Page 12 of Pretend To Be Mine

The security desk was straight ahead, manned by two guards who looked like they took their jobs very seriously.

“Hi,” I said, humiliated that my voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Hi, I have a meeting with Adrian Blackwell?”

The guard didn’t even look up. “Name?”

“Elizabeth Laramie.”

He typed something into the computer. I held my breath. This was it. This was where he would tell me there was some mistake and my name wasn’t on any list.

“ID please.”

I fumbled for my wallet, nearly dropping it twice before I managed to extract my driver’s license. She examined it then handed it back and passed me a visitor’s badge on a lanyard.

“Sixty-third floor. Elevators are to your left.”

“Thank you,” I managed, and walked toward the elevators on autopilot.

The ride up was silent except for the quiet whir of the elevator and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Other people got on and off at various floors, all of them looking like they belonged here. Not me. I looked like a tourist.

My palms were sweating.

Sixty-second. Sixty-third.

The doors opened.

I stepped out into a reception area with the Blackwell logo, an elegant “B” intertwined with what might have been a needle and thread mounted on the wall behind a curved reception desk. Everything was white and chrome and glass.

A woman sat at the desk, headset on, typing away at her computer. She glanced up as I approached, and I watched her take in my outfit, my discount bag, my entire existence in about three seconds.

“Elizabeth Laramie,” I said before she could ask. “I have a three o’clock with Mr. Blackwell.”

She consulted her screen, then nodded. “He’s expecting you. Down the hall, last door on the right. You can go straight in.”

Last door on the right. I could do that. That was just walking. I knew how to walk.

Except apparently I didn’t, because my legs felt like they’d forgotten the basic mechanics of forward motion. I moved down the hallway in what I hoped looked like a professional stride and probably looked more like a baby deer learning to use its legs. Thank God I had worn the shoes with a sensible heel.

The door I was directed to opened.

Adrian Blackwell stood in the doorway, and every coherent thought I ever had evaporated.

He was stunning. I had seen pictures. Everyone had seen pictures. The Blackwell brothers were basically fashion royalty, their faces plastered across magazines and websites and billboards. But pictures didn’t do him justice. Couldn’t capture the way he commanded space, the sharp angles of his jaw, the dark eyes that seemed to see straight through me.

He was wearing a charcoal gray suit tailored so perfectly it looked like it had been sewn directly onto his body. His dark hair was styled in an effortlessly perfect way that took either incredible genetics or an expensive stylist. Probably both.

“Elizabeth.” His voice was the same one from the phone, but somehow it hit differently in person. Richer. More real. “Come in.”

He stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter.

I walked past him into his office, and I was pretty sure I forgot to breathe for about thirty seconds.

The space was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Manhattan that I had never seen before. It was literally a birds-eye view. The furniture was modern and expensive looking, a massive desk, a leather couch, and matching leather club chairs. The walls were decorated with framed photos of fashion shows, iconic Blackwell designs through the decades, and what looked like family photos of the four brothers at various ages.

“Please, sit.” Adrian gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

I sat. Or more accurately, I collapsed into the chair like my legs had given up.

He moved around the desk and sat across from me, leaning back in his chair with an ease that I envied. He looked comfortable, confident, completely in control. I felt like I was going to pass out.