Page 52 of The Billionaire's Ride

I reach inside the box and pull out the exact ‘40s style dress I mentioned last night. Mentioned! How did he know? I have to hand it to him. His ear for details is very impressive for a leather-clad playboy. Beau’s going to lose it when she hears about this. I can hear her now—He likes you. He likes you!Does he like me? Or is this him indulging what he thinks is my fantasy? It has been like a dream.

So I call him, and he picks up after an appropriate amount of rings. “There she is.”

My cheeks are starting to ache from smiling so much. “I guess you were serious about the wedding date.”

“Did you think I wasn’t?” he replies.

“No, I just—how did you even . . . never mind. You’re resourceful, right.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, you did it again. Only this time, you’re not close enough for me to thank you with a kiss.”

“Say the word, and I could be.”

I look at the time, still feeling sore from the last two sexcapades with a million things on my mind. “You know I want to, but I really need some sleep.”

“What about tomorrow?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I have to finish the pieces before Friday.”

“I almost forgot you don’t just design lingerie for me,” he says, but he has no idea the entire new line is for him. “How about Friday night after the show?”

Not trying to manipulate me into coming over after delivering this spectacular gift? I’m impressed. He’s done nothing but take care of me the entire week. My phone, the sketchbooks, the sushi takeout, Stella McCartney—not to mention everything about last night. I also know I didn’t fall asleep in his bed last night, which means he carried me and tucked me in.

Drew Blake is, well, perfect. And I’m starting to get the feeling that I might miss him a little when I leave next week. It would be safer to end it here, focus on work, and get back to the States. But I’m enjoying myself for the first time in so long, so I say, “I’d love that.”

“Then I’ll see you at the fashion show.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

DREW

It’s Friday,and the show venue is bursting at the seams with London fashion goers, celebrities, and journalists. I’m in the front row of the photographer’s pit. I’ve already captured two shows and all the celebrities and notables that are seated in the front rows on either side of the runway.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to run backstage to see Kate before her show. It doesn’t feel right being in the same building as her without being able to put my hands on her. But she needs space to focus.

Kate’s been highly stressed this week trying to pull together all the showpieces. I know because she showed up at my place the other night to relieve some tension. And I made sure to focus all my attention on her and take care of her every pleasurable need.

After a short intermission, the lights go out, and the spotlight flashes on stage. My heart pounds as I peer through the lens at my girl’s name lit in a silvery gold—Kate Golden. Music begins playing overhead, and I recognize the song immediately. It’s the one I played for Kate at her photo shoot to get her to relax.

The first model comes out on stage, strutting to the slow, sensual beat. She’s covered in a unique black lace pattern withleather detail. I grin at the very, very sexy design and click the camera incessantly. The next model walks across the long stage, the spotlight reflecting off another black leather-detailed piece.

I can’t recall seeing any leather at her boutique. Any chance this new line is inspired by our first night together? I imagine the feel of Kate’s leather miniskirt riding up her luscious ass. I bite my lip and continue snapping photo after photo.

With every model that steps down to the edge of the catwalk in front of me, my body becomes more and more awake. I take a breath and adjust my pants. The last two lingerie shows I shot didn’t inspire any arousal. It’s not the women in scantily clad leather and lace. It’s knowing these are Kate’s designs. This is her imagination brought to life.

A model in red comes out of the wings wearing the same piece from the other night when Kate showed up at my place in her trench coat. “Holy shit,” I say as the memories flood back. This is the most difficult time I’ve ever had focusing on the job.

The show continues until all of Kate’s lingerie models parade down the catwalk together. When the last one exits behind the curtain, Kate’s name remains illuminated, and the music doesn’t stop. A woman wearing a tight black skirt and a long, flowy chiffon top with a plunging neckline turns the corner, and my heart skips a beat. I’d recognize that beautiful face anywhere.

It’s Kate.

The crowd cheers, and I join them, whistling and yelling out her name between photographs. Then, Nina Savoy, who’s seated in the front row, stands up, applauding politely as Kate walks by. Soon, everyone seated rises and cheers her on.

This is brilliant! They loved it. They love her. I feel a lightness in my chest, a mix of pride and excitement for her. Kate arrives right in front of me at the end of the stage. Cameras are flashing and snapping all around us. I lower mine and clap my hands as hard as I can.

She looks at me with one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen and blows me a kiss. I pretend to catch it in my hand and bring my fist to my heart. She looks out over the photographers for another moment, the crowd still standing and cheering for her, then she turns on her sexy high heel and struts off backstage.

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