Chapter 1

1

Parker

Iam in over my head.

Two days until my first runway show and I feel like I’m caught in a cyclone.

My rented design studio is full of cranky models, pins and fabric scraps are scattered on every surface, my sketches have been tweaked so many times I barely recognize them anymore. This is not how I pictured the glamorous life of a fashion designer.

And it’s not even the women’s line giving me the most trouble.

I’ve promised a preview of my menswear line and I can’t seem to find a lick of inspiration. Mostly because I know very little about men, in general. What I have experienced has been negative. Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t have love for them. I’m staring down at my sketchpad, trying to rework a modern kilt concept for the ninth time—unsuccessfully—all while shouting instructions to seamstresses, interns and models. My head is about to burst.

My best friend and assistant, Jocelyn, drops down beside me on the leather couch. “Well? Have you come up with anything earth-shattering yet?”

“No,” I say, blowing out an unsteady breath. “But I have twenty-four hours to produce something for the men’s line. I’ve had less time before, right?”

“Sure. On The Fashion Game. But this isn’t a reality show, baby cakes. This is the big leagues.” She snaps her gum. “Everyone has already forgotten you won first place on television. This is the real test. You have to deliver.”

I’m already nodding. Jocelyn is always right, even if her brand of love is tough.

Fashion is always about what’s next. Not what happened last season. It doesn’t matter that at twenty-one, I’m the youngest contestant ever to win on The Fashion Game. Or that I scored a million dollars to launch my new line. I’ve sunk a hefty chunk of that money into moving from Nebraska to New York City (not cheap), rent my work studio in the Garment District (definitely not cheap) and design the line to end all lines.

So it’s make or break time.

If this line sinks, so does Parker Hauser.

I blow my blonde bangs out of my eyes and stare across the studio. The male model has been waiting there for days, waiting for me to fit him into something. Anything. There is something about the model that I don’t find particularly appealing. I can’t put my finger on what it is, though. Is it his sharp cheekbones and narrow hips? He has a pretty standard body type for males in the industry. Thin, angular, coiffed. Even a little icy.

Why can’t I seem to give two craps how he ends up dressed?

Caring about clothes is my job.

And I’m running out of time. But inspiration is clearly not going to strike on this couch.

“I’m going out for a walk,” I say, stuffing my sketchpad into my satchel.

Jocelyn almost spits out her gum. “What? Now?”

“Yes.”

“Parker, you need to buckle down and get this done for us—” She snaps her mouth shut, waving a hand as if to clear the air. “For you. This could really launch your brand.”

“Believe me, I’m aware,” I reassure my best friend, pulling her into a hug. “The last thing I want to do is let down the viewers who voted for me. Or you. After all, you’ve been encouraging me since we were just kids in Nebraska. I’ll get it done. I promise.”

She looks skeptical as I pull away, but I don’t take it personally.

I take the elevator down to the lobby of the building and step out onto West 39th Street, surprised to find night is already falling. It’s Friday night and weekend vibes are percolating the February air. It’s unseasonably mild, but still cold enough that I have to belt my favorite purple coat and brace against the wind.

I’m not sure where I’m heading, but there is inspiration around every corner in my new home. Magnificent old architecture tucked in between modern developments. Characters being characters. Diversity, excitement, revolution. Every store window tells a different tale.

For some reason, I find myself stopped on the sidewalk, staring across the street at a little dive bar called Mulloy’s. Apart from a few beers in high school, I haven’t done much drinking. I was a contestant on the reality show when I turned twenty-one, so I haven’t had much of a chance to take advantage of the legal drinking age. I’ve never even been in a bar. Maybe some new scenery is just the stimulus I need to finish this line.

A drink might not hurt, either.

Decision made, I curl my fingers around the strap of my satchel, wait for the traffic to pass, then cross the side street. It’s kind of amazing, actually, how quickly the world changes around me after stepping into the bar. It goes from street sounds to the welcoming din of conversation. Dark to glowing. Lost to found.

“Would you like a table?” a girl asks me in an Irish accent, pointing to a stack of menus. “Might be a bit of a wait. Or there are open stools at the bar.”

“I’ll sit at the bar, thank you.”

That’s the decision I make, but following through is more intimidating than I imagine. The bar is mostly occupied by men. Large ones in construction clothing. As gingerly and inconspicuously as possible, I take off my coat and hang it on the wall, sliding onto the last stool near the window, pretending not to notice when every single one of their heads swings in my direction. A few of them even elbow each other. Probably because I look like a fish out of water.

I need to come up with a drink order before the bartender gets here—

The bartender.

There he is.

Oh my.

My thighs slide together on the stool and I tug my skirt down, frantically trying to hide the clench of my sex. Whoa. What was that? What is happening?

This man is walking toward me and…oh, he is nothing like the male model back at the studio. He’s big. Tall. Barrel chested. Thick all over. Some might call him overweight, but there’s a shape to his arms and legs that suggests hard work. Manual labor.

And it’s just how he’s built, too.

He’s husky.

My gaze travels down the front of his flannel shirt, lingering on the curl of black hair reaching out through the opening. The buttons strain a little over his stomach—a stomach that looks hard as a rock for all its girth. And his jeans. The zipper of his denim fly is straining, too.

Then he opens his mouth. “Need to check your ID.”

His gruff baritone makes my nipples spike.

The satchel slips off my lap and lands on the ground. Turning red, I jump down and stuff everything back inside of it, begging my body to calm the heck down. “My ID. Yes, of course.” God, my mouth is like a desert as I root out my wallet, untuck my Nebraska driver’s license and hold it out. “H-here you go.”

He watches me curiously under dark eyebrows for a moment, then takes the card, scanning it with light blue eyes that are such a contrast to the rough and ready rest of him. I use his distraction as an opportunity to study the harsh planes of his face, the close-cropped black beard, the nose that looks like it has been broken.

Finally, he gives back the ID. “Long way from home, Parker Hauser.”

“This is home now. Hopefully it stays that way,” I breathe nervously.

His brows pull together and there’s something about his eyes, the way they slowly take my measure, that turns my legs to wet noodles. “You want a drink, Nebraska?”

One of the men shouts from a few stools away, “Yo, Daws. I’ll buy her that drink—”

“I’ll buy all her drinks!” another one calls.

“Keep your money and shut the fuck up,” growls the bartender, turning to pin the men with a look. When they’ve buried their faces back in their beers, Daws slowly returns his attention to me. “First time?”

Oh my God. How can he tell I’m a virgin?

“W-well, yes…” I try to stutter through an answer, my face in flames, but nothing sensible comes out. “I haven’t dated much and—”

“First time in a bar,” he clarifies quickly, the resonant pitch of his voice sensitizing my skin, head to toe. He takes one heavy breath. Two. “You better hope I’m the only one who heard that slip-up.”

“Why?”

His fingers curl into fists on the bar. “I’ll be fighting these men off with a stick.”

“Would you?” I ask a little wistfully, without thinking. “Fight them for me?”

He seems to be trying to hide the longing in his eyes, but it slips through. It slips through and it rocks me to the soles of my high heels. His eyes meander down the front of my tucked-in white blouse, my short leather skirt, the length of my crossed thighs, and the Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Jesus Christ,” he says hoarsely. “Who wouldn’t fight for you?”

Moisture soaks into the strip of silk between my legs. Enough to make me gasp.

I’ve never had this reaction to any man before. I daresay I’m even more turned on right now than I get over the perfect, little black dress. A lot more. And it hits me.

I took this walk outside the studio to get some inspiration for my men’s line—and here he is. Standing right in front of me. “Daws?” I whisper. “I need you.”