Designed By Fate

By Cameron Hart

Nolan: Karma may be a b*tch, but fate is a goddess. And my fate is a tasty little brunette with curves for days, who was wearing one of the dresses I designed a few seasons ago. At thirty-four, I'm one of the top fashion designers in the industry. But lately, I've been feeling restless. Unsatisfied. Like something's missing. Something like the voluptuous woman I met by chance at the park the other day. She's too young for me, too innocent. And yet… One look in her warm, curious, eyes and I'm a goner. My honeybee isn't used to being taken care of, so I'll have to go slow. But make no mistake, she's mine forever.

 

Wilow: I didn't even know who he was! The tall, chiseled, stupidly handsome man who complimented my dress at the park was Nolan freaking Blackwell. And apparently, I was wearing one of his dresses. I found it at a thrift store, which I told him. Because I'm an idiot who has no filter. I have no idea what someone as rich, handsome, and powerful as Nolan would want with me, but he's relentless in his pursual. I'm chubby nobody, about to be evicted, and loaded with abandonment issues to boot. Oh, and my only friend is a cat named Fluffles. So, yeah. I'm quite a catch. If he doesn't stop being so sweet and protective of me, I'm gonna fall for him. Hard. I don't know if I could survive someone like Nolan Blackwell…

 

What to expect from a Cameron Hart book: Lots of heat, plenty of sweet, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. No cheating, safe, guaranteed HEA!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Hart
• Release date: Jun 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227429490

Cameron Hart

Hello. I'm Cameron Hart, and I write sweet steamy romances. I’m a USA Today Bestselling author with over forty books available. I write romance with lots of heat, plenty of sweet, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. I graduated from the Iowa Writer’s Workshop in 2012 with a degree in creative writing. When I’m not working on my next book, I can be found reading, crocheting, doing yoga, and chasing around my grumpy cats. **What to expect from a Cameron Hart book: Lots of heat, plenty of sweet, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. No cheating, safe, guaranteed HEA!**

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One look at the stunning waitress carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I’m a goner. I wasn’t looking for a sweet little thing with auburn hair and more baggage than I can fit on the back of my bike, but there’s no going back now. She’s mine. I’ll prove to her I’m more than capable of handling her past and making her feel safe again.

Chapter 1

Nolan

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, I growl over the phone in frustration.

Um, no, I’m sorry, sir. I wouldn’t joke about something like this. I have the email right here—

I believe you, Lawrence, I just... Fuck!

I have to take my phone away from my ear and pull air into my lungs in an attempt to calm down. It’s not my assistant’s fault the fabric from my supplier is going to be another two weeks late and I’ll have to source the printed silk from elsewhere.

Sir? Are you still there? I hear Lawrence ask through the phone.

I rub my temples, massaging away the tension headache threatening to bring me to my knees. This is no time to crumble. It’s time to own my mistake and come up with a brilliant plan to save the day. I’m getting too old for this shit.

I’m here. I sigh.

What can I do to help? Are you going to be back in the office soon?

No, nothing for you to do right now. I was on my way back to the office, but I think I need to take a walk and air out some of this tension before diving into problem-solving mode.

Whatever you think is best, sir.

I grumble some sort of goodbye and resist the urge to throw my phone against the side of the brick building I’m currently leaning against. That would just be one more hurdle I’d have to jump through before putting out this current dumpster fire of a situation.

Taking a deep breath, I make my way towards the park across the street from my office and studio space. I see this little park from my corner office every day, but I’ve never actually been here.

At thirty-four, I’m one of the top fashion designers in the industry. I didn’t set out to amass a fashion empire, it just sort of worked out that way. There are probably dozens of people more talented than I am, but I had good connections, busted my ass on my first line, and a had a little help from fate. Here I am, fourteen years later, on top of the fashion world.

Most of my money is made from custom couture pieces for celebrities, royalty, and powerful families. However, I’ve always had a line of clothing shown off at the New York fashion week in September. I used to do the February fashion week in New York as well, along with Paris, Milan, London, and Tokyo, of course.

I've scaled back the last few years, however. My head isn't in the game anymore. Hence this latest disaster. The silk I wanted for the dress I’m working on is hard to procure outside of India, but I found a supplier in China who promised it in half the time, for about half the cost.

It was too good to be true, but the offer fell in my lap and I didn't have the time or energy to research it any further. The joke's on me, because not only did the supplier lie about the timetable, but now I find out it's not even the right kind of silk. I should have known. You know what they say about karma.

