“You mean with all my spare time?” she responds with a sardonic tilt of her brows. But then she drops her eyes to her water glass. “That was just for Agatha. I don’t really sew anymore.”
“Why not?” I ask, surprised. “Too busy dealing with men who are sabotaging your life?”
At this, she rolls her eyes, but there’s no mistaking her sudden discomfort. After a moment, she says, “I used to have a bridal wear design business.” Her shoulders give a tiny shrug, but she doesn’t meet my gaze. “Obviously, it didn’t work out. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
All at once, dots I hadn’t realized I’d been collecting connect. Her perfectly tailored, handmade dress at the funeral. Her empty cupboards. Her desperation to cling to a rent-free home and a stable paycheck. If I thought I’d felt terrible before, it’s nothing like the pit of quicksand sucking me into its depths now.
“There’s no shame in that, Gracie,” I say. “It takes courage to start a business.”
She shrugs. “Or stupidity.”
“Hope is never stupid,” I argue, wishing she knew that it’s been the driving force behind every major decision of my life—including my plans for Larkwood.
She smiles sadly. “I know. Why do you think I keep trying to change your mind about this place?”
I have nothing to say to that. I’m too busy mentally kicking myself in the nuts for hurting her like this. “Can I see them?” I ask instead. “Your designs?”
She gives me a disbelieving look. “You want to look at a bunch of wedding dresses?”
If you made them, yes.
“If it means not going back to sorting antiques? Absolutely.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice deceptively light. “I have some old samples in my closet if you want to see them.”
Highly aware that neither of us has brought up her date tonight, I feel like I’m barely managing to balance on a tightrope as I say, “Lead the way.”
We step into her darkened bedroom and within seconds, we’re within tumbling distance of her bed. Not my plan, but the unthinking part of me that kissed her is clapping me on the back for my genius.
She turns her bedside lamp on before opening an antique armoire with a squeak. Taking out a heavy-looking garment bag, she lays it on the bed’s soft blue duvet.
“They’re not in line with the current trends or anything,” she warns, unzipping the bag.
“Well then, I’m not interested,” I say distractedly as she carefully pulls the first sample from the pile.
A classic silhouette in creamy satin pours out of the bag in a white waterfall, and my jaw goes slack. It’s timeless but unique in the way she’s used the natural ripple of the fabric to dictate the draping. It’s easy—too easy—to imagine it on her.
“You made these?” I ask quietly.
She nods, passing me the hanger. I hold it up, carefully sliding my free hand down the silken bodice. She isn’t just a talented designer. She’s a master tailor.
“You used internal boning?”
Her eyebrows rise. “If I say yes, are you going to make a dick joke?”
I try not to laugh. “As long as you don’t mind knowing that I’malsoan expert on boning.”
She ducks her head like she doesn’t want me to see her smile, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself.See?I can do this. I can crack stupid jokes, and make her smile, and never touch her again, and it can be enough.It has to be enough.
I return my gaze to the garment bag and lift another sample that’s just as exquisite as the first.
“Your seams are invisible. Is this blind-hem stitching?” I ask, running my fingers along the edge of the supple neckline.
She’s staring at my hand, and when she speaks, her voice is huskier than before. “I didn’t realize lawyering required such an in-depth knowledge of garment construction.”
I look up from the dress, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to nerd out. Agatha brainwashed me into loving clothes.”
Warmth suffuses Gracie’s dark eyes, and she smiles. “Even purple sequin boleros?”
