Page 81 of Pretend To Be Mine

“I’m a gentleman.” I turned her around, starting to work the soap across her shoulders. “A very helpful gentleman.”

“Mm-hmm.” She leaned into my touch. “This is nice.”

My hands moved lower, tracing the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. “Just nice?”

“Very nice.” Her voice had gone breathy.

I pressed a kiss to her shoulder, then her neck, working my way up to that sensitive spot behind her ear that I’d discovered made her gasp. Right on cue, she inhaled sharply.

“Adrian.”

“Shh. I’m being helpful. Very, very helpful.”

My hands slid around to her stomach, then higher, cupping her breasts. She arched into my touch with a moan that went straight to my cock.

“This doesn’t feel like washing,” she managed.

“No?” I teased her nipples, feeling them harden under my fingers. “My mistake.”

She spun in my arms, water streaming between us, her eyes dark with want. “You’re terrible.”

“You like it.”

“I really do.” She grabbed my face and kissed me.

The playfulness shifted into something more urgent. My hands found her ass, lifting her. Her legs wrapped around my waist instinctively, and suddenly we were pressed against the tile wall, water streaming down around us.

Later, we lay tangled in sheets with her wet hair dampening the pillow. Both of us were satisfied and drowsy.

“We should probably get up soon,” she murmured, but made no move to actually do so.

“Probably,” I agreed, also not moving.

She let out a content sigh. I was already thinking of excuses to skip the show so I could stay exactly where I was.

“Hey, you promised to show me your new sketches. On the plane, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. “They’re in my bag.”

“Get them,” I said. “I want to see what you’ve been working on.”

She didn’t immediately move. “Elizabeth, I’ve seen what you can do. Let me see.”

She sighed. “Okay.”

26

ELIZABETH

My hands shook slightly as I pulled the sketchbook from my luggage. It was nothing fancy. Nothing like the professionals used. I’d made good use of it. It was filled with the designs I’d been sketching for years. The pages were worn from how many times I’d gone back to change something or add more details. The designs represented everything I’d dreamed about, worked toward, and dared to hope for.

And now I was about to show them to Adrian Blackwell. An actual designer. The designer. He would go down in fashion history as one of the greats and he was really just getting started. And now he was going to be looking at my stuff.

No pressure or anything.

I felt more exposed than I had minutes ago when we’d been tangled together naked. This was different. This was my soul on paper. My worth as a designer was about to be judged by someone whose opinion mattered more than anyone else’s. And the worst part, I would have to accept his criticism. It was fine when you could dismiss someone as a hater, but Adrian knew what he was talking about. If he told me they were shit, it was because they were.

I was about to face reality. My worst fears were about to be confirmed. Maybe the reason I couldn’t get a job in the industry was because I sucked. No one had the heart to tell me I sucked so they sandwiched the dismissals between empty platitudes.