by Erika Kelly
“You will come back to Paris and work for me again. While you’re designing fabulous collections for me, you can create your own line.” He paused. “Which we will debut at next October’s show.”
Going back with Luc meant couture, for sure. Her pulse pounded, she wanted it so badly. So what if he stole her designs again? No, you know what? You go in there knowing he’ll steal something. Keep a notebook just for him and leave it out as bait. And then she could just keep her own private sketchbook hidden somewhere.
Oh, my God. What are you even talking about?
Do you hear yourself? Planting a sketchbook?
If she took his deal, even if she designed the most gorgeous dresses in the world for him, nothing would stop him from claiming her private sketches as his own. You know he’d do it. And then another year would go by, and she still might not have her own line.
She wanted her own haute couture atelier with all her heart…but at what cost? Her pride, her sense of self, they were worth more to her than that. Oh, dammit, dammit, dammit. She could not believe she was going to do this. “Thank you, Luc. You’ve believed in me since my senior project fashion show. You’ve given me a wonderful opportunity in this business, and I will always be grateful for your support.” There’s never just one path. And she liked the one she and Gray were building together.
“But?”
“But I’m going to stay here.”
“In the States? Surely, you don’t mean that cowboy town you’re from?”
“I’m going to—” She closed her eyes, envisioning his expression as she told him. “I’m going to make luxury knock-offs of the dresses and sell them in a pop-up bridal boutique.” What? She almost laughed out loud. That idea was either genius or utter stupidity.
Actually, though, it was pretty brilliant. That, plus the custom gowns could very well get Jack Abrams’s attention. She just needed the right marketing approach.
He wasn’t responding. Each moment of silence yanked the strings of tension in her body. “Luc?”
“Why limit yourself to a boutique? Why not sell them on eBay, too?” The venom in his voice was reserved for people who’d crossed him, people he hated.
“It’s not like that.” She’d find a high-end boutique in New York or Los Angeles. Chicago.
“No. You don’t have my permission to sell my dresses.”
“They’re not your dresses, Luc.” She said it softly but firmly. “You don’t own this collection.”
“We are partners.”
No, they weren’t. “Luc, you supported me in fashion week in exchange for my designs. That’s the extent of our agreement.”
“I put up the money for the material. Textiles that came from my looms.”
“And I designed collections for you. I met the terms of our contract.”
“Money is not the point. I only backed you because we are building your reputation. It must be done the right way.”
“It will be done the right way.” She glanced over at Callie and Delilah and found them listening avidly. Zach, too. “I’m also creating couture gowns for high profile brides.”
“From Calamity?” he asked.
“Yes, from Calamity.” For now, anyhow.
“Wonderful. So will you incorporate lassos in the design? Instead of Swarovski crystals, you will have turquoise? Will the brides wear cowboy boots?”
“Thirty percent of the homeowners here are millionaires, and if they choose to wear cowboy boots under their gowns that’s their prerogative. All I know is I’ll be designing luxury wedding gowns.” Think marketing. She needed to exploit the meme. “And I’ll be recording the entire process on social media.” What’s this now? Oh, she’d hit on her plan. “Last summer a text message someone sent went viral, turning this man I know into a meme. Well, that guy happens to live here, and he’s getting married. So, I’ll be making the wedding dress for The World’s Worst Boyfriend’s bride.” She thought of all those pages she followed with stylized images. “I’ll be setting up a page called The Making of a Couture Wedding Gown and filling it with photographs of every step of the process.” Now, this would work. She’d get tons of custom orders from it.
“What is the matter with you?” Luc sounded horrified. “Stop this. Stop it right now. You are destroying your career.”
“Christian Navarre built his whole business from an online presence.”
“You are not Christian Navarre. You are Knox Holliday, and you are the most talented, gifted designer I know. Your gowns are ‘extravagantly feminine, wildly unique, and lushly romantic.’”
Bridal Salon magazine had attended her senior year fashion show and given her that astonishing review. Knox had framed it and hung it on her wall to see every time she felt down or frustrated. Luc hired her not only because she’d won first place but because of that review. “I can’t wait another year to start my career.” And I’m not going to work for you.
“So that’s what this is. You’re trying to blackmail me into giving you your show?”
“What? Blackmail how? I don’t have a collection to show.” Why was he attacking her instead of trying to help her? God, he was making this all about him. “You know me better than that.”
“I know that I am very upset right now. Listen to me, Knox, along with being creatively brilliant, you are headstrong, impatient, and stubborn. You want everything right now, but in our business it doesn’t work like that. You must carefully construct your career. If you want to be a fashion house that endures, if you want to be Balenciaga, McQueen, or Bellerose, then you need to stay the course. Trust me on this. Come back to me, create another collection, and we’ll show it next October. You will take the bridal world by storm, I guarantee it.”
“You know I want that, but I’m going to get there another way.” She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “I think this is a good plan, Luc.” It was scary, risky, but she really did believe in it.
“Don’t do this, Knox. This is a mistake. You are capable of Dior, and you’re settling for Walmart.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. He didn’t know much about her past. He certainly didn’t know that people had called her the junkyard dog and barked at her, so he didn’t know the direct hit to her deepest wound. She loved Walmart—that was where she bought her food and soap and cleaning supplies—but she didn’t want to launch her career at the lowest price point. She wanted couture.
