Nearly a week flies by.Ryder and I fill it up, with him writing his songs. While I spend long days and nights creating Avery’s dress. We’re together, but each in our own worlds of sewing and fabric, lyrics and melody. It reminds me a little of that first summer.
We don’t sleep much, but I don’t feel like I need it. I’m energy personified these days, not wanting to waste a second. I’m with a man I’ve always wanted, doing a job I’ve always dreamed of, in a place I could have never imagined.
We take breaks by stretching our legs to walk Archie.
And by indulging in mindless, all-consuming pleasure. We’ve got a mutual goal: for us to get sexy in every room of the house. It may sound easy, but it’s a challenge, what with the security guards keeping watch. We’re still working out the rules of our challenge. Ryder believes only intercourse,fucking, should beconsidered. But I argue we should be able to count the room so long as an orgasm was achieved. So the kitchen, where he lifted me to the counter and feasted on me, is up for debate. As is the library, where I dramatically swept all the papers off the giant mahogany desk, unbuttoned Ryder’s pants, and gave him the best blow job of his life, if I do say so myself. He says he needs to fuck me for those rooms to count. Personally, I think it’s just an excuse.
I’ve given up any pretense of calling what we’re doing fake-dating. We’re just dating. And in the tabloids, we’ve gone from a will-they, won’t-they narrative to a boring celebrity couple more quickly than I could have imagined. Every day, fewer paparazzi hang by the gate to follow us into town. I guess if you’ve taken one wholesome dog-walking picture, you’ve taken them all. So most shutterbugs have moved on to greener, more dramatic photographic pastures—and the newest celebrity scandal. I was sad to see Rosalie head back to LA two days ago. But we exchanged phone numbers, and I promised that she’d be the first person I’d call if I ever needed to do a pap walk for PR purposes.
And then there’s the countdown to when Ryder leaves and goes back to his star-studded life. I try to put that out of my mind and pretend we have unlimited time. I think he’s doing the same, because neither one of us mentions the clock ticking. If we don’t address it, then it’s not real.
The dress I’m making for Avery Woods is very real, though. It’s been a mad dash to the finish line to complete it in time. I’m doing the scary thing. Instead of adapting a vintage dress for her, I’ve created one all my own, with a special midnight satin from our trip to the fabric warehouse. I’ve designed and sewed dresses for the last decade. But I’ve never made anything with these high stakes. Luckily, my first bout of paralyzing doubt is gone. Now all I have is enthusiasm for this project.
The design is simple, yet dramatic. It will take advantage of Avery’s famous curves, with a deep cleavage, the bodice seeming to defy gravity. The skirt is long, fluid, and shimmering, like a sky full of stars, and it’s cut so that it flows when she walks.
The idea for the gown came to me, fully formed, one night while I was sitting on the porch with my sketchpad, watching dusk turn to dark. I closed my eyes, and every detail appeared in my mind. When I reopened them, I sketched as fast as I could before the memory faded. As terrifying as putting myself out there again is, it’s also one of the most exciting and fun things I’ve ever done.
Except having sex with Ryder.
I look over at him. He’s at the piano, working out yet another song I don’t recognize. It’s haunting and reminds me of the feel of his first solo album. He was only supposed to write a half dozen songs to have options for the movie. But it seems as if he’s written enough to fill up an album.
I bite my lip and concentrate on sewing the last stitches in Avery’s dress. Though someone on her team sent all her measurements, she’ll still need to have a fitting. If she likes the gown, maybe she’ll fly me out for it.
Think positive, I tell myself. Not if. She will love it. She has to.
“It’s done,” I say to Ryder, my smile taking up my entire face. “It’s freaking done.” I let out a shaky laugh. Pride fills me. I did it. I’ll make the deadline.
Ryder looks up. His hands are on the piano keys, a pencil in his mouth. “The dress?” he asks. “You’re done?”
“The dress,” I confirm. Even though we’ve been working in the same room, I’ve been superstitiously private about the design. Every time he would try to peek at what exactly I was working on, I’d scold him to stay on his own side of the room.
Often, it led to him breaking those boundaries in the most delicious way. I’d probably have finished this dress days ago if he hadn’t kept distracting me.
He watches me with what looks like pride, and warmth fills my chest. “Show me.”
Feeling vulnerable, I look at the gown I’m gently clutching in my hands. “Maybe it’s not ready. Maybe I should check it over again. Make sure it’s perfect.”
“It’s ready. You’re ready. Show it to me now. Please.”
I close my eyes and hold it up. Suddenly, it feels far from magical. Suddenly, everything is wrong, from the cut to the color to the fabric.
I can’t explain it, but even with my eyes closed, I sense the moment Ryder stands in front of me.
And I’m right because in the next second, he tilts my chin up and whispers, “Open your eyes, baby.”
I open them and meet his steady gold gaze. I search his expression for clues, from his high, haughty cheekbones and firm jaw, his aquiline nose that would fit well on a Greek coin, and the small, stubborn dent in his chin.
“Hear me when I say this. It’s magic,” he says with solemn certainty. “Just like you.”
I lick my dry lips nervously. “Are you sure?” I ask. Even to my own ears, I sound small and insecure. And I hate that. I want to be confident, but I can’t quite pull it off now. This means too much.
He smiles, his gaze running over the gown again. This time, I’m certain I see pride in his expression. And admiration. “Avery is going to be wild about this dress. And so is anyone else who sees it.” His eyes turn serious. “This is what you were meant for, Daisy. You didn’t fail at your vintage shop. Or school. They were steps you needed to take to get here.”
Can butterflies stampede? Because that’s what it feels like they’re doing in my stomach at this moment.
Ryder’s eyes narrow. He touches the fabric. “This reminds me of something.”
“What?”
