Page 102 of Saxon

I swallow hard and work like a motherfucker to summon my inner bitch. She's usually right there when I need her, but I've never felt more like a fish out of water in my entire life.

"Chin up," Saxon mutters. "Don't try to not look impressed—you're supposed to be."

"How are you so cool about this?"

"Not my first party at this place. Last time, though, I was one of those dudes." He juts his chin at the guards striding back and forth along the crenelated walkway over the main entrance of the castle.

"So you’ve never been as a guest?"

He snorts. "Hardly." A shrug. "My dad and mom have been, though. Of course, as soon as they got here, Dad left Mom to go chase tail."

"Dick."

"That's one word for him."

We’ve crossed the bridge; the cobblestones of the bridge expand into a wide walkway bordered by a waist-high hedge of interlocking rosebushes, lights clustered at the base of each rosebush’s root. As the walkway nears the entrance, it broadens into a wide semi-circle, the rosebush hedges growing taller and taller until they're climbing up trellises on either side of the twenty-foot-high arched doorway; the roses wreath the arch, fragrant blooms swaying in a gentle breeze. The castle extends away in both directions and towers high above.

Ahead of us, the pop star and broad-shouldered tight end lean together, whispering and pointing. If they’re impressed, I can be.

We're in line, fifth or sixth—ahead of us, as each couple or group reaches the door, a seven-foot-tall guard with arms bigger than my thighs demands to see invitations.

"Your coin better get us in," I whisper.

Saxon just nods. "It will."

Ahead of us, the pop star's spiked heel catches in a groove of the cobblestones, and she wobbles—her boyfriend catches her, but her sparkly, diamond-studded clutch goes flying.

Instinct more than anything sends my hand out, and I catch it—the logo tells me it costs more than everything I own put together.

Once she's righted and has her balance, she turns to me—and yes, she's very tall and very beautiful. Stunning, really. Good thing I'm not a superfan, or I'd probably be shitting my pants.

"Ohmygod," she laughs, covering her mouth. "I'm so embarrassed. I dance in heels, you know? You'd think I'd be able to go five feet without tripping." She accepts her clutch from me, steps back, and her eyes scan me from head to toe. "I'm sorry, but who made your dress? It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen! I need one!"

My heart leaps, and my breath leaves my body. I glance at Saxon, for some reason.

He just grins and shrugs. "Don't look at me. I can't sew a fuckin' button back on."

"Me either," says the football player.

Saxon's hotter, if you ask me.

I bite my lip and summon my courage. "Um, actually, I made it myself. I'm sort of a designer?" It comes out as a question.

"Shut… up!" She takes my hands and spins me in a circle—she's a little hyper, actually. "You made this?"

I nod, trying to look cool but feeling all sorts of awkward and verklempt. "Yeah."

She digs into her clutch and pulls out a receipt and a black Sharpie. Scrawls a phone number and a signature. "Call me. I want one."

"Um."

She leans close. "Don't sell that, please. That's my personal number. But if you're here, at a party like this, you've got to be cool about stuff like this."

"I would never."

"Do you do collections?"

I can't help a laugh. "I work on commissions, so far. But I'm open to anything."