Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Nevermore sails into my office in a black-pleated dress the next day.
“Right on time for the call,” I tell her. “Pull up a chair and I’ll put it on speaker.”
She pulls her chair around the desk next to me and sits. Her dress rides up a few inches, exposing a well-toned thigh.
It’s like that leg has its own gravity.
My eyes want to jump right out of my head.
Fucking distractions.
A terrible part of me wants that dress up higher, though. A nastier part wants to shear it right off her, all the better to get my hot, tingling hands on her skin.
Would she still give me that mouth if these fingers put her in her place?
Would we finally understand each other if we fucked out this suffocating tension at a debased, animal level?
Off-limits, My reason growls. She’s off-limits, you slobbering wolf.
I shake my head.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, staring at me like I’ve sprouted a second head—and if I have, it wants to taste her too.
“Not at all,” I lie, clearing my throat and shifting my weight.
Like clockwork, the call comes while I’m still trying to quietly kill the hard-on from hell that has me shifting in my seat.
I punch the speaker button.
“Hey, Isabella. This is Lincoln Burns and you’re on speaker. My assistant and copywriter, Dakota Poe, is joining us.”
“Wonderful. I’m the lead designer on your project,” she says in perfect English with a slight Italian accent. “I’ll admit I’m slightly confused by this call, sir. I was under the impression our designs were agreed and approved. Now you want changes?”
Next to me, Poe tenses.
“Correct. I’m simply requesting a revision. My marketing team brought to my attention that there isn’t much in the way of simple fit comfortable dresses available in our current lines. I’d like to have a couple new choices produced with comfort in mind first and foremost,” I say diplomatically.
“What do you mean comfort? These dresses are art, made to your precise specifications,” Isabella practically spits through the phone, harsh and offended. “Your bride will be draped in the finest silk that fits like a glove, Mr. Burns. What could possibly be more comfortable than looking like a goddess?”
Nevermore gives me whale eyes, green and unsettled.
“I have a few ideas,” I say coldly. “The whole point is trying something new, Isabella. There’s certainly no one disparaging your work, past or present.”
I hear the woman take a deep breath, and so do I.
Before either of us can fire another barrage, Miss Poe cuts in.
“Hi, this is Dakota. Ideally, we’re looking for something that doesn’t require a corset bra, full bridal slip, or shapewear,” she says. “And you know any full gown requires a full slip or you’ll have shadows in the pictures, and no one wants that.”
“So you want slip dresses? Three slip dresses? Even then, most women need their shapewear. Very few of us are born perfect,” the design lead says with a little less venom.
“That’s the point. We want the dress to be perfect so the wearer doesn’t have to be,” Poe tells her.
“You want me to build the undergarments into the dress? It’s unorthodox, but I believe...yes, maybe I can do that.”
“Perfect,” I say, giving a satisfied nod.
Dakota’s eyebrow shoots up and she whispers to me, “How is that better? Being wrapped up like a sausage gets draining no matter where the wrapping comes from.”
“You’re exaggerating. Why would anyone feel like deli meat if it’s tailored?” I grumble.
Her eyes narrow and dagger me.
“You just heard her say very few of us are perfect. Wedding dresses are made with models in mind,” she hisses under her breath.
“I have no idea what you want. The only way to do what you’re asking for is to go custom, and even then the options are limited,” I say.
“If you go custom, what are the options that don’t require any puffing or binding?” Dakota asks.
“Maybe a slip dress for a slender woman. A simple A-line with a flowing skirt. I can’t really think of anything else you’d wear to a formal wedding,” I say, racking my brain.
“Do a long A-line then. If you can make it work, add an option for a train.” Dakota looks at me. “How many dresses are in this line, anyway?”
“Five, but—”
“The other two can be anything you want if you add options. Did you get that, Isabella?”
I shoot her a look from hell. I thought I was the CEO.
“Yes,” the designer says, sounding brighter. “It’s possible.”
Dakota covers the speaker with her hand and flashes an eat-shit smile.
“You have to give the artist some creative room,” she explains, moving her hand.
“You have to give them rules as well, Miss Poe. Too much leeway and you’ll alienate my customers.”
“That’s where the customizations come in. Plus, I know Italian silk isn’t cheap. I’ve been doing a lot of reading.”