“Come back to me,” he said. “I will get you where you need to be.”
“I’m sorry, Luc. I’m going to swerve, because it’s the only way I know to get what I want and keep you in my life.” God, she hoped she was making the right choice. Because she was headstrong, impatient, and stubborn.
“All right. Your dreams were crushed just two days ago. You think about this, and when you change your mind, come back to me.”
She knew he’d come around. “Thank—”
“And if you don’t, things will not go well for you.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Breathing in the ocean air, woodsmoke, and weed, Gray let the heat from the bonfire warm his face.
Ingrid, one of the Central Coast locals who’d come to hang out with the surfers, passed him a joint, eyes squinting, as she held the smoke in her lungs.
He waved a hand. No thanks. Most of his life was spent riding monster waves and uncharted mountains. He didn’t do drugs or booze. Never had.
She nudged him, breathing the smoke out the side of her mouth. “One toke?”
“I’ve got a date with a barrel in the morning. No, thanks.”
She leaned across him, her breasts grazing his arm, and passed it to the woman sitting on his other side. Instead of leaning back, Ingrid stayed where she was, watching him with invitation in her eyes. “You were amazing out there today.” Her long blonde hair spilled over his bare skin, her gaze fixed on his mouth.
With her skimpy bikini and toned body, Ingrid offered him a few hours of pleasure. But…he just wasn’t feeling it. “Thanks. We got som
e good sets.” Over the crackling fire and murmur of conversation, the ocean pounded against the shore. He could feel each thunderous crash under his ass. Tomorrow, he’d be out there. Fuck, yeah. Couldn’t wait.
Ingrid sat back, slipping an arm under his, like they knew each other. With two fingers, she traced figure eights on his inner thigh, slowly inching closer to his dick. It was a good move; he’d give her that. But he wasn’t attracted to her.
Because she’s not Knox. A roiling frustration had him pulling out of her hold.
Her eyes went wide, and she looked mortified, which sucked, but come on. He wasn’t some playground she could crawl all over. He hadn’t given her a single indication of interest since he’d met her a couple hours ago. “Excuse me.” He got up and headed toward the surf, feeling the spray from this distance. Pulling out his phone, he was disappointed to see no signal. He’d have to climb to the top of the cliff to download messages.
He had to get in the zone, stop thinking about Knox. Zach had texted to let him know how things were going, and he’d told him about Knox’s marketing plan. It was genius. She’d also formally agreed to work with his team, including Wyatt, who’d handle her finances, so she was all set to kick some ass.
But that’s the issue right there. He wanted to work with her. By the time he finished competition season five months from now, she might be gone.
Some big designer will scoop her up, and she’ll be out of my life again.
Which was her goal, so that would be for the best. She couldn’t have the career she wanted in Calamity, anyway. Let her go.
The ocean called the tide back, way back, and a massive swell rose. That’d be sweet to ride. It hung suspended for a long, threatening beat, before curling over and…boom. It exploded. Cold water barreled onto the shore, knocking him back a step.
“Bowie,” someone called from behind.
He looked back to see a fellow competitor.
The guy tipped his head toward the white press tent perched on top of the cliff. “You’re up.”
“Pass.” He wasn’t interested in interviews.
“Sorry, man, not only do you have the highest score.” The guy gave a teasing smile. “But you’re the ‘sexiest.’ They’re waiting for you.” He laughed, jogging off to the bonfire.
If he went up there, he’d get a signal. That got his ass moving. Skirting around the gathering of surfers, he hit the narrow dirt path that climbed the nearly vertical face of the cliff.
Once on solid ground, he pulled out his phone. Two bars. Score.
“There you are.” The reporter held open the flap of a roomy, white tent propped with aluminum bars. “Come on in.”
Gray stepped inside to find tables crammed with monitors that tracked currents and weather conditions, cameras, and all kinds of equipment. The bright lights and bodies drove the temperature up, and his skin pebbled from the contrast of the cool night air.
“Gray Bowie.” She shook his hand. “Marnee Fletcher. Great to meet you, and thanks for taking a moment to talk to us.” She led him to a corner.
“Marnee?” someone called.
With a touch to his arm, she said, “Give me one second.”
As he waited for them to set up, he checked his phone again. Messages rolled in, his phone vibrating like crazy. Nothing from Knox, though. Because she doesn’t need you. Yeah, well, they were business partners. He could fucking check in with her. But, right before he started tapping out a message, the reporter cupped his elbow.
“Ready?” She got him situated, and then stood on the taped X on the floor facing him.
The cameraman held his fingers up over the camera. Three, two, one. And then he sliced a finger through the air. Go.
“We’ve got Gray Bowie with us, pretty much an enigma in the world of extreme athletes. He seems to ride the waves as effortlessly as he performs technically perfect tricks on the halfpipe. As the surfer with the highest score today…” She turned to face Gray. “Where’s your heart?”
He froze, as a toxic mix of shame, embarrassment, and sharp, painful awareness erupted in his core. In Calamity.