Just then, I turn the corner and see a vision sitting on a park bench not thirty feet away from me. Karma may be a bitch, but fate is a goddess. And my fate is a tasty little brunette with curves for days, wearing one of my dresses from a few seasons ago.

The dress is a flowing sarong made from a square piece of fabric that drapes down, the four corners making up the hemline. The lowest corner hits about mid-calf, while the higher points hit just above the knee. The print is a beautiful design that was hand-printed in a small village in Indonesia.

From here, I can see that the woman has cinched the dress at the waist with a small, braided belt, which serves to show off her voluptuous figure. I have to talk to her. Like I said, fate is truly a goddess.

I can’t explain my body’s reaction to this woman. I’m around gorgeous women every day, both as colleagues and models. I’ve had my fair share of offers from both, but I’ve never indulged. Mixing business with pleasure never ends well, especially in my line of work. In fact, I haven’t been with anyone since...God, I can’t even remember.

The curvy little vixen sitting alone on the park bench has my chest tightening and stomach flipping with every step closer I take. Never have I felt this way about someone. It’s not just at the physical level, either. As cheesy as it sounds, something soul-deep is changing. Shifting. Settling.

And then the beauty looks up at me. I’m a goner.

I’m met with honey-colored eyes full of warmth and curiosity. It’s like she’s seeing the world for the first time, and I get to experience it all with her. She’s just that fucking captivating.

I’m surprised when she doesn’t recognize me right away. It’s not that I’m movie-star-famous or anything. Anyone outside of the fashion industry or upper echelons of society probably wouldn’t recognize my face, though everyone knows my name. This beauty is wearing one of my designs, so she must have some idea of who I am.

That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, I say, hoping to jog her memory. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not in the normal context she’d think of me in. But, no, there’s no spark of recognition in her eyes. Interesting.

Oh, thank you! she gushes, her face lighting up with the most brilliant smile. I found it at a cute little thrift store last week! I think it’s some fancy designer something or other. Lucky me, huh?

I should probably be offended one of my dresses ended up in a second-hand store, but the way she’s talking about her treasure of a find has me feeling warm all over and drawing me further into her charm.

Laughter bubbles out of me. God, it feels good. Strange, but good.

Lucky you indeed, I chuckle, staring into those stunning eyes of hers and watching her cheeks turn a lovely pink.

She’s hardly wearing any makeup, another refreshing thing about her. It feels like she’s letting me see her, really see her. It’s oddly vulnerable, though I’m sure she has no idea. God, she’s so young. More than ten years my junior.

Do you want to sit down? she asks, already scooting over and moving her lunch off the other half of the bench.

How could I refuse an offer from such a beautiful woman? I say, giving her my most charming smile.

She ignores my compliment, even picking at the crust of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich to avoid eye contact. Odd. Usually, women eat up my compliments and beg for more. I decide to press her a little bit, see if she really doesn't know who I am.

Do you know who designed the dress? I ask.

Why, are you looking for something for your girlfriend? As soon as the words pop out, she slaps a hand over her mouth and turns red as a tomato. Ohmygod, I can’t believe I said that out loud, she mumbles into her hand.

I chuckle again, the tight ball of stress in my stomach from my earlier phone call loosening a little more. No, no girlfriend to speak of, I assure her. Just curious, I guess.

I get that. I ask a lot of questions too. My teachers all said I should be a journalist, but I don’t have the people skills for that. Hence the word vomit earlier. She darts her eyes up to mine and smiles shyly. As for the dress, I think it’s Nate something? Or Norman? Neiman? No, wait, that’s a store. It must be Norman. Bergdorf. Wait, that’s another store. Norman...Brownstone, I think. She nods her head in satisfaction at naming the designer. Fucking adorable.

Could it be Nolan Blackwell? I ask with a grin.

Yes! That’s it. I was surprised to find something so fancy in my size. But then again, this is so flowy anyone could wear it, even me, she says casually before taking a bite of her sandwich.

Even you? I ask, confused. Surely a classic knockout like her isn’t self-conscious of her body.

Yeah, you know. Thick thighs, belly pooch, too much junk in the trunk. Ironic that my name is Willow, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever been described as willowy. Oh my gosh, I don’t know why I said all of that. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, muttering to herself and picking off breadcrumbs from her dress.

There’s so much