Chapter 34
ELIZABETH
Istepped out of the bathroom and froze when I saw Adrian’s expression.
He was standing by the window, already dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that made him look like he stepped out of a magazine. But the way he was looking at me—like I’d stolen the breath from his lungs—made my heart stutter.
“Elizabeth.” My name came out rough. “That dress is perfect on you.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. I glanced down at the burgundy dress, smoothing my hands over the fabric. “You think so?”
“I know so.” He crossed to me in three strides, his hands gentle on my bare shoulders. “You’re going to be the most beautiful woman in Paris tonight.”
“That’s a bold claim in a city full of French women.”
“I stand by it.”
I turned to look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. The dress fit like it was made for me, the deep burgundy bringing out the gold in my hair. The earrings caught the light.
I looked like I belonged in Adrian’s world.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it filled me with a strange kind of peace.
“Ready?” Adrian offered his arm.
“Ready.”
We took the elevator down to the lobby. I was acutely aware of his hand in the small of my back.
The elevator doors opened and we stepped into the grand lobby of the hotel.
And every single person turned to look at us.
I heard the whispers immediately. Not loud enough to make out words, but the tone was unmistakable. Recognition. Speculation. Interest.
A year ago this would have sent me into a panic. I would have wanted to shrink into myself and disappear. But tonight, with Adrian at my side, I didn’t care.
Let them look. Let them whisper.
I’m in Paris, wearing a beautiful dress while on the arm of the most handsome man I’ve ever met.
We walked out and climbed into the waiting car.
Adrian held my hand as we entered the restaurant. I tried not to gawk at the interior. It looked like a place Marie Antoinette would have eaten.
“Monsieur Blackwell.” The ma?tre d’ appeared immediately, greeting us like we were visiting royalty. “Your table is ready.”
He led us to a corner table set for two—white tablecloth, crystal glasses catching candlelight, a single rose in a slim vase. Intimate and romantic and absolutely perfect.
“This is too much,” I whispered as Adrian pulled out my chair.
“Nothing is too much. Not tonight.” He settled across from me. In the candlelight he looked younger somehow, more relaxed. Softer.
Wine appeared, followed by bread that was still warm, accompanied by the best butter I had ever tasted.
“So,” Adrian said, raising his glass. “To Paris. And to surviving half of Fashion of Love Week without killing each other.”
I clinked my glass against his. “To surviving. Though I think you’ve done most of the heavy lifting.”
“Are you kidding? You saved the New York show. You’ve handled every interview, every appearance, every moment of chaos with grace.” He took a sip of wine. “I should be toasting you.”
The waiter arrived with our first course, something delicate involving scallops and microgreens that tasted like the ocean. For a few minutes we just ate, both of us savoring food that was more art than sustenance.
“Tell me something,” I said, setting down my fork. “About your dad. Something happy.”
Adrian’s expression softened. “He used to use whoever was around as a mannequin. Didn’t matter who. If they happened to be within eyesight, he pulled them in. Housekeepers, assistants, delivery people. If he was working on something and needed to see it on a body, you were getting drafted.”
“Really?”
“Really. I can’t count the number of times I came home from school and found our housekeeper standing perfectly still in the middle of the living room with a half-finished dress pinned over her uniform.
” He smiled at the memory. “She’d be holding her arms out like a scarecrow while Dad circled her, muttering about hem lengths and proportions. ”
I laughed, picturing it. “Did he ever use you?”
“Constantly. I was the eldest, so I got volunteered the most. Sebastian would hide when he heard Dad say ‘I need a body.’” Adrian took another sip of wine. “There are photos somewhere of eight-year-old me standing on a platform in the workshop wearing an evening gown that was six sizes too big.”
“I need to see these photos.”
“Absolutely not. They’re buried in a vault somewhere for a reason.” But he was grinning. “Though I have to admit, I learned a lot just from standing still while he worked. I watched how the smallest adjustment could change the entire silhouette.”
“Your dad sounds amazing.”
“He was.” Adrian’s smile turned bittersweet. “Obsessive, demanding, impossible sometimes. But amazing.”
The next course arrived, duck prepared in a way I didn’t understand but tasted incredible.
“What about you?” Adrian asked. “Tell me about your family.”
I groaned. “Well, you know about my mom.” I tried to keep the bitterness from my voice. “My dad’s more passive. He just goes along with whatever she says.”
“Were they hard on Chris?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know that they were hard on me, but there was a standard and you were expected to meet it. We weren’t allowed to listen to certain music or watch most shows on TV.”
