Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Oh, my God! What the hell is she thinking?”
“I’ll show you flexible . . . by hanging you from your toes.”
“No, no, no, no, no.”
“Baka, baka, baka, baka, baka!”
Beatrice mumbles a whole lotta French that I don’t understand.
There’s more, each of us ranting and rambling in mixes of languages and sounds that express our frustrations, fears, and freakouts.
“Time!” Molly calls out. Breathless, we all stop, but inside, I’m still somewhere between ‘try me, bitch’ and ‘how do I want to change my collection with this new information?’
The door opens again, and we all shout, “No!”
But this time, it is our dinner delivery. Thankfully, because I could really go for some feeling-stuffing right about now, so I hope it’s something good.
“Dinner and then back to work?” I propose. Wordlessly, we pick up our plates, and instead of sitting at the small table we’ve eaten at many times now, we lower to the floor to the makeshift picnic area we set up earlier when Molly laid out our plans for this last night as the Fab Five Sisterhood.
The pillows and spread fabric are comfy and cozy, and my croque monsieur is warm and filling. But mostly, I enjoy the conversation with the women who have become friends. We don’t discuss what we have left to do tonight or what tomorrow is going to bring. Instead, we discuss what’s waiting for us at home.
Yori can’t wait to see her daughter, who’s only three and adorably proud of her mother for being a ‘fashion icon’. Their nightly FaceTime calls have made the little girl a familiar face to all of us, and when I’m home, I’m going to miss the bedtime songs in Japanese that Yori sings to put her to sleep. Katarina says she’s going home to visit friends and family. Molly isn’t sure where she’s headed next, saying she’ll spin a globe, close her eyes, and point to see where fate takes her. The very idea stresses me out. Beatrice shrugs, saying there’s no one at home waiting for her and that she’ll likely return to her job at a high-end department store by day and designer by night.
Then they look at me, but I don’t know.
My plan all along was to return to New York and Nora, using the experience from the contest to grow my own voice and designs. But Simon makes things much more complicated. He can’t leave Paris and House Corbin to come to New York with me, and if I don’t win the competition—which is wholly unlikely, given that Jacqueline selects the winner—I don’t have a way to stay in France. I need to design and make a living, and without the contest, I can’t afford a place to live, don’t have a job, and don’t even have a work permit to allow me to stay.
“Go home to NYC, I guess. Nora’s waiting on me to help with her next collection, and with the baby shower,” I answer, giving one possible outcome. A month ago, that would’ve sounded awesome, but now, it’s missing one big factor—Simon.
We chat a little longer before returning to our work, then go quiet as we get closer and closer to the finish line.
Palms sweaty? Check.
Knees weak? Check.
Arms heavy? Check.
Seems Eminem was right. I thought I was ready, or as ready as I could be. But I’m missing one key thing. And it’s not Mom’s spaghetti.
“Where the hell is Jeanette?” I hiss for the millionth time in the past hour. I look around the backstage area, hoping she will have magically appeared in the single second since I last scanned the entire room.
I still don’t see her, but I do see Simon. He’s across the room, wearing black boots and slacks with no shirt. His abs are chiseled, his shoulders broad, and he’s smiling as he talks to a group of models, both male and female. They’re all also in various stages of undress, standing around and chatting like their nudity is completely normal. I guess to them, it is.
To me? I want to go over there, shove a shirt at Simon, and gouge out everyone’s eyes who’s daring to look at him. Okay, maybe he’s right and I do have a jealous streak?
But there’s another voice in my head that suggests, “Maybe he likes the other models because they’re like him.”
The tall, thin, beautiful people.
As though he feels the weight of my gaze, he flicks his eyes to me. A small lift of his brow says he can read my mind despite the distance between us. Casually, he fingers the chain at his throat, making sure I see that he’s wearing it despite models typically not wearing anything personal. My matching chain is tucked in below my buttoned-up shirt, but I press my hand to my throat in response.
It soothes a small bit of my doubt and jealousy. But mostly, the only thing that draws my attention away from Simon is that I’m freaking out because I still don’t see Jeanette.