Page 28 of Fake Dating Mr. Prince
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ashlyn
My pencil flew fastand furious across the page like I was possessed by the ideas that poured out of me. Having the morning off from the boutique had boosted my creativity. I got ideas like this when I was working, but capturing them on paper before I forgot them was a challenge. Usually, when I faced a creative block, I’d shop online for lingerie and use those to springboard ideas that would flatter a full-figured woman. Which was next to impossible to do at the boutique.
Each piece started with a quote. I had a vision I wanted women to feel the moment they saw my lingerie. Each piece was designed to evoke an emotion. When a woman ran her hands over the lace or piece of silk, the ultimate dream was for her to envision herself in that sexy number and feel whatever the design conjured—empowered, dangerous, flirty, sensual, and always beautiful.
Like the design in front of me, the turquoise color was brilliant, the lines bold. I made sure the piece was supportive but looked like it was barely there as the ribbon wound its way up the side of the underwear to create a tiny bow in the back. Like a package to unwrap.
I did the same with the bra. It crisscrossed in the back, and the front padding pushed the girls up front and center. It was always a balance in the designs to make them functional and sexy.
My goal was to create a design that showcased a woman’s curves. Whether my customer wanted to feel good about herself or to drive her partner crazy, I wanted my pieces to enhance the pride she felt in her body.
Immediately my thoughts went to Dean. I wondered what he’d think of me in this number. My body shuddered, and my eyes drifted shut while I imagined his teeth scraping over my thighs and his head pushing in between my legs just like he did that night. My breath quickened and my core throbbed with desire.
After only one night, I couldn't stop thinking about him. The sex between us had been earth-shattering for me and took a prominent place in my fantasy life. There were many nights that I touched myself, chasing the same intense orgasms he’d given me. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by my size. Now that I knew who he was, I had a hard time rectifying the man who worshiped my body that night with the man photographed in the tabloids.
It had been over a month, and now circumstances had thrown us back together. I was grateful Dean hadn’t been at work the past week. My heart thumped erratically when I thought about how I tried to control my body’s reaction to the mere thought of him. In person, it was even more difficult. I’d never felt such an intense desire for someone. Having the best sexual experience of my life only added to that. I prayed I’d be able to continue avoiding him because each second with him was torture.
I shoved my designs to the side. Dreaming up these particular pieces were causing my fantasies to go haywire. I had to shift my focus away from thoughts of Dean. Sewing my newest batch of prototypes would be a more productive way to distract me. Even though I’d run out of investment options for the time being, I was determined to come up with an alternative.
Stella and I’d been bouncing around the idea for an online venture. Most of the investors I approached at the ball said I had too little experience. Creating my shop online would prove that it worked, and people were interested in my designs.
While it wasn’t the way I wanted to begin, it might be more realistic, considering my financial status was dismal at best. I would do whatever I had to do to make this business work. There was no way I was willing to have my dream die now.
My box of scrap fabric that Elaine knew nothing about gave me a reason to smile. My job altering dresses at her boutique was not only helping to fund my new business venture, but it gave me a sense of satisfaction to pull the wool over Elaine’s eyes. If a customer didn’t want to keep the fabric, I cut from their dress, I saved it, and repurposed it for my lingerie. Initially, I expected to only use them for prototypes, but now I would use them for one-of-a-kind pieces.
I opened up the small wooden table that housed my mother’s old Singer sewing machine. It was one of the few things I still had of hers, and I loved it. Each piece I created with her machine helped me imagine she was guiding my hand, helping to push me, wanting me to succeed despite the roadblocks Elaine put in my way.
My hands automatically changed the bobbin thread to a shimmery color that matched the panties, then lined up the piece. I’d used this machine so much, it felt like it was a part of me. Sewing with it was second nature. Placing my foot on the pedal, I powered the machine and began to run the fabric through. I made one pass, then a second and a third. In about twenty minutes, I had most of the bra done and began working on the underwear. The set was going to be beautiful.
A tune my father sang to me when I was a small child spilled from my lips. He’d said it was one of my mother’s favorites. I was about to finish the last stitch and end the piece when the needle stopped midway through the fabric. Not wanting to tear the delicate material, I tried to manually back it out, but it wouldn’t budge.
I lifted my shaky hands and took a deep breath as my pulse threatened to run away. The thread probably bunched up around the bobbin again. It was a pain when that happened, but typical of an old machine. I opened the cover and frowned when I didn’t see a mess of thread. I tried to manually turn the wheel again. Still nothing. It was locked tight. I grit my teeth.
A burning scent permeated the air. I snapped my head up and realized it was coming from the sewing machine. The smell was too strong and too close to be from anything else. I jumped out of my seat and unplugged it, hoping that would limit the damage done.
No, no, no...what’s happening?
I couldn’t lose this machine. Not just so I could sew things for my business. I’d figure out how to use Elaine’s machine after hours if I had to, but this was my mom’s. It’d be like losing a piece of her all over again.
I watched over the machine, afraid it might burst into flames any second. When nothing more happened, I let my chin fall to my chest.
What am I going to do?
As silly as it sounded, I’d told this machine my problems growing up. There were times I convinced myself that my mom could hear me through it. That it was our special connection.
My throat burned with unshed tears. If I started to cry, I’d never stop.
The buzzing of my phone made me jump. Grateful for the distraction, I focused on the phone instead of my misery.
“Hey, Ash.” Stella’s voice filtered through the phone.
I stayed silent—my pain was too raw.
“Ash?” She paused. “Something’s wrong.” My sister knew me well.
I nodded, forgetting for a second that she couldn’t see me. My gaze swung to the machine, and I drew in a tight breath before I whispered, “Mom’s machine.”
