22. Kate
Chapter Twenty-Two
KATE
The elevator doors open to the lobby, and I strut out with my head held high. Beau’s waiting with a cup of tea, and Liz hasn’t left her side. The two seem lost in conversation until my footsteps draw closer.
Beau looks up. “How did it go?”
Grinning, I say, “It went great!”
She hops to her feet. “So you got the deal?”
“Not yet, but the VC is coming to the show on Friday.”
“Congratulations,” Liz says.
“Now, I just need to get those pieces done so he’ll say yes,” I say, pulling out my silenced phone. There are no missed calls but a handful of texts. I scroll, looking for something from Drew. Nothing. Then, I see the words lace maker from another fashion biz friend. I gasp.
“What?” Beau asks.
“I have a lace maker. We need to get to Notting Hill.”
Beau snaps her fingers. “Then let’s go. Liz, you’re coming to.”
Liz shrugs, holding onto her leather briefcase. “Okay.”
The three of us take a taxi across town. There isn’t enough room for all of us in the back, so Liz sits up front.
“It’s going to take us forty minutes to go six miles,” Liz says.
Beau smiles with a happy sigh. “Ah, just like home.”
I open my sketchbook and look over the custom lace pattern I designed, trying to estimate how long it will take a decent lace maker to finish and then adding up the time it will take to put the pieces together. This is really going to be down to the wire.
“Oh, my gosh. Are those the new designs?” Liz asks, with her head poking through the front passenger seats. “Can I see?”
I smile and hand her the Frederickson sketchbook. “Sure.”
She flips through the pages, and her jaw hangs lower and lower with each page. “These are beautiful, Kate. Wow.”
“Thank you.” After last night, I think I have a few more ideas—a midnight blue lace with Swarovski crystal detail inspired by Drew’s penthouse view. But I’ll save that for the next collection.
“I want this one for my wedding night.” Liz points to a white teddy with long, lace sleeves.
“Oh, crap!” I smack my palm against my forehead. “I need a dress for the wedding.”
“What wedding?” Beau asks.
The whole conversation comes back to me, and I can’t help but blush a little. “Drew invited me to be his date at this brother’s wedding this weekend.”
“Ooh!” Beau sings. “He likes you. He likes you!”
“Who’s Drew?” Liz asks.
“No one. Just a guy that Kate’s shagging ,” Beau says with a London accent.
Liz’s eyes light up. “Really? And now you’re going to his brother’s wedding. Sounds romantic.”
“Why didn’t you say anything earlier? You holding out on me?” Beau playfully shakes my shoulder.
“No, I just remembered. And it’s a fancy affair.”
“Probably going to be photographed to death,” Beau says. And she’s right. I haven’t thought of the press. I’m not used to it. I hardly date. And the men I do date are nobodies as far as the public is concerned. “Hey, call Garret. I’m sure he can get you a great dress.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t go. I have a lot going on this week with the fashion show.”
“What are you, crazy? There will probably be royalty there.”
“Go. It sounds like fun,” Liz says.
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Right now, I have to focus on getting this lace made,” I say.
And that’s exactly what I do. It takes us exactly forty-five minutes to arrive at the lace maker shop in Notting Hill. It’s nerve-wracking to trust someone new, but her portfolio is stunning. She promises to have everything to me by close of business on Wednesday, giving me about twenty-four hours to use them.
From there, the three of us head back to Soho to Jean-Charles’s studio. Liz is an absolute godsend. With her help, everything comes together much faster. Beau remains my champ, allowing me to drape silk and lace over her all day.
It’s nearly nine in the evening when we finish and head back to the hotel. Liz promises to come back tomorrow afternoon before she leaves for Los Angeles. I hugged both of them goodnight, looking forward to some much-needed rest.
When I walk into my hotel, the lights are on and a large, white box is on the table at least a couple feet tall. It’s tied with a ruby red bow, but there’s no card. I pull at the ribbon, and it falls loose. Inside are three boxes. One round and one rectangular box sit atop a large square box at the bottom. I recognize the label on the rectangular box. Who wouldn’t? It’s Jimmy Choo.
Inside is a stunning pair of studded, black stilettos with a T strap. I gasp. Who sent this? Then I reach for the round box and pull out an elegant red fascinator hat with delicate netting. Huh? Did Beau put Garret up to this? He must’ve been on the phone all day getting these sent over. And he hasn’t said a word about it.
Finally, I pull out the final one. It’s a Stella McCartney dress box. That’s so sweet. Garret knows I love her. I open the top and find an envelope with my initial “K” written on the front.
Now you have a dress with a working clasp. Maybe this time, I can pull the zip down instead.
—D
No way.
I reach inside the box and pull out the exact ‘40s style dress I mentioned last night. Mentioned! How did he know? I have to hand it to him. His ear for details is very impressive for a leather-clad playboy. Beau’s going to lose it when she hears about this. I can hear her now— He likes you. He likes you! Does he like me? Or is this him indulging what he thinks is my fantasy? It has been like a dream.
So I call him, and he picks up after an appropriate amount of rings. “There she is.”
My cheeks are starting to ache from smiling so much. “I guess you were serious about the wedding date.”
“Did you think I wasn’t?” he replies.
“No, I just—how did you even . . . never mind. You’re resourceful, right.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, you did it again. Only this time, you’re not close enough for me to thank you with a kiss.”
“Say the word, and I could be.”
I look at the time, still feeling sore from the last two sexcapades with a million things on my mind. “You know I want to, but I really need some sleep.”
“What about tomorrow?” he asks.
“I’m not sure. I have to finish the pieces before Friday.”
“I almost forgot you don’t just design lingerie for me,” he says, but he has no idea the entire new line is for him. “How about Friday night after the show?”
Not trying to manipulate me into coming over after delivering this spectacular gift? I’m impressed. He’s done nothing but take care of me the entire week. My phone, the sketchbooks, the sushi takeout, Stella McCartney—not to mention everything about last night. I also know I didn’t fall asleep in his bed last night, which means he carried me and tucked me in.
Drew Blake is, well, perfect. And I’m starting to get the feeling that I might miss him a little when I leave next week. It would be safer to end it here, focus on work, and get back to the States. But I’m enjoying myself for the first time in so long, so I say, “I’d love that.”
“Then I’ll see you at the fashion show.”