Page 12 of Savored Sins
“Autumn’s amazing,” Lydia agrees. “And I’m excited about her show, too. You’ll be great, Zeke. Just… I don’t know, take it seriously. Please?”
I can tell by the look in her eyes when she turns to me that she’s talking about more than just the fashion show. She’s asking me to handle this situation with care, to make sure nothing happens to Autumn Carroway’s toughened, yet recently broken heart. And I love that about Lydia—she cares. Like, reallycares.
But she doesn’t need to worry. I’m not getting involved withanyone’sheart, Autumn Carroway or otherwise. The one time I did I ended up with a knife in my back, and although that wasagesago, I’m taking no chances. I don’t need a girl—or a guy, hell—to tell my secrets to at night, to kiss me on the forehead and tell me it’ll all be okay.
Nah, you start letting people in—start slowing down and getting attached—and all of a sudden, you start realizing things. Things like, “Dad probably left because of you,” and “You’re the screw-up of the family,” and who wants to hearthosevoices? Not me.
“Cross my heart,” I say to Lydia, giving her a nod.
And as I continue to grate the rest of the parmesan, watching as Lydia sets the table and Will puts the finishing touches on the pasta, I realize just how much I meant what I promised. People like Will and Lydia? They’re cut out for this domestic kind of bliss. They’re not walking around all the time, wondering if they’re good enough. Wondering if they’re screw-ups.
But for someone like me? Hell, I’d need a fucking soul transplant to evendreamof it.
So if Autumn Carroway wants to get down and dirty with me—boom. I’ll have her screaming all night long. But that’sallI want from Autumn. That’sit.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
Zeke Holloway doesnotmess around with feelings.
seven
AUTUMN
Autumn: Well, I asked him. He says he’ll do it.
Trey: YASSS. The show must go on!
Autumn: He’s coming over now for measurements.
Trey: Hands to yourself, boo. Though he be pretty, he also be bad news.
Autumn: Duh.
It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m at my boutique, sorting through the pieces for the new display I want to put in the window. I’m being careful not to unveil any items from the fall collection yet, preferring to make the biggest splash I can with the show in less than two weeks—which also means getting creative with the pieces I’m currently offering but haven’t yet sold. So far, the pieces from my spring collection aren’t exactlyleaping off the rack, but I think with a bit more pizzazz in the window I can entice a few more shoppers to stop by and check things out.
The sound of the door opening makes me look up from my work, just in time to see Zeke Holloway swaggering in—right on time for his fitting. He juts his chin toward me in greeting, flashing me a rascally grin. “Sup.”
“Sup,” I say back, cracking a small smile. He steps toward me, gives me a fist bump that should be weird but somehow isn’t. Zeke is just… effortlessly cool. Without even having to try.
With the classic black Converse he’s wearing and slouchy jeans that fit him just right around the thighs, Zeke is every bit the kind of guy that would have made high school Autumn’s knees weak. Even the faded Arctic Monkeys tee he’s got on—which, I might add, makes his biceps look uncomfortably good—looks cool instead of sloppy. Zeke may nottryto be cool, but he sure is succeeding.
“Cool place you’ve got here,” Zeke says. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gazes around the room, nodding at the exposed rafters and the brick walls. “Really—this is pretty awesome. It’s, like, professional.”
I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Um… thanks? I mean, it’d better be, with the amount of rent I’m paying for this spot.”
I realize then that he’s probably never been in here before—and why would he? Although the stuff in my line is largely his style—lots of varied textures and muted, yet striking, lines—he doesn’t strike me as the type to shop. And, as much as I’m kicking myself for thinking this, I kind of doubt my pieces are within this kid’s price range. Well, whatever. I’ll let him keep something as a gesture of goodwill.
Zeke runs a hand through his wild, blond hair, letting it fall back into his eyes as he laughs. “Well, if you hadn’t noticed,I’m not exactly the professional type—and I don’t often seeprofessionalpeople who are also, like… cool.”
“Interesting...” I move the pile of clothes to my desk and reach for the pieces I’ve already selected for Zeke. I turn back to smirk at him, flattered that this hot, young dude in front of me thinks I’m cool. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that might be a compliment.”
Zeke holds my gaze. “Of course it’s a compliment.”
His eyes are the palest blue, almost like ice, and they’re hanging onto mine in a way that’s got my stomach doing somersaults. I tear my gaze away. I believe I once referred to Will’s little brother as a walking red flag—and that’s exactly what I need to remember right now. That smooth way he’s looking at me? That rich, velvety voice he has going on? Red flags are popping up right and left.
This kid’s got charisma, but he isnotgoing to lure me in. I absolutely refuse.
“Thanks,” I say again. Then, clapping my hands in finality, I scoop up the pieces I’ve chosen for him to wear and gesture him toward the fitting rooms. “Here’s the first outfit. You can change in there, and we’ll measure in front of this mirror out here. See if anything needs to be altered.”