The reporter continued, as though his features hadn’t flamed. “Do you have a preference for either sport?”
Obviously, she wasn’t talking about Knox. And, just like that, he dropped back into the moment. “Nah. It’s all good.” His phone buzzed against his thigh. More messages coming in.
“Just a basic adrenaline junky, huh?” She gave him an encouraging smile.
“There’s probably some truth in that.”
The reporter covered her frustration with his brief responses by brightening her smile. “You’re leading the pack today. And, if you win tomorrow, you’ll be ranked the number one surfer in the world. How is it so effortless for you?”
“It’s not effortless.” What a ridiculous thing to say. “Not for anyone. Look, twenty-four surfers got the invitation for Titans. That means we’re all at the same level. It’s Mother Nature who decides who wins. I just happened to get a tight barrel today.”
“Let’s talk about the Olympics. I know it’s on everyone’s mind, now that your brother, Will Bowie, announced his retirement. First Brodie, then Will…the whole world’s wondering, are you going to step up and take that medal home for your family?”
“A lot of things have to line up just right to even get to the Games. We’ll have to see how it all plays out.” Who knew if he’d even make the team?
“It’s the one award none of your brothers has managed to bring home, so it would make you stand apart in a family with some of the greatest extreme athletes in the world.”
He looked at her, feeling more exposed than he ever had in his life. She was saying all the things that pinged him hard—but it wasn’t like she knew him. She didn’t know anything about Knox or his complicated feelings for his family.
He supposed it was obvious—his dad had died, and none of his brothers had managed to fill the one empty trophy case built for an Olympic medal. And, yeah, he did want to be the one to put it there.
Hey, look at me, Dad. For once in my life, look the fuck at me.
But he forced a casual smile and just said, “No lie, it’d be cool. But the coaches make those decisions.”
“But you want it, right? You wouldn’t win competitions if you didn’t have the drive. People like to think of you as easy-going, not driven like Will, but I can’t imagine you outscoring the world’s top surfers like you did today if you didn’t take your training as seriously as they do.”
Of course he did. He trained as hard anybody. He just didn’t want to commit to a team, a coach…one sport. His phone chimed with a call, and he checked out the screen. Callie. “Hey, man, sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got to take this.”
Clearly disappointed, she waved a hand at the cameraman. “Sure. Thanks for your time.”
He headed away from the tent, hoping he didn’t lose the signal. His brother’s fiancée never reached out to him. “Hey, Callie. Everything okay?”
“No. Listen, Knox had a tough call from her boss yesterday. He made it clear if she didn’t come back to work for him, things ‘wouldn’t go well for her.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Hang on. I’m about to tell you. While she was talking to him, she came up with an idea to do something with her twenty-five dresses. She wants to make knock-offs to sell in a pop-up boutique.”
Brilliant. “Great idea.”
“It is, and she got really excited. Soon as she got off that call, she was pumped. Ready to go.”
“Sounds good. What’s the problem?” But he could think of a hundred problems. She had no start-up capital, for one.
“Well, she can’t do anything without fabric, right? So, the first thing she did was get on the phone with a vendor she’s worked with in the past, but guess what?”
“Just tell me.”
“He won’t sell to her.”
“Why not?”
“She tried a bunch more,
until she figured out that her asshole boss must’ve told all his vendors not to sell to her. Gray, he blacklisted her. She can’t even get the fabric to make our dresses, let alone recreate the ones from her show.”
Tucking a hand under his arm, he stared out at the churning ocean. The clouds had parted, and a single shard of moonlight beamed down, like a spotlight on the thrashing surface.
“Are you there?” Callie sounded pissed. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you. Not sure what I can do about it. I don’t have any connections to luxury fabric vendors.” Fucking hell. What had they done to her?
“We have to do something.”
“Yeah, I know, but there’s not a damn thing I can do from here.”
“Well, what do I tell her?”
“I don’t have any answers for you right now. Depending on the weather, I’ve got my last heat tomorrow. I’ll think about it then.”
Last night, Knox had barely slept. She’d paced the length of the room, moonlight casting long, eerie shadows. She’d trusted her whole career to Luc, and he’d turned on her.
What had she done, though? She hadn’t wrecked her gowns, but it had happened, and now she needed to find a new path. Why would he cut her off from the suppliers, ensuring her failure?
The startling crack from the air hockey table made her flinch.
“He said he’d only be gone a few days.” Fin, the youngest Bowie brother and Callie’s fiancé, watched the puck intently, the thick muscles in his arm bunching and flexing as he drew back the paddle and whacked it. “It’s been nearly a week. Where the hell is he?”
Weird that Gray hadn’t told his brother—his trainer—where he’d gone. It wasn’t like he was afraid to tell him. Gray was too confident for that.
Sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen island, Callie twisted around to see him. “He’s got other things going on.”
Fin shot an apologetic look at Knox. “Sorry. I know he’s working with you.”
The sound effects went off, giving a tinny shout, “Score!” Fin tossed the paddle onto the table. “But he’s not here, so he’s not doing that, either.” Stepping back, he shoved his hands through his unruly hair.