Oh, and my ability to sew.

And flirt with a stranger on an impersonal device.

My phone buzzed—a reminder my inbox had something delicious for me to read. And it would be delicious.

Dammit. The urge to look almost broke my self-control. What the hell was he doing messaging me? We knew nothing about each other. We shared nothing but dirty fantasies. My mind once again jumped back to the first relay of texts.

Kite007: Shit, you’re a nun? Sorry…what’s the correct term of address…sister? I apologise for the incorrectly sent message. Despite your Godly perfection and sheltering, you deduced correctly. It was in fact very sexual. The woman in mind would never be welcomed into a sanctity such as yours.

I’d had no reply to that, but he’d sent another twenty minutes later.

Kite007: Sister…I need absolution. I find myself consumed with the image of a sexy nun stripping and sliding into a hot bath with chocolate sauce on her lips. Does that make me the devil, or are you for making me lust for someone I shouldn’t?

For the first time in my life, I’d felt the rush of power and need. This unknown man lusted for me. He’d replied based on what I’d sent. He’d been right about the blushing, but only because I was sheltered, not because I’d decided to dress in black and white garb for the rest of my life. I came from rainbow fabric; I drank textile ink as mothers’ milk. I learned to sew before I could walk. I could never become a nun, purely because of the boring fashion choices.

My fingers shook as I messaged him back.

Needle&Thread: I’m blushing but happen to be wearing something a lot more interesting than black and white or a boring shift.

I had no idea what made me reply. I’d never been so bold and he was taken—obviously. He’d been messaging a girl.

Kite007: Oh, see…you can’t say things like that to a complete stranger who mistakenly messaged a hot nun who doesn’t conform to the dress code picked out by God. Tell me.

Needle&Thread: Tell you what?

Kite007: What are you wearing?

And that was where I freaked. He could be a ninety-year-old pervert who’d tracked down my number from one of my runway shows to stalk me. Nothing was as it seemed in today’s world—I should know. I create clothing that stays together purely by a miracle.

Not to mention my father would kill whoever he was. He wasn’t exactly tolerant, my doting, dear ole’ dad.

Needle&Thread: I hope you find the person you were trying to contact. Enjoy your night of sexual torture. Goodbye.

I’d closed my phone and done exactly what I’d said. Microwaved a chocolate pudding and slid into a hot bath. Only to be interrupted by a reply.

And another.

And another.

I lost count of how many messages I received. I managed to ignore him for five hours, but then my innocent soul became corrupted by a man I’d never met.

“What do you say?” Vaughn pursed his lips, accenting his well-formed jaw and rounded cheekbones.

I blinked, shattering memories of phone flirting, dumping me back into the hot, stuffy venue of fashionistas.

“Huh?”

“Tonight. You. Me. A bottle of tequila and some bad decisions.” My brother rolled his eyes. “I’m not having you holed away in your hotel room on your own—not after a show like this.” Vaughn’s voice cajoled, his face—a cross between a cherub-faced youth and heartbreaker man—implored. I could never say no to him. Just like countless other women. It didn’t help he was heir to a textile business that’d been in our family since the fifteenth century and a seriously good catch.

We had pedigree.

History.

The bond between past and present. Dreams and requirements. Freedom and obligation. We had plenty of it, and the weight of what was expected of me hammered me further and further into the ground.

“No tequila. No night clubs. Let me unwind in peace. I need some quiet after the hectic day I’ve had.”

“All the more to get messy on a dance floor.” Vaughn grabbed my elbow, attempting to swing me around in a complicated dance move.

I stumbled. “Get your grubby hands off me, V.” Vaughn was the only one who didn’t inherit a nickname based on the industry that consumed not only our lives but our ancestors, too.

“That’s no way to speak to your brother, Threads.”

“What’s this? My two offspring fighting?”

I rolled my eyes as the distinguished silhouette of my father appeared from the crowd of buyers, designers, and movie starlets all there to witness the new season of fashion in Milan. His dark brown eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Congratulations, sweetheart.”

Vaughn let me go, relinquishing his sibling hug for a paternal squeeze. My arms slinked around the toned middle of my father. Archibald Weaver still had the Weaver signature thick black hair with a straight spine, sharp mind, and ruggedly handsome face. He only became more fetching the older he got.

“Hey. I didn’t think you’d arrive in time.” Pulling away, I inhaled his strong cologne. I wished mum was still around to see him evolve from distracted parent to fantastic support system. I never knew why we weren’t close when I was young. He’d been sour, grumpy, and…lost. But he’d never burdened Vaughn or me with what troubled him. He remained a strict single parent, raising us motherless from eleven years old.

“I managed to get an earlier flight. Couldn’t miss your headline show.”

Another message came through, the vibration particularly violent. I shuddered and blocked all thoughts of the nameless man trying to get my attention.

“I’m glad. However, all you’re going to see is your daughter shuffle down the runway, overshadowed by gorgeous models, and then trip off the end.”

My father laughed, his critical eye perusing my gown. “Corset, tulle, and the new midnight-galaxy material—I doubt anyone will overshadow you.”

“Help me convince her to join me tonight. We could all go out together,” Vaughn said.

Great. Another night with two men—neither of whom I can avoid to acquire a real relationship.

I often felt like a kitten brought up by two tigers. They never let me grow up. Never permitted my own claws to form or teeth to sharpen.

My father nodded. “Your brother is right. It’s been a few months since we were together. Let’s make a night of it. Some of your best work is on display. You’ve made me very proud, Nila, and it’s time to celebrate.”