Page 7 of Worth Every Moment

“No, it’s not so,” I say, popping a hip.

Dominic huffs. “Don’t touch her. I mean it.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Seb replies.

“Good. Keep your hands off. You can touch her after the show. If you must. And only if she says you can.”

“She says no,” I cut in, but I’m grinning. Seb always brings out the tease in me. “Keep your handsy hands to yourself.”

Seb knocks his shoulder against mine. “Such a party pooper, Lefroy,” he mutters so quietly that I think I’m the only one who hears it. But then he steps back, appearing to forget about everything else as his gaze does a full sweep of my body. “Your legs are as long as the Nile with those shoes on,” he says, voice all amazement.

“Is that a compliment?”

“Absolutely.” He shakes his head while looking at my feet. “Killer shoes. How the hell do you walk in those?”

Before I can reply, Dominic is standing and shunting Seb away. “Unless you’re buying my whole collection, you need to fuck off. We’re about to start.”

Seb slides his hands in his pockets, looking breathtakingly casual as he says, “How much is it?”

Dominic pulls his chin in. “How much is what?”

“The whole collection,” Seb deadpans.

I can almost see the dollar signs appearing in Dominic’s eyes as his jaw slackens. We all know Seb could buy it ten times over.

“He’s not going to buy the whole collection,” I say, interrupting Seb’s peacocking.

“Why not?” Seb says, nodding at my feet. “Then you won’t have to walk in those death traps and we can go out for dinner instead.”

Dominic tips up on his toes, fingers steepled. “Perhaps we could come to some arrangement after the show, Mr Hawkston.” His voice has turned oily. “It would be an honour to sell—”

“He’s not buying it,” I repeat, and Dominic’s shoulders sink. “Go on,” I say to Seb, shooing him with one hand. “If you don’t leave, you won’t get back to your seat in time to watch.”

“And I really do want to watch,” he purrs suggestively. I roll my eyes at him, but even though I know it’s all a joke, my heart beats oddly in my chest.Too fast.“Break a leg. I’ll be in the front row,” he adds, his tone much more platonic. He winks and saunters back the way he came.

When he’s gone, the final minutes pass in a whirlwind of activity as we gather and line up, ready to process down the runway. Dominic kneels at my feet, fiddling with my shoe. He taps my ankle to get my attention.

“Watch this,” he says, warning me about the fragile strap on the shoe. Maybe if he hadn’t designed something so crazy, I wouldn’t have to watch it. I grit my teeth and take a preparatory breath as Dominic stands and clasps my shoulder, tipping his head towards the curtain. “Go be perfect.”

Be perfect. Always.

I am so fucking tired of being perfect.

3

SEB

Istride down the front row to my seat.Fuck, it’s loud in here.Fashion week isn’t normally my scene, but I come for Erica. I’ve been so many times now that I’ve lost count. I’m never entirely sure if she appreciates it or not because she scolds me every time. But then she gives me that gorgeous smile—the one she never uses in public—and it feels like all is forgiven.

My knee knocks against a woman I recognise, but I can’t recall her name. She scowls, her gaze jerking up to me, but when I smile and whisper an apology, warmth fills her face, heat rising to her cheeks. “Oh, Seb.”

Shit.

I’ve slept with her, and I can’t remember her fucking name. I inwardly cringe, hating myself. I don’t do it deliberately; I’m not that much of an arse. It’s difficult for me to retain information about the women I sleep with; the things they tell me filter through my brain like rainwater through a sieve. Sometimes, the sex is blurry too. It could be the fact that my nights out are fueled by alcohol and the occasional drug-taking, but I suspectit’s deeper than that, and I don’t want to dig because I’d probably uncover a black void of shame that would swallow me whole.

No, thanks. I’ll keep my shit buried.

On the plus side, I’m always honest that I’m not interested in anything serious. I keep it casual and consensual, and everyone’s happy. Sort of. Most of the time, afterwards, I’d prefer to rewind time and go home and fuck my fist instead, because there’s only one woman in the whole world I actually want.