Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
He strides over to a kiosk, talking to the vendor there. His comfort in himself, the confident and assertive way he holds himself, is attractive beyond measure. I don’t have a lot of dating experience, too focused on work over the years, but I’m not naïve. I know that Simon is unique, a man among men.
And he wants me.
He returns with a blanket and a basket, his plan obvious. “Shall we?” he asks, holding out his elbow.
I take it, feeling charmed. He leads me to a patch of grass along another path that’s dappled in sunlight and then spreads the blanket out in the shade. We sit, getting comfortable by slipping off our shoes, and Simon removes his glasses, though he leaves on his hat. I look up at the massive trees that have been meticulously shaped into rectangles above each trunk, creating rows of dramatic views of the Grand Basin and Luxembourg Palace.
I sigh in bliss. “I think I could stay here forever.”
Simon follows my gaze but frowns. “Remember, this is only one side of Paris, Princesse. The magic wears off quickly.”
He’s right. It’s not all beauty and romance. But for now . . . “Can we pretend? I want to enjoy a pretty day in Paris, having a picnic with a gorgeous man.”
Simon opens the basket to reveal a casual but rich repast of cheeses, meats, and croissants. And of course, three small bottles of wine, one red, one white, one rose.
“If you pull a tube of Ritz out of there, I’m going to lose it,” I tell him with a laugh.
“Sorry, no Ritz. Just the croissants.” He looks into the basket like crackers might magically appear but then takes out a knife to cut a piece of what looks like salami for me. He holds it out and my stomach rumbles. “Please.”
I pluck the piece from the tip of the knife, chewing slowly. It’s not as spicy or salty as I expected, and I recognize that while it might look like salami, it’s something French. “It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad. I was willing to risk some rillauds, but I did not know how you’d enjoy fried pork.”
“Are they anything like a chicharrón?” I ask, thinking of what I could get from some of the bodegas in New York. “If so, you’re looking at a body by chicharrón.”
Simon traces my curves appreciatively with his eyes. “And what a body it is.”
“About that,” I start. “I noticed something yesterday that concerns me.”
“Oh? What was that?”
“The models, they’re all beautiful. But all so thin.” Simon doesn’t seem to follow, his brows bunched together. I explain further. “There’s an entire world out there to be represented, and we didn’t do that yesterday. Women are more than coat hangers for pretty clothing. We’re the purchasers, and if we don’t see ourselves in the pieces, we won’t buy them.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Your model, Jeanette, is curvier than some of the others.”
My mouth drops open in shock. “She’s maybe a size four if I’m being generous. That isn’t curvy. And if that’s what you want, then why are we sitting here together?” It comes out a bit loud, and I definitely sound hurt. I swallow, trying to get myself under control.
Simon places a heavy hand on my thigh, squeezing firmly. “Autumn, what I want and what the industry expects are very different things. And ultimately, Jacqueline makes the decisions about which models are hired. She is old school and not prone to input on what she sees as a given.”
“A given?” I echo.
“Thin models. It has been the same since House Corbin first opened. Jacqueline did not participate in the supermodel trend of the 80s, the heroin chic of the 90s, or the buxom beauties that became known later. Certainly, no social media darlings.”
I throw my hands up. “That’s what I’m talking about! Look around us.” I scan the crowd sitting on the lawn, the people walking along the paths, all of them representing the spectrum of humanity.
Simon doesn’t look, knowing exactly what he’ll see. “I agree with you, and I can see what can be done, but some things are out of our hands.” He sounds sad but resigned to the norm. Of the industry or of his role at House Corbin, I’m not sure.
“It’s something I want to focus on with my designs—making everyone feel they are accepted just as they are,” I say fiercely.
“An honorable goal,” he agrees just as fiercely. “But make no mistake, what Jacqueline prefers on the runway and what I prefer in my bed are not one and the same, Princesse.”
I can see the fire in his eyes, the possessive appreciation, and it settles some of the concern churning deep in my gut. His words reassure me, and I’m able to relax a bit, though it takes a while before I’m comfortable enough to enjoy the wine, cheese, and meat again. But Simon doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other, playing tour guide and telling me about the history of the gardens.