Page 2 of The Billionaire's Ride

“Potential investor,” I correct. “Yes, and if all goes well, I’ll close the deal before I fly back home. If not, bye-bye boutique.”

“Don’t worry, Kate. As soon as he sees those models in your lacy thongs, he’ll be begging to invest.”

“I hope you’re right.” I sigh, wondering if this season’s designs are good enough to impress London’s biggest venture capitalist firm. I can’t shake the feeling that my new pieces are missing something. A knot stitches in my stomach at the thought of utter failure.

A waiter carrying a few full champagne flutes comes our way. I could use a cocktail. Doing my best to make eye contact and get his attention, he still doesn’t see me. Maybe I’ve become as invisible as I’ve been feeling. I reach out and manage to grab a glass as he passes by.

Snap!

The sound of ripped seams is closer than desired. “Oh, my God.” My body stiffens, and I press my arms firmly against my sides, waiting for my dress to unravel and fall on the floor.

“What happened?” Garret asks.

I shift my eyes, nodding behind me. “I think the clasp just broke.”

He peeks around, returning with a cringe. “Yes, it did.”

My jaw clenches. “Shit.” Just my luck. Now, this too-tight dress at this too-snooty fashion party is becoming a serious liability.

“It’s fine. The zipper is fully intact.” He waves a dismissive hand. “No one will even notice.”

I drop my shoulders along with my eager smile. “Ugh. I should probably go.”

“What? Why? We just got here,” Garret whines.

“I’m jet-lagged. My dress is literally falling apart. And I’m just not in a party mood.” I lift my glass. “Cheers,” I say in a tone as bleak as the London sky, then down the whole drink.

His jaw drops. “Are you serious? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You need to have a little fun. At least stay for another drink. Besides, how many times in your life will you get to attend a party at Nina Savoy’s house?” The guy makes a good point. It’s a rare event, even in my crazy, Hollywood-centric world. You never know when you might make the perfect connection with someone in the biz.

“Fine. One more drink. And you’re on zipper watch until I leave here.” I jab my finger into his chest, and it nearly slips against the silky fabric.

He reaches for his phone. “Ooh, can I post that? Hashtag zipper watch.”

I narrow my eyes. “Very funny. Grab me a cosmopolitan, and I’ll think about letting you share my potentialwardrobe malfunction.”

“You got a deal, Ms. Golden-if-you’re-nasty.” He swivels his neck, then glances around the room.

“The bar’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction.

Garret tilts his head. “I wasn’t looking for the bar.”

“You scopin’ out the London boys?” I give him a devilish smirk. Being a wingwoman is much easier than picking up men myself. Maybe it’s because I’m intrigued by so few. For me, it’s all about the guy’s shoes. I’m sick of suede hipster boots, rare high-top sneakers, and designer dress shoes. I want something unexpected. But not eccentric.

“I am, and you should too. Have somefun!” he sings and turns his attention back to the crowd.

“No, thanks. This is work. Icannotget distracted. Plus, I can’t bring myself to date ever since I went out with that guy who turned out to have a lingerie fetish.”

“Lingerie fetish . . . ? Like he was intoyouwearing lingerie, or he was into wearingyourlingerie?”

I shift my stare, wishing I didn’t have to say, “Yeah, that one.”

He makes a face, then says, “Take it as a compliment. Stay here. I’ll get more drinks.”

Garret waltzes toward the bar while I survey the room’s black-and-white backdrop. The crowd and the Jackson Pollock are the only decorative pops of color, and the contrast is fabulous. It’s too bad Nina Savoy skipped out on the party. I want to thank her for the invitation and the upcoming spotlight spread for my lingerie line in the magazine. While I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity, given my circumstances, I’m also hoping to talk her out of the proposed arrangement.

When we spoke on the phone last month, she insisted thatImodel the lingerie. Me. The designer who is so not a model. And I should know. My best friend in the world, Beau, used to be a model. But when Nina Savoy asks for something, she gets it.

Still, the thought of being half-naked in a room full of judgy editorial staff makes me want to barf up my airplane almonds. I constantly have to remind myself that it’sLux Magazine. They’ll make me look ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. Besides, desperate times call for desperate measures.

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