Page 11 of Pretend To Be Mine

I saw it was Chris.

“Did you know?!” I shouted the moment I answered.

“I’m guessing he called?”

“Christopher William Laramie! Did you know he was going to call me? You did this!”

“I had a hunch?” He sounded way too pleased with himself.

“You could have warned me! I sounded ridiculous.”

“Are you hyperventilating?”

“Maybe.”

“Breathe, Lizzie. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t meet with him. What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to wear? Chris, I don’t have anything to wear to meet Adrian Blackwell.”

“You’ll figure it out. You always do. And Lizzie?” His voice softened. “This is a good thing. This is the break you’ve been waiting for. Don’t panic, okay? Just be yourself.”

Be myself. Right. Because that was exactly who Adrian Blackwell wanted to meet.

Forty-five minutes later, my apartment looked like a clothing store had exploded. Every piece of clothing I owned was scattered across my Murphy bed, draped over my couch, hanging from my shower-curtain rod. I’d tried on seventeen different combinations, and they were all wrong.

Too casual. Too tight. Too frumpy. Too much like I was trying too hard. Too much like I wasn’t trying at all.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror propped against the wall because I’d never gotten around to hanging it. I was wearing attempt number eighteen. Black pants that I’d bought at a thrift store two years ago. A cream-colored blouse that I’d found at a sample sale, slightly too big in the shoulders but good quality. A blazer I’d actually made myself in school, tailored to fit perfectly.

It was fine. Professional but not stuffy.

I accessorized with simple jewelry. I twisted my blonde hair that was legit looking dirty blonde at the moment into a low bun. I wanted to get highlights, but that took money I didn’t have. I pulled out a few pieces to frame my face. Minimal makeup because I didn’t trust my shaking hands to do anything more complicated.

I looked at my reflection and tried to see what Adrian Blackwell would see.

A girl who was way out of her depth.

“You can do this,” I told my reflection. She didn’t look convinced. “You will do this. This is your shot. Don’t screw it up.”

The girl in the mirror looked like she was about to throw up. No time for that. I grabbed my bag and shoved my portfolio inside.

The subway ride into Manhattan felt like it took approximately seven hundred years. I sat wedged between a man who smelled like old cheese and a teenager blasting music so loud I could hear every word despite his headphones. I clutched my bag to my chest and tried not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.

What if I said something stupid?

What if I tripped and fell on my face in front of him?

What if he took one look at me and realized Chris had made a terrible mistake recommending me?

What if, what if, what if.

I stumbled out onto the platform, following the crowd up the stairs and onto the streets of Midtown. The Blackwell Couture building loomed ahead of me, all glass and steel and expensive architecture.

I stood on the sidewalk and stared up, and up, and up. The tower seemed to pierce the sky itself, disappearing into the clouds like something out of a fairy tale. Somewhere up there, Adrian Blackwell was waiting for me.

I was so far out of my depth it wasn’t funny.

I forced my feet to move and pushed through the revolving door into the lobby. The interior was even more intimidating than the exterior. Everything was marble and chrome, polished to a shine. People in expensive suits moved through the space, their heels clicking against the floor and every one of them talking on their cells. I felt like I’d walked onto a movie set, like I was an extra who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong scene.