“They were strict,” he said.
“Very much so.”
“What was Chris like?” he asked before taking a bite.
“He always wanted to be a chef. Even as a kid, he’d be in the kitchen creating these elaborate meals. Made a complete disaster every time, used every pot, every pan, every utensil we owned. Making French toast somehow required seventeen different implements and forty-five minutes of cleanup.”
Adrian laughed.
“But the food was always good. His catering business is doing really well.” I took a sip of wine and looked around the dining room at the diners.
“My mom loves talking to all her friends about her talented son the chef. Shows them pictures of his food, brings samples to church functions, goes on and on about his creativity.”
“But not your dresses,” Adrian said quietly.
“Never my dresses.” I looked down at my plate. “She’s never mentioned them to anyone. Never shown photos. When people ask what I do, she says I’m ‘between jobs’ or ‘figuring things out.’”
“That’s—” Adrian stopped himself, visibly biting back whatever harsh thing he wanted to say about my mother. “That must hurt.”
“It does. But that’s just how she is. Chris’s dreams are acceptable. Mine aren’t.” I forced brightness into my voice. “But hey, at least I have one family member who supports me, right?”
“You have me,” Adrian said. “I support you.”
“Thank you.”
The main course arrived and all thoughts of my negative mother evaporated.
The smell was amazing. I took the first bite and nearly orgasmed.
It was beef that melted on the tongue, vegetables that had been transformed into something ethereal.
We ate and traded more stories, lighter ones.
Adrian told me about Sebastian’s brief stint as a “serious artist” when he was nineteen, locking himself in a studio apartment for three months to paint, only to emerge with exactly one completed canvas.
“What was it of?” I asked.
“A banana. Just a banana. Eight feet tall.”
I nearly choked on my wine. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.” Adrian shook his head. “My brother is many things, but an artist is not one of them.”
I told him about the time Chris tried to make baked Alaska for my sixteenth birthday and somehow set off the smoke alarm three times, until the fire department showed up and made him promise to never use a kitchen torch again.
“Did he stop?”
“Of course not. He just got better at it.” I smiled at the memory. “The Alaska was delicious though. Worth the minor property damage.”
Dessert came, something chocolate and intricate that I couldn’t begin to name. As I took my first bite, Adrian went quiet, studying me across the table.
“What?” I asked.
“I’ve been thinking about the dresses. The ones you’re making with Annika.”
My stomach tightened. “What about them?”
“Are you going to tell your mother? Show her what you’ve created?”
I exhaled and slowly shook my head. “I don’t know.
Part of me wants to. I want her to see what I can do when I’m actually being myself instead of trying to please her.
” I paused. “But after this morning and that phone call? I’m worried it’ll make things worse.
Maybe I should just let her cool off. Not give her a stroke by showing her dresses that are definitely not church approved. ”
“It’s your choice. Your relationship with your mother, your boundaries. Those are yours to set. But if you want to make anything worthwhile in this industry, you’re going to have to get past needing her approval.”
“I know.”
“But you’re still that little girl making dresses and hoping your mom will love them.”
I’m not going to cry. My makeup is perfect. And I refuse to shed another tear. I simply nodded and took another bite of the chocolate.
“I get it. I do. Even now, a year after Dad died, I still catch myself wanting his approval. Wanting to know if I’m doing the right thing, making the right choices.”
“How do you get past it?”
“You don’t, really. You just learn to trust yourself more than you need their validation. Your designs are incredible, Elizabeth. Whether your mother approves or not doesn’t change that fact.”
I blinked back sudden tears. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’m not wise. I’m just older and have made a lot of mistakes.”
The waiter appeared with the check. He handled the payment and then we were stepping out into the Paris night.
“Walk with me?” he asked, offering his arm.
“Absolutely.”
I didn’t care that my heels weren’t exactly meant for walking. I was in Paris. I would soak my feet later.
We strolled along the Seine. Couples and tourists and late-night Parisians moved around us. Adrian pulled me close. I let myself lean into his warmth and the moment of perfect contentment.
We stopped walking and turned to face each other. His hands slid to my elbows and then up my arms. He stared into my eyes without saying anything. It looked like there was something he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words.
I waited.
And then he kissed me. It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t hungry. It was peaceful. Sweet. Loving.
And then he pulled back and took my hand in his once again.
We made our way back to the hotel, hands linked, bodies close.
What if it doesn’t have to end?