Chapter Thirteen Something Beautiful From the Pieces
Chapter Thirteen
Something Beautiful From the Pieces
Seven days before Naomi James was scheduled to marry Lucas Taylor, her wedding dress attacked Evelyn.
“This thing is trying to kill me!”
Naomi looked up from the other side of the studio just in time to see six yards of ivory silk slide from the cutting table and wrap itself around Evelyn’s legs.
“Mama!”
“I’m fine!”
“You’re disappearing!”
“I said I’m fine!”
Amara rushed around the table and grabbed the fabric before Evelyn took another step.
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You’re standing on the train.”
“I know what I’m standing on.”
“Then why are you still standing on it?”
Evelyn placed both hands on her hips.
“Because if I move, I’m going down, and I refuse to break a hip one week before my daughter gets married.”
Naomi covered her mouth.
She tried.
She genuinely tried.
But the laugh escaped anyway.
Evelyn pointed at her.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m emotional.”
“You’re about to be motherless.”
Amara burst out laughing.
Evelyn turned.
“You too?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don't look sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Naomi laughed harder.
The studio had been transformed during the past four days.
Pattern paper covered one wall. Ivory silk, hand-beaded lace, satin, tulle, and sample pieces occupied nearly every flat surface. Three seamstresses Amara trusted had been brought in from Paris, though Amara had made it clear that no one was touching the final bodice except her.
Evelyn had made it equally clear that she had opinions.
Many opinions.
Strong opinions.
Opinions Amara had not requested.
Naomi suspected the wedding gown might either unite her mothers forever or cause an international incident.
The original sketch remained pinned above the main worktable.
Let her waist be seen.
Do not hide her hips.
She should look like herself, only happier.
Amara had kept those notes.
But the dress itself had evolved.
The neckline had, as Evelyn insisted, gained more drama.
Amara refused to admit Evelyn had been right.
The fitted bodice curved beautifully over Naomi’s full figure before meeting a sweeping skirt that celebrated every inch of her instead of disguising it. Delicate hand-beaded vines traveled across the fabric, becoming tiny flowers near the waist.
Naomi had assumed they were decorative.
Until Amara explained them.
Every flower represented a place she had lived while hiding.
Madrid.
Lisbon.
Paris.
Brussels.
Milan.
Tangier.
Places where she had written letters to a daughter she could not touch.
Naomi had cried for nearly twenty minutes.
Then Evelyn discovered that one section of the gown needed adjusting and promptly ruined the solemn moment.
“Stand up straight,” Amara said now.
Naomi frowned.
“I am standing straight.”
“You’re leaning.”
“I’ve been standing on this platform for forty-five minutes.”
Evelyn freed herself from the silk.
“Leave her alone. The girl is tired.”
Amara looked over her glasses.
“If she slouches, the hem will be wrong.”
“The hem will survive.”
“The photographs will not.”
Naomi looked between them.
“Do either of you remember that I am an actual fashion designer?”
“No,” they answered together.
Naomi sighed.
The studio door opened.
Adrian walked in carrying four takeaway bags.
“Food.”
Three seamstresses cheered.
Naomi pointed toward him.
“My favorite person.”
Adrian stopped.
“I have been waiting thirty-one years to hear that.”
“You brought lunch. Don't get sentimental.”
He put the bags down.
Then noticed Naomi.
His expression changed.
She stood on the platform wearing the nearly completed gown.
For once, Adrian had nothing sarcastic to say.
Naomi watched him through the mirror.
“What?”
He swallowed.
“Nothing.”
“Adrian.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“You look…”
Naomi waited.
He cleared his throat.
“Expensive.”
She stared at him.
Evelyn threw a pincushion.
Adrian caught it.
“What?”
“Tell your sister she looks beautiful.”
“I was getting there.”
“You were not.”
Adrian looked at Naomi again.
The humor left his face.
“You look beautiful.”
Naomi smiled.
“Thank you.”
His eyes grew suspiciously bright.
Then he immediately looked toward the food.
“I brought sandwiches.”
Naomi’s smile widened.
He was definitely her brother.
Lucas was banned from the studio.
This had been explained to him four times.
He violated the rule at 2:17 that afternoon.
Naomi heard his voice outside.
“I’m not looking at the dress.”
Evelyn answered.
“You’re not coming inside.”
“I need Naomi.”
“You have a telephone.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then use it.”
Naomi bit her lip.
Lucas tried again.
“Mrs. James—”
“That charming British voice is not getting you past me.”
Adrian called from across the room, “She's serious.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“My own.”
Naomi stepped behind the privacy screen and pulled on her robe.
“Give me two minutes.”
Lucas answered immediately.
“I can wait.”
Evelyn muttered, “He’s been waiting outside for fifteen.”
Naomi emerged.
Lucas stood in the hallway with a bouquet of white peonies.
She stopped.
Her annoyance disappeared.
“Those are for me?”
“No. Adrian.”
