can do amazing,” I said quietly, the fight draining out of me. “What if good is all I’ve got?”
“It’s not.” Adrian took the portfolio from my hands and set it aside. “We have a few hours before we need to be at the venue. I think you and I can create something amazing together.”
I looked at him and frowned. Sex? He wanted to have sex after he just crushed my soul?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Sex inspires me. Gets those creative juices flowing.”
A giggle escaped me despite everything. “Well, I might not be able to walk later, but we can go again if you want to.”
He laughed. “No—well, yes, but later. I’m saying let’s sketch.”
“You want to design. In bed. Right now.”
“Why not? Some of my best ideas happen in bed.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Not all of them are fashion-related, but still.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Okay. Okay, let’s do it.”
I turned to a new page in my sketchbook and grabbed pencils from my bag. I had to pull on his shirt or we were never going to get anything done. He was slightly obsessed with my boobs.
We settled back against the headboard, the sketchbook propped between us.
“Start with what inspires you,” Adrian said. “Not what’s practical or marketable. What makes you excited?”
“I don’t know. Movement? Drama? I love watching fabric move on a body, how it can transform the way someone carries themselves.”
“Good. What else?”
“Unexpected details. Things that surprise you when you look closer. Like a conservative neckline but with a dramatic back. Or a simple silhouette with complex internal structure.”
“Yes.” Adrian’s hand moved to the page, sketching a rough form. “Like this?”
I studied it, then grabbed my own pencil. “More like this. See? If you brought the waist here, and then let it flare?”
“But kept the bodice nice and tight,” Adrian added, drawing over my lines. “What about color? What are you drawn to?”
“Jewel tones.”
We fell into a rhythm, trading the sketchbook back and forth, building on each other’s ideas. It was collaboration, but it was also something else. Something intimate and exciting that felt almost like foreplay.
“Beautiful.” His lips found my shoulder, pressing a kiss there even as his eyes stayed on the sketch. “You’re brilliant.”
“We’re brilliant together,” I corrected, adding final details.
By the time we set down our pencils, we had three complete designs. Three dresses that made my heart race just looking at them.
The first was an evening gown in deep sapphire, with a plunging neckline balanced by a structured back. The silhouette was classic, but the internal construction created dramatic movement—fabric that would swirl and catch light with every step.
The second was cocktail length in emerald green—my color, Adrian said—with an asymmetrical neckline and strategic cutouts that managed to be sexy without being gratuitous. The proportions were daring but wearable.
The third was the most ambitious, a full-length gown in burgundy that played with volume and negative space, creating a silhouette that was both architectural and feminine.
They were wild. Daring. Beautiful.
They were mine in a way my portfolio pieces had never been.
“Now those are amazing,” Adrian said. “I’ll tell you what. If you can get these dresses made in time for the Milan show, we’ll include them in the lineup. What do you say?”
I stared at him. “You’re serious?”
“Completely. Dash’s show is Thursday night. That gives you four days to create three dresses. It’s ambitious, but with Annika’s help and our resources?” He grinned. “I think you can do it.”
“Oh my God.” The excitement bubbling up in my chest was almost too much to contain. “Yes. Yes!”
I kissed him then, hard and desperate and grateful. When I pulled back, I was grinning so wide my face hurt. “I need to find Annika. And fabric. And a sewing machine. Oh God, four days—”
“Breathe,” he said, laughing. “We have time. But first, we need to get ready for tonight. Sebastian’s going to murder me if we’re late to his show.”
“Right. Yes. The show.” I looked at the sketches again, unable to stop smiling. “Thank you. For pushing me. For believing I could do better.”
“I believe you can do anything.” He said it simply, like it was the most obvious fact. “Now come on. Let’s get dressed.”
Why did it feel like I just bought the winning lottery ticket?