Page 18 of Hate To Be Mine

She smiled a knowing smile that suggested she could see right through my bullshit. “It’s okay if you are. I am.”

I chewed, swallowed, and considered lying again. But something about Elizabeth made that feel pointless. She’d been through her own trial by fire when she first started working with Blackwell—the fake engagement with Adrian that turned real, the pressure of designing under the family name, and all of it playing out in the public eye.

“Yeah, okay,” I admitted. “It’s a big deal. I’m ready for it, though. I’ve had all these ideas over the years, you know? Concepts I wanted to try, creative approaches I thought would work. And now I actually get to put them into action instead of just showing up to smile for the camera.”

“I know you’ll do great.” She squeezed my arm. “I trust you to help introduce my designs to the world. I believe in you.”

I didn’t let it show but butterflies exploded in my belly. Elizabeth had no reason to trust me. She barely knew me, really. We’d had Sunday dinners together, sure, but this was different. This was her putting her career and reputation in my hands. I had given her absolutely no reason to trust I could handle the job.

“Thanks,” I said, aiming for casual and probably missing. “I just hope I don’t disappoint you.”

Like I’ve disappointed so many women before, I didn’t add. Although the reasons were different. Those disappointments usually came when they wanted something serious and I wanted to keep things casual. But disappointment was disappointment, and I had a track record.

I disappointed the female population. Period.

Except in bed.

That made me grin—to myself of course.

“You won’t,” she said with a confidence I wished I felt. “Adrian sees it. Your mother sees it. I see it. You just need to see it in yourself.”

“I can’t believe my brothers aren’t coming along as babysitters,” I joked.

“Like I said, they trust you.”

“That’s very sweet, but we both know that’s bullshit.”

My brothers were staying in New York for the next week to handle things at the office. They wouldn’t be flying out until the runway show at the end.

“They know you’ve got this,” she said. She pulled out her phone and sighed. “I have to find Annika. Relax. You’ve got this.”

I watched her go, then turned my attention back to the organized chaos. This was it. The next two weeks would either prove I was capable of handling this level of responsibility or they’d confirm every doubt my brothers had ever had about me.

No middle ground. No room for error.

“Mr. Blackwell?” One of the production assistants jogged over, clipboard in hand. “Everyone’s loaded. All equipment is secured. We’re ready for boarding.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

The chartered plane was massive—a full-size 737 that probably cost more to rent than most people made in a year. But we needed it. We had an army to transport, not to mention an entire production set. None of the equipment we needed was available on Miratoa. The island was deliberately underdeveloped, preserving its natural beauty by limiting tourism and modern infrastructure. Which meant we had to bring everything from the lights to the backup generators for the original generators. Every little detail had been thought of.

It was like mounting a small military operation, except instead of weapons, we had swimsuits and flowing dresses.

I boarded the plane. Inside, the plane had been configured with comfortable seating. It wasn’t some cramped commercial flight. The seats were more like recliners and divvied up into different seating configurations. I noticed immediately how the people had naturally clustered by department. The models had claimed the back rows, already pulling out sleep masks and neck pillows. The camera crew sat together in the middle, arguing about lens choices. Wardrobe had taken over one side.

And sitting alone near the front, looking like the new kid on the school bus was Bernadette.

She wore another one of those pantsuits. It was black and not the kind of thing you would see someone wearing on a tropical island. Her hair was back in its severe bun. She had her phone out, probably reviewing safety protocols or calculating the statistical likelihood of various disasters. I hoped “plane crash” wasn’t on her list of incidents that may or may not be covered. I was not interested in a dip in the Pacific. At least not from a thirty-thousand-foot drop.

Feeling generous and wanting to smooth over the weirdness from the workshop, I made my way down the aisle and slid into the seat beside her.

“This seat taken?” I asked, even though I was already buckling in.

She looked up from her phone, surprise flickering across her face before her professional mask settled back into place. “It’s a free country.”

“That’s the spirit of hospitality I was hoping for.” The sarcasm almost made her smile.

The flight attendant came by to check our seatbelts as the engines started their pre-flight whine. The cabin door closed with a solid thunk, sealing us all in together for the long flight to Miratoa.