Page 151 of Pretend To Be Mine

“He didn’t know,” Elizabeth continued quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. “He had no idea she knew you, or that she had any reason to use that information. She played him, Adrian. She targeted him specifically because he’s my brother and your friend. She used him.”

Relief that it hadn’t been someone at Blackwell washed over me. But also frustration that this whole disaster could have been avoided if Chris had just kept his mouth shut.

“Say something,” Elizabeth whispered. “Please.”

“I’m trying to figure out what to say,” I admitted. “Part of me wants to be furious. This could have destroyed everything—almost did destroy everything. Your reputation, my company, my family’s legacy. All because Chris couldn’t resist bragging to a beautiful woman.”

“I know. He knows. He feels terrible about it. He wanted to come to the show last night to apologize to you in person, but I told him to give us space.”

“Clara played him,” I said. “She knew exactly what she was doing. I’ll talk to Briggs and see what we can do about her little game. At the very least we can issue a cease and desist.”

“I don’t want to sue her,” Elizabeth said. “Is that weird? She tried to destroy me, but I just want to move forward. Not spend months or years entangled in legal battles. She’s not worth it.”

“Not weird. Actually very you.” I traced patterns on her bare shoulder, following the curve down to her elbow. “Though I reserve the right to make her life difficult in other ways.”

“Such as?”

“She’ll never work a Blackwell show again. And I have friends at other houses—lots of them.” I smiled grimly. “Her career is about to get a lot less exciting. She’ll find herself mysteriously unavailable for the good jobs, passed over for the prestigious shows. She’ll still work, but never at the top tier again.”

“My knight in designer armor.”

“Always.”

“It’s Sunday,” I said, sitting up slightly.

“All day.”

“Sunday dinner. With my family.” I looked down at her and debated asking my question. “Would you like to come with me?”

She propped herself up on one elbow. “To family dinner? Are you sure? That seems serious. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Elizabeth, I declared my love for you on live television in front of the entire world. I think we’re past worrying about things being too serious.” I brushed hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Besides, you’re basically family.”

She kissed my palm. “Okay. Yes. I’d love to come to Sunday dinner.”

I watched her get up and head to the bathroom, admiring her perfect ass peeking out from under my shirt.

I slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, padding barefoot to the kitchen. Sunday morning. Just me and Elizabeth and an entire day stretching out ahead of us.

Elizabeth had a serious weakness for pancakes. I remembered her telling me that over breakfast in Paris. Or maybe it was London.

My refrigerator was embarrassingly bare—some leftover takeout, bottled water, and a container of yogurt. But I did have eggs. Milk. Flour. The basics.

I pulled out my phone and googled pancake recipes. I was about to learn how to make them. It couldn’t be that hard, right? People made pancakes every day. How difficult could it be?

“Okay,” I muttered to myself, as I got busy. “You can negotiate billion-dollar deals. You can run a fashion empire. You can make fucking pancakes.”

I heard Elizabeth’s footsteps behind me and tried to casually position myself to block her view of the disaster happening in my mixing bowl.

“What are you doing?” she asked. I could hear the smile in her voice.

“Making you breakfast. Pancakes.”

“Adrian Blackwell is making me pancakes?”

“Attempting to,” I corrected.

“Can I help?” she asked.