Just a nice, everyday shoe that still makes a statement. Bold without being brash.
Sigh.
I flick through pictures of Pinterest boards and AI mockups, trying to find something that kickstarts my creativity.
A line, a color, an idea that grabs me by the hair.
But there’s nothing here that hasn’t been done to death.
I sooo need a new direction.
The thing is, it can’t bemundane.
It can’t be ordinary.
Fashion is a moving stream and it’s never the same twice. It has to tell a story other folks want to hear and be part of.
My stomach growls and I glance at the clock, tossing my stylus on the desk.
It’s late—hopefully so late they’ve eaten downstairs.
The sun set over an hour ago and the sky has that pale blue-grey shadow as night falls on the lake.
A rush of nostalgia punches me, and I breathe through it, gripping my tablet.
For a burning second, I remember what it was like coming here as a kid, before life got so complicated.
I remember the excitement, the way we’d feast on Gramps’ beef stew or seafood pasta before fighting over the best places in front of the fire for story time.
He’d read us the classics, Greek mythology or modern myths he just made up. The man never had a TV on in this house until we were half-grown.
I remember how carefree the woods would feel at night with chirping crickets and bellowing owls.
I remember how good my heart felt in this house, before he died and our little world shrank like a fading puddle.
I stare at my tablet and my stupid designs, wrinkling my nose.
Yeah.
The only thing as frustrating as a dream you can’t remember has to be a memory you’ll never relive. They both feel like if you just push a little harder, you’ll get there.
And yes, I know this isn’t healthy.
I need to get out of this room and my own head before I drive myself crazy.
It’s a cool evening, so I grab my light jacket from the closet and sling it over my shoulders as I head downstairs into the kitchen. My stomach growls like a wildcat.
The old house is dark and silent around me, the only noise the floorboards creaking underfoot.
Perfect.
I’m planning to grab a drink from the fridge and head into town to see what’s still open, but as I flick the light on, my attention snags on a sandwich off to the side, neatly packaged up in foil.
For the only smartass mouse I want to keep fed, the note beside it reads.Come clean with me when you’re ready, duchess.
Holy crap.
Oh, he’s good.
