Page 105 of Pretend To Be Mine

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 maître 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.