Appearances aren’t always what they seem, especially in Hidden Seams by Alessandra Torre. Read an exclusive excerpt from the book here!
About ‘Hidden Seams’ by Alessandra Torre:
A billion-dollar fashion empire, and it’s about to be mine…
I’ve worked a decade for this. I’ve sold my soul and my reputation. I’ve lived a lie, smiled for the cameras, and hated myself, all for this inheritance.
And then … she pops up. A mysterious heir with a rap sheet, combat boots, and a mouth that I want to pin shut with my—
It doesn’t matter. I’ve played this game for a decade. I can continue the charade a little longer, keep my hands to myself and her body out of my mind. I can keep my secret until the ink dries and everything is mine.
‘Hidden Seams’ by Alessandra Torre exclusive excerpt:
I need out – away from this party, from their chants, from the weight of Vince that hangs in every room, the stitch of every garment, the scent of every room. Everywhere I look, there are memories. Everything I feel is a weight of obligation and expectation, this party a brief distraction before the real work begins—running one of the world’s largest fashion brands. I’ve prepared for it for years, but still—in this moment of insecurity—it’s daunting.
I jerk my fingers through my hair, aggressively digging them into my scalp and loosening the product. The Rolls pulls forward, out of the garage, and when it skids to a stop, it is in the gracefully soft way of a bowling ball landing on nine stacks of pillows. I look forward in time to hear Edward curse and to see a silent combination of arms and fabric roll onto the hood of the car.
Fuck. For one of the first times in years, I open my own door and step into the cool night. The house barely insulates the sound of the crowd and the music, and on the air is the scent of sweat and colognes, perfumes and engine exhaust. My boots click along the cobblestones as I jog to the front of the car. There, in a heap of combat boots, skinny jeans and a knockoff jacket from Burberry’s 2014 line—is a woman. Arms splayed, back awkwardly bent across a bag of some sort, blood already bright red and brilliant on what might be a beautiful face.
Edward pales at sight of me. “Sir. Please. If you return to the car, I can—”
Behind us, I hear the faint sound of the Rolls attendant asking, through the car’s speakers, if we need assistance.
“Edward, talk to them.” I point to the car, and crouch beside her, carefully moving the dark hair away from her face, her eyes opening, moving wildly, then focusing on my face.
Contact. She smiles, and I place a hand on the ground to keep from pedaling backward in response.
I can’t be around a smile like that. Even covered in blood, it’s dangerous. Tempting. Mischievous.
“Are you okay?” I force my eyes off her face, and I survey the rest of her, my hands carefully patting her down and accounting for each limb and joint, all which seem, miraculously enough, to be in proper working order.
“Can a great horned owl smell?”
I stare at her blankly, and she scrunches up her face and laughs. The action produces a fresh current of blood, and she immediately stops, her hand lifting to her face in the same moment that I reach for it.
“Shit.” She blinks rapidly, likely up to the sky, her weight heavy in my arms. “That hurts.”
“Can a great horned owl smell?” I ask her, and if not the most idiotic conversation I’ve had all day, it is certainly the most interesting. She’s soft. Feminine. Underneath the disastrous combination of punk fashion and plaid, she has curves. Warmth. I lean forward in the guise of peering at her nose and smell, through the car exhaust and the scents of the alley – a light scent. I force myself to pull away. I should get in the car. Let the staff deal with this. Put as much distance as possible between me and her.
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