Page 61 of Pretend To Be Mine

Friday morning arrived to my phone alarm. I grabbed it and shut off the obnoxious sound, noticing there was a text message. I hadn’t even heard it. Yesterday had been a whirlwind. I got home late and pretty much fell into bed.

Annika: Car will be there at eight. Don’t eat anything. We have food at the office. Wear comfortable clothes.

That gave me exactly twelve minutes to get my ass downstairs. So much for easing into the day.

I threw on leggings and a hoodie, grabbed my bag, and stumbled downstairs to find a town car waiting. The driver had coffee ready, which was an absolute blessing. I spent the ride into Manhattan trying to wake up enough to function.

The moment I walked into Blackwell Couture, Annika descended on me like a very well-dressed tornado.

“Good, you’re here. We have exactly ninety minutes before you’re on Morning Manhattan. Come with me.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the makeup room.

“Ninety minutes seems like plenty of⁠—”

“It’s not. Trust me.”

I was deposited in a chair while a team of people swarmed around me. Someone worked on my hair while someone else examined my face with a critical eye. A third person held up dress options while Annika debated the merits of each.

“The blue is too formal for morning TV,” Annika muttered. “But the pink might read too casual on camera. What about the cream?”

“She wore cream for the first appearance,” Mary Jo reminded her.

I would have nodded, but there was an eyeliner pen way too close to my eyeball.

“Blue,” Annika said.

“I like green,” I said quietly.

They both looked at me and then I felt them dismiss the idea.

“Light blue,” Annika said.

The woman that was in charge of picking the outfits from the rack rushed away. She returned with two more options. I would have preferred black or green, but whatever. It was just a show.

I sat perfectly still while they transformed me. My hair was blown out, curled, pinned, sprayed. Makeup was applied with the precision of an artist working on a masterpiece. Then I stepped into the dress Annika had chosen for me, and she zipped it up for me.

The dress was a soft powder blue that somehow managed to look both elegant and approachable. It was exactly the kind of thing a fashion CEO’s fiancée would wear on morning television. It had a fitted bodice with a subtle sweetheart neckline and three-quarter sleeves that hit just below my elbows. The skirt fell to just above my knees. It looked far more expensive than anything I’d ever worn before.

Which, of course, it was.

They paired it with nude heels that added three inches to my height and delicate gold jewelry that added three zeroes to my net worth. When they finally spun me around to face the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

I looked like I belonged in Adrian’s world.

“Perfect,” Annika declared. “You look beautiful. Now go. Adrian’s waiting in the studio.”

She practically shooed me down the hall toward the small studio space we’d used for the Liza Pizza interview. Adrian was already there, and the sight of him made my breath catch.

He wore a black suit with the jacket unbuttoned, no tie, the top button of his white shirt undone. It was casual, but on him, it also looked effortlessly elegant. His hair was styled perfectly. He’d clearly been through his own grooming gauntlet.

He looked like a dream.

“Good morning,” he said as his eyes traveled over me. “You look good enough to marry.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” I smoothed down my dress nervously. “Are we really doing this? National television?”

“We really are.” He crossed to me and took my hands. I felt that now-familiar steadying effect he had on me. I had been nervous but that one touch was all I needed. “But you’ve got this. We’ve got this. It’s just like the other interview, except more people will be watching.”

“Oh good. No pressure then.”