I swallow, trying to hide my surprise. “It is.”
“I can’t believe I actually remembered,” he says with a laugh. “And where do you get your designs from?”
I blink in surprise. “Oh! Gosh, I do them myself.”
He puts his fork down, leans back in his chair, and crosses one ankle over his knee. Clearly impressed. I melt a little bit more.
“Are youkiddingme? Oh, c’mon, no one designs clothes these days. Do youreally?”
“Gosh, now why would I make something up like that?”
He shrugs, his eyes twinkling again as he takes another large bite of chicken. He chews, then swallows. “I know literally nothing about designs, so I’m just talking out of my arse. But damn, lassie, I’m impressed. Tell me about your designs.”
I know he’s hitting on me, Iknowit. But it’s hard to resist the urge of telling all, when I’m not sure if he really cares.
“Well, you don’t really need to hear those details,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh.
He tips his head to the side and sobers a little. For some reason, the look he’s giving me makes my heart pound a little faster, like he wants to lecture me or something. He seems stern all of a sudden.
Did I anger him?
“Are you questioning my sincerity?” There’s just enough hardness in his tone to make my heart thrum.
“No, of course not,” I say with a bashful giggle. “It’s just?—”
He nods. “I get it. You’re a beautiful woman. I’m sure you get approached by men all the time.”
Ha. As if he had any idea. No one ever hits on Bryn Aitkens, daughter of the most vicious mobster in all of Scotland.
“Not quite.”
He frowns. “I’m shocked. I was going to say, you’re probably so used to men trying to hit on you under false pretenses,” he takes another bite of chicken before he continues, “that you’ve learned to question the sincerity of men.”
He does hit on a kernel of truth, though, and the validity of what he’s saying pings me straight in the chest.
I exhale a breath I didn’t know I held and decide I won’t lie to him. “Maybe I’ve learned to question the sincerity of everyone. Not just men.”
I’m a pawn in a game of life or death, just one of the many disposable pieces. But he can’t know that.
He gives me a grim smile. “I understand.” He blows out a breath. “More than you know. Now, tell me, Bryn. I really want to know.” His eyes hold mine. “Try me.”
The intensity in his eyes makes my stomach feel all melty. I let my gaze wander briefly over his beautiful, heartbreakingly handsome face, from the depths of his blue,blueeyes, to his perfect nose, to the fullness of lips that look like they’d know where to go and what to do.
I lick my lips. I swallow. And I give him the truth.
“My style could be best described asnouveau chic,” I begin, holding his gaze while I give him the pitch I’ve prepared for investors. “Essentially, I design modern-day apparel with a historical flair…”
This is usually where people begin to lose interest, where their eyes glaze over. He nods with sober curiosity, and gestures from the peasant-style top with the trim bodice and laced-up back I’m wearing, to the slim skirt that hits my ankles.
“Did you design your own outfit?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Go on,” he says, and the way he says it makes it feel a bit like a command.
I go on. When I’ve finished, he’s leaning back in his chair, his fingertips placed together, and he’s wearing a curious expression.
“That sounds amazing,” he says. “I bet you’ve got buyers knocking down your door. The market must be hungry for such brilliant innovations in this day and age when everything’s factory-made and flimsy.”
