Page 37 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

V intage never misses.

I reach for my wineglass with the goofiest grin. Photos from today’s fitting look back at me from the mood board on the wall. Weeks of planning, sourcing, and groveling are worth every swatch and sample flooding my living room.

The red carpet isn’t ready for what I’m bringing.

A top fashion house cleared my client to wear its vintage black blazer to a premiere this Saturday. No one has seen it since it turned heads on the runway forty years ago. Every major outlet will cover it and Noura Sky under flashing lights in two days.

The single-breasted crepe blazer is an experience in person, but it dazzles on camera.

Intricate pearls trace a woven gold pattern across the black fabric, with velvet tapering down the center that leads to a hand-stitched design.

It’s long, and Noura will wear it with a pair of custom stilettos to match.

She’ll show it off on the red carpet for interviews before a planned costume change we spent half the day perfecting.

One does not sit on their ass in archival fashion with such detailing.

I envisioned Noura’s look the second her team reached out. The Tunisian actress is a rising star, and this will put her on every radar ahead of her breakout role.

Styling red-carpet fashion is a responsibility I don’t take lightly.

It’s storytelling through silhouettes and cuts.

Every texture and material is a visual timestamp that cements a piece of its own history.

Countless hours go into perfecting an ensemble behind the scenes, and they’re far from glamorous.

I worked my ass off to get where I am. Attending A-list events. Luxury accommodations. Nothing came easy, which makes every best-dressed list an award.

My phone buzzes.

Jewel

Meeting friends for dinner. Okay if I crash at your place?

Yes of course. Are you alright? Do you need anything?

Jewel

Only for you to stop worrying.

You’re grown, I know. Promise me you’ll call if you do. No arrests. Love you.

Jewel

Love you too auntie. Enjoy your time in London.

That I can do.

“Cheers.” I lift my wineglass to the board and make a mental note about Noura’s second outfit. It’s an emerald-green velvet suit with black lapels.

Nights like this are my favorite. A chance to shut out the world with takeout Chinese and insulate myself in fabrics.

Styling is a formula of complexities I solve through garments and accessories.

I know what to expect and how to adapt. It’s different from the uncertainty gnawing at me since I left Preston’s office on Monday.

Inching closer to forty comes with a rhythm of routine and affirmations sharpened over time. I like what I like, and I understand my body’s needs. Changing course when I’ve lived on cruise control for years is a whiplash I’m still recovering from.

Memories of Ravenous and Preston’s office slam into me like a highway collision whenever I allow myself permission to feel freely.

I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me when I look in the mirror. She’s still me—a jambalaya of thickened hips and curves with hair streaked from the Louisiana sun—but she’s different. Evolving.

Something inside of me was set free when Preston told me he was, in fact, the masked stranger at Ravenous. I expected anger to surface but only felt relief knowing my first public experience was with him. I wanted him to be behind the mask, and now, he’s encouraging me to take mine off.

It took everything I had not to laugh in his face when he used the terms “exhibitionist” and “voyeur” to describe me.

Me . It’s taboo, a dirty label, like a cheap knock-off you wouldn’t get caught wearing.

I never considered myself someone with a kink, but the more I dig, the more I find pieces of me that were here all along.

Naming what gives me pleasure removes the shackles of shame. My kinks don’t define me. They’re parts that make me whole.

Preston has been supportive from afar. He left the country on a business trip days ago but answers questions I’d once have never dared to ask. He put me in touch with the Ravenous consultant, who oversees programming. They’re a pleasure educator and help create safe spaces for kink exploration.

The curiosities entice me, but I’m afraid of falling back into old habits with newfound pleasure. I want more, but I’m nervous to step so far into this world that I lose the rest of myself.

The doorbell rings.

Unless a million dollars is on the other side, nothing good comes at nine o’clock at night.

I navigate around open boxes and Chinese food containers. I’m a mess in a flannel two-piece set and a messy bun with markers sticking out. I open the door and blink twice. An older man with woolly, chalk-colored hair smiles. He’s wearing an executive coat and holding a silver-domed dish. “Madison?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Gene, one of the pastry chefs in the restaurant below. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you. I didn’t order anything.”

His handlebar mustache shifts. “Mr. Donnelley requested these for you.” He slides the plated dome into my hands. “There’s a card inside. Have a lovely evening.”

“Thank you.”

Um, what?

I resecure the deadbolt and head to the kitchen, where the island shines under overhead accent lights. There’s an assortment of French pastries beneath the dome.

Profiteroles.

Pain au chocolat.

éclairs.

Chouquettes.

My favorites are all here.

On the plate is a folded manila card. I smile at the familiar handwriting.

Puff,

I imagine you’re in the kitchen, troubling your lip with those colored markers in your hair. I remember the days when you’d isolate yourself before a big exam. In the spirit of tradition, here are a few of your favorite midnight snacks.

I’m sorry to miss your event, but I know you’ll shine bright like always.

Miss you terribly.

Love,

P

“He remembered,” I whisper.

To say I’d transform into a gremlin before midterms is putting it nicely.

I was antisocial and very cranky. Preston found a way to love me and always used my infatuation with pastries to lure me out for a forehead kiss.

He gave me my space but always reminded me he would be with me every step of the way.

My ringing phone has me shuffling to the couch with a switch in my step. I answer without peeking at the screen or telling my grin to have a seat.

“Hey, you,” I coo, unable to control myself.

“Hello to you too,” Bellamy says with an evident smirk on the other end.

“Sorry,” I sigh and settle into gray cushions. “I thought you were someone else.”

“The ex for a client, perhaps?”

I smile and glance at the curated dessert tray. “Something like that. Did you need something?”

“Suggestions on an outfit for an unexpected benefit tomorrow,” she says. “I do apologize for the hour. But since you’re up”—her voice shifts—“I want recommendations and details about what has you grinning.”

I bite my lip and head back to the dome for a snack. “How long do you have?”