Reckless In Love (The Maverick Billionaires #2)(50)

“This dress is lovely,” her mother said, blissfully unaware of all the thoughts making Charlie’s stomach roil. Charlie had taken a short break from working on the chariot yesterday and had been lucky enough to find a dress she thought might work. Her mother held up the garment in her gnarled fingers. “We can certainly do something with it.”

But it wouldn’t be we. Mom’s fingers had flown with a needle and thread, creating beauty from scraps, but she’d had to give up sewing long ago. Fortunately, she’d taught Charlie to sew, both by hand and by machine.

“What we’re going to do,” her mother said in her usual upbeat way—indomitable was the word Sebastian had used, “is take in a couple of darts to mold the bodice of the camisole to your chest.” She pinched the material, demonstrating. “Think an Anne Boleyn style. Almost a bustier.”

“I like that.”

Her mom pointed to the matching skirt. “We’ll take a little nip here, a little tuck there, and size the waistband down.”

Charlie tried not to wince that it had come to this, her mother verbally directing her on how not to screw up the inexpensive outfit she’d bought at a consignment store. She’d found a pair of high-heeled sandals too, and a clutch with some of its beads ready to fall off. She’d told Sebastian she wouldn’t embarrass him. Her mother was her only hope of keeping that promise.

“Put the camisole on over your T-shirt and pin it.” Mom held up the pincushion. Her fingers were no longer nimble enough to hold a pin without dropping it.

Charlie finished pinning. “What do you think?”

“Perfect.” The smile on her mother’s face was as big as if she were viewing a model at a fashion show rather than the daughter who had always been far more comfortable in steel-toed boots than she would ever be in heels and dresses.

Her mother had adored sewing. She’d loved baking. There were so many things she’d had to give up. It was like losing a piece of herself every time another thing she loved was taken away.

But she still walked that mile every day. And she always did it with a smile.

Charlie undid the short zipper at the back and shrugged out of the camisole. “Sebastian made you famous the other day.”

“He did?” Her mother sipped her tea.

“He gave a talk in Los Angeles to thousands of people, and he told them about your arthritis and how you force yourself to walk a mile a day. Then he challenged the entire audience to walk their own mile every day.”

Charlie started the dart, using a backstitch to secure it. She poked a finger, then sucked on it so the material wouldn’t stain.

“That’s sweet of him. But a mile isn’t very much.” Mom pointed at the dart. “Go over it once more with a backstitch.”

Charlie switched directions, rolling the material over her index finger. “It depends on how far your mile is, doesn’t it? And how hard it is.”

“I suppose.” Her mother was quiet for a long moment. “How long is your mile, Charlie?”

She tied off the thread and snipped the ends, laughing a little as she admitted, “I’m not even sure what my mile is.”

Was it the chariot? All her art? The commissions? A big-money art career? Was it Magnolia Gardens for her mother? Maybe it was the pleasure she got from teaching. Despite yet another letter from the school she’d shoved into the drawer just yesterday without making a firm decision, teaching her students how to create art from what everyone else thought was junk had always made Charlie feel good.

But was that it? Or could her mile be falling recklessly for Sebastian? Not part of the way, but risking it all, every ounce of her heart and soul.

“It’s all right, dear,” her mother said as though she could read Charlie’s confusion in the frown on her face. “You’ve got all the time in the world to figure it out.”

But she didn’t. She only had a little over a month until the chariot had to be completed. After that, she wouldn’t see Sebastian day in and day out, wouldn’t have dinner with him, discuss her day with him. Wouldn’t have the pleasure of knowing he might drop by for a kiss at any moment, when just the sight of him would brighten her entire world.

“Let’s finish the sewing,” her mother said, “and think about the rest later. I have an idea for fixing the beads on the purse too.”

Yes, Charlie thought. Finish the sewing. Worry later.

Or, better yet, she could try to make herself believe what Sebastian had told her dozens of times since they’d first met—that everything was going to work out beyond her wildest dreams. In which case, there would be more parties like this one to deal with, more dresses to find and fix, more hours of work to squeeze in—

Stop. She was borrowing trouble again. Especially since she was only a fraction of the seamstress her mother was and needed one hundred percent focus to get it right.

Putting her head down, she began to sew as though her life depended on it. And right then, if it meant managing to make Sebastian proud of her at the big hotel gala, it felt as though her life and her future actually did depend on this one dress.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


For the night of the gala at the Regent Hotel, Walter Braedon had comped Charlie and Sebastian the penthouse suite, so they headed over early that afternoon to dress for the evening.