From inside the studio Adrian called, “Finally.”
Naomi laughed.
Lucas handed her the flowers.
Then kissed her cheek.
“Walk with me.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It should.”
They took the lift to the street.
A sleek black car waited at the curb.
Naomi looked at him.
“Lucas.”
“Trust me.”
“That phrase has caused me nothing but trouble since meeting you.”
“I’m aware.”
He opened the door.
Naomi got in.
Twenty minutes later, they stopped in front of a beautiful brick building near the Thames.
It was old.
Three stories.
Tall windows.
An iron-and-glass entrance.
Naomi looked through the windshield.
“What is this?”
Lucas came around and opened her door.
“Come inside.”
The interior was unfinished.
Exposed brick.
High ceilings.
Sunlight poured through enormous industrial windows.
Naomi slowly turned.
She could already see it.
Showroom.
Design studio.
Fitting rooms.
Production space upstairs.
Her pulse changed.
She looked at Lucas.
“No.”
He smiled.
“I haven't said anything.”
“You were going to buy me a building.”
“No.”
“Lucas.”
“I did not buy you a building.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He held out a folder.
Naomi took it.
Inside was a lease proposal.
Her name appeared alone.
No Taylor International.
No hidden ownership.
No gift.
The landlord was an independent commercial property company.
Naomi looked at him.
“I don't understand.”
“I found the space.”
She flipped through the papers.
“The lease is market rate.”
“Yes.”
“There’s no Taylor money.”
“No.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I negotiated three months rent-free because the electrical system needs upgrading.”
Naomi stared at him.
Lucas smiled.
“You said you wanted to build Belonging yourself.”
Emotion rose into her throat.
“So I listened.”
Naomi looked around again.
The space was magnificent.
Not because it was perfect.
Because it wasn't.
It needed work.
Her work.
Her decisions.
Her risk.
Her success if she earned it.
Lucas stood several feet away, giving her room to imagine.
“You really didn't buy it?”
“No.”
“Not through another company?”
“No.”
“Not through some ridiculous trust?”
“Naomi.”
“Your family hides elevators inside walls.”
“Fair.”
She laughed.
Then walked toward him.
“You found me a lease.”
“I did.”
“That may be the least billionaire thing you've ever done.”
“I’m growing.”
Naomi wrapped her arms around his neck.
Lucas’s hands settled at her waist.
“I love you.”
His eyes softened.
“Good.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Good?”
“I'm British. We don't handle direct emotion well.”
“You proposed marriage.”
“I had a temporary lapse.”
Naomi kissed him.
He responded instantly.
One hand spread across the small of her back, bringing her closer until her curves pressed against him.
The kiss changed.
Slow sweetness deepened into heat.
Naomi's fingers moved into his hair.
Lucas made a quiet sound against her mouth that sent warmth racing through her.
When he kissed her again, she forgot about lease agreements, wedding schedules, fabric fittings, and the fact that anyone could potentially see them through the front windows.
Lucas pulled back first.
Barely.
His forehead rested against hers.
“If we continue this, your new landlord may have concerns.”
Naomi was breathing hard.
“My new landlord isn't here.”
“That is not the reassuring argument you think it is.”
She smiled.
Lucas kissed the tip of her nose.
“Seven days.”
Naomi looked into his eyes.
“Getting nervous?”
“Terrified.”
She blinked.
He smiled.
“Not about marrying you.”
“Then what?”
“Your mothers.”
Naomi laughed so loudly it echoed through the empty building.
Hudson was released from the hospital the following morning.
Lucas found him in Arthur’s study at Taylor House.
The room had changed.
Police had removed the emergency archive equipment.
The hidden panel remained open.
Arthur’s desk was gone.
Hudson stood before the empty space where it had been.
Lucas leaned against the doorway.
“Mother said you weren't supposed to be walking around without her.”
Hudson glanced back.
“Your mother says many things.”
“She is usually right.”
“Unfortunately.”
Lucas entered.
Hudson looked better.
The bruising along his face had begun fading.
His ribs still bothered him.
Lucas could tell from the way he moved.
For several moments, they stood without speaking.
Then Hudson said, “I’m selling Taylor House.”
Lucas looked at him.
“What?”
“Your mother and I discussed it.”
“This is your home.”
Hudson looked around.
“No.”
The answer surprised Lucas.
“It’s a museum to men who kept hurting people and calling it tradition.”
He ran his fingers along the empty shelf.
“I spent half my life trying to deserve these rooms.”
Lucas understood.
“What will you do?”
Hudson smiled.
“Your mother wants a smaller house.”
“How small?”
“She showed me something with nine bedrooms.”
Lucas laughed.
“That is her definition of smaller?”
“Apparently.”
Hudson's expression softened.
“She wants grandchildren running through it.”
Lucas became still.
Hudson noticed.
“I shouldn't have said that.”
“No.”
Lucas looked toward the windows.
“It's fine.”