Page 4 of Feuding with the Fashion Princess

“Oh my God.” I let the truth of her words wash over me before they finally sank in. “Oh my GOD!”

Hugging Sophie, we jumped up and down, screaming like pre-teen girls at a boy band concert.

Breaking apart, she exclaimed, “You did it!”

I may have been the one at the helm, but I knew when to give due credit. This entire line, this show, had been a team effort. “No,” I corrected her. “Wedid it!”

Sophie raised her arm, signaling to one of the bartenders. “Get this girl a drink!”

A burly bald man, with tattooed sleeves peeking out from beneath his tight black t-shirt, appeared before us. His blue eyes assessed me from across the bar before he asked, “What’ll it be?”

I sat on the barstool opposite the bartender and felt Sophie plop down next to me when she swayed into my personal space. “I’ll take a Moscato.” Tilting my head toward my drunk friend, I added, “And she’s cut off.”

Nodding, he turned his back on us to pour my glass of wine before placing it on the bar in front of me on a square white napkin. “You want to open a tab?”

“I’m fairly certain a black card is already running a tab for my friends here.” I gestured to my team to the right of Sophie, having a well-deserved good time. “That’s mine.”

Eyeing me skeptically, he crossed his arms. “ID, please.”

This. This is why I loved being out in the wild. More often than not, people didn’t recognize me on sight—especially in America. It was liberating, but the feeling of freedom was an illusion.

My personal protection officer, Myles, always lurked nearby. He was good at his job, fading into the background so well you had to really search to find him, but I always knew he was there. How could you forget there was a man shadowing your every move, trained to take a bullet for you? Not that anyone cared enough to attack little old me; I was the third child, after all.

Unzipping the clutch hanging from my wrist, I withdrew my driver’s license before handing it across the bar. Peering down at it, he turned toward the register where the cards running tabs were being held. Cross-referencing that the names matched, he returned to double-check I resembled the picture on the identification. Satisfied, he handed it back to me. “Thank you, Ms. Remington.”

He walked away to serve drinks to other customers, and I sipped the cool white wine as Sophie nudged me. Turning to look at her, she had her eyes on the muscled, tattooed bartender.

“He was totally checking you out! You should go for it.”

Laughing nervously, I shrugged her off. “He’s not my type.”

Giving me an exaggerated frown in her intoxicated state, she challenged, “And what exactlyisyour type, Lucy? I’ve never seen you with a guy.”

There’s a good reason for that.

“Discreet.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Come on. He asked for your ID. He had no clue who you were.”

“Yeah, but it’s just that. Hesawmy ID. One little internet search, and a fun night becomes a PR nightmare.”

“Don’t you ever just say ‘screw it’ and let loose?”

Oh, dear, sweet Sophie. You have no idea.

Smiling, I moved my hand up and down in front of her body. “Letting loose looks great on you, Soph. It’s just not my thing.”

“Fine.” She pouted for a second but then exclaimed excitedly, “Tell me about Arabella Reign! I still can’t believe you got to go!”

“It was amazing.” I couldn’t help but smile.

“Can you believe no one knows who owns it? I’ve heard even the design team doesn’t. It’s so crazy!”

Trying to play it cool, talking about my secret label without letting any clues slip as to my involvement, I shrugged. “Maybe they were worried about the gamble of showcasing real women.”

“We do that, and most people praise us for it.”

“I don’t know. It’s a different story when you’re dealing with intimate apparel.”