His Baby Dilemma. Catherine LaniganЧитать онлайн книгу.
Teen Illinois contest. After winning the crown for Junior Miss Illinois in prior years, Grace was blindsided by her near miss. She’d been certain she would win. Her piano performance was impeccable. The gowns she’d designed and that her mother had helped her make were perfection. She’d delivered answers to the judges’ questions with insight and flawless diction. She should have won. But she hadn’t.
That summer was a turning point in her life. After that summer, Grace had altered her goal of becoming a model and directed her ambition toward fashion design. It had been a summer for growing up. That much was certain.
Grace ran her palm over the lapels of her jacket, making certain they lay flat.
Nervous habit, she groused to herself and dropped her hands. She’d worked hard on the design she was wearing. Her fingers traveled over the wool fabric she’d snagged at a bargain price from Johnstons of Elgin. The cashmere was from Nepal, but Grace believed the Scots knew how to weave it best. As comforting as her black jacket and slim skirt were, she was anxious.
She leaned her head against the hard seat and exhaled. She had to calm down.
“You coming back home?” the man across from her asked.
Grace had been so deep in thought, she’d barely noticed anyone else on the train at all.
“Yes. No. Yes,” she replied, looking at him. Attractive was an understatement. He was tall and trim in his well-tailored black business suit, white cotton shirt and conservative tie. The clothes were not expensive, off the rack. He had a good eye for putting himself together and watching his budget. She liked that.
His blue eyes danced and a wave of thick chestnut hair fell over his forehead.
“Can’t decide, huh? Think you’ll get off when we stop?” He smiled broadly.
He was observant. She had to give him that.
Grace couldn’t hold back her own smile. She was used to men striking up conversations with her in cafés. Trains. Airplanes. She’d worn a rhinestone crown since she was ten, and didn’t give it up until she was fifteen. Sometimes she thought men could still see the glimmer, even though the glamour and floodlights had faded for her long ago.
He leaned forward. Just a bit. Not so much that the gesture cut through her personal space. “Dylan Hawks.” He extended his hand and she took it.
“Hawks? I know that name. Are you related to Isabelle Hawks?” she asked.
“My sister,” he said, lifting his chin proudly. “She’s why I’m home for the weekend. Her bridal shower.”
“How nice.” Grace swallowed hard. She limited thoughts of brides to design projects, never imagining herself in that role. “I’m Grace Railton, by the way.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled and then continued. “It’s a big couples’ thing at our friend’s house. Mrs. Beabots.”
Grace’s spirits lightened. “I know her very well. She was practically my mentor.”
“Mentor?”
“It’s a long story,” Grace replied. After high school, Grace had left for New York and entered Parsons School of Design. While her friends went to parties, she drew, created and studied. When they went to Florida for Spring Break, she wrangled appointments with fashion house assistants and design team members. Over large lattes—which she bought for them—Grace picked their brains and soaked up information. In the summers, she took part-time internships on Seventh Avenue. She hadn’t cared how menial the job; she’d only wanted to learn. Like striving for one of her pageant crowns, she had to be the best.
She’d graduated at the top of her class and landed a summer internship at Tom Ford. Grace knew that the very best designers worked in Paris, and she’d believed that until she had a chance to prove her talent in the biggest and toughest arena in the world, she’d never be happy.
Aunt Louise had told Grace of Mrs. Beabots’s former life in Paris, where she had “done something” at Chanel, though no one in town was certain what, since Mrs. Beabots was as tight-lipped, as Louise put it, as the seal on a coffin. Grace had gotten to know Mrs. Beabots during her visits to Indian Lake in high school. Grace had taken an instant liking to the older woman and they shared an admiration for beautifully made clothes. Mrs. Beabots had eventually suggested Grace sketch the dresses she envisioned and send them to her. Grace did precisely that. Throughout high school and college, Grace had corresponded with Mrs. Beabots, sending drawings and photos of her designs. Grace had pleaded with her her aunt to enlist Mrs. Beabots’s help in making connections in Paris, and by that autumn after her college graduation, Grace was on a plane headed to Paris as an assistant to an assistant at Jean Paul Gaultier. Grace’s penchant for perfectionism had gotten her noticed within weeks and she had been challenging herself ever since. Now she was an independent designer with her own team, hoping they would be “brought on” to a top couture house. Under an iconic umbrella, they would have respect, clout and the freedom to create their own line of clothing and accessories, with Grace’s name and logo stamped on every ensemble. They would have security and respect. Fortunately, up to this point, her designs had sold enough to keep them all afloat. Barely.
No question about it. If not for Mrs. Beabots, Grace would not be anywhere near where she was now.
“So are you here for the party as well? Odd we haven’t met. I would remember you...” Despite racing through his questions, Dylan spoke with a dash of charm that was so light most would miss it. Grace did not.
“What a nice thing to say. Thank you. But no, I’m not invited to the party, though I knew Isabelle years ago.” She paused, her mind floating back to that summer, when all of Sarah Jensen’s friends hung out together. Barbecues. Slumber parties. Pool parties... Grace wrenched her thoughts back to the present. “Actually, I’m helping my Aunt Louise. Perhaps you know her. Louise Railton?”
He snapped his fingers. “The Louise House! An Indian Lake institution.”
Grace flashed him a grin. “I’ll tell her you said so.”
The train slowed as it neared the town. Blazing maple, oak and walnut trees hugged the crystal blue lake like bejeweled arms. White clouds scudded across the sky, the sun dazzling Grace’s eyes.
The train jerked to a stop.
“Indian Lake! Indian Lake!”
Adrenaline raced through Grace’s body as she shot to her feet. “We’re here!”
“So we are,” Dylan replied, putting his iPad in his briefcase. “It was nice meeting you, Grace.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you around town,” she said as she gathered her oversize black fringed purse and two large totes, one of which held her laptop, iPad and sketchbook.
“I’m not here all that often. I live in Lincoln Park and work in downtown Chicago. Prosecuting attorney. In case you wanted to know.”
A blush colored Grace’s face. “I apologize for my manners. My head’s been in another world...”
“I could tell.” His mouth quirked in an impish grin.
Dylan slipped out of his seat and walked away.
Way to go, Grace. Nice guy and you blow him off. When are you going to get a life? A real one? She slung her purse and one of the totes over her shoulder, then bumped her way down the aisle toward the exit.
Carefully, Grace negotiated the narrow metal steps down to the pavement. For the first time on her trip, she questioned the importance of her fashionable, but apparently impractical, boots.
The conductor waited until she disembarked before unloading her overweight bags. One by one, he slammed them against the concrete and then sneered at her. “What’ve you got in there? Rocks?”
“Vitamins.” She reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew the cash she’d agreed to pay him.
He touched his hand to the bill