“Maybe she was embarrassed?”
“Or, maybe she was paparazzi?” I counter.
Tiffany snorts with laughter. “You think you were papped? Why?”
Wounded, I reply, “Because of my fall. I was in the news.”
“They never found out your name, babe. You were just some model who fell into a famous guy’s lap. And anyway, that’s yesterday’s news.”
Relief washes over me. “You’re right. Thanks. I knew you’d put me straight.”
“Anytime.” She picks up her phone and returns to her ‘conversation’.
I nod at her phone. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
She grins. “Scott. He’s so hot.”
“Yep.” He might be a prized ass but I have to agree with her: he is hot.
“When did he and your sister break up?” she asks.
“Oh, ages ago. He cheated on her.”
Tiffany appears entirely unconcerned. “Her loss, my gain. He’s so great in the sack. He’s, how can I say? Resourceful. Quite the imagination on that one.” She raises her eyebrows suggestively.
I put my hand up. “I don’t want to know.”
“Your funeral.” Her phone pings—yet again—and she returns her attention to it.
Before I’m forced to witness more photography, I take the opportunity to check in on Taylor. I knock quietly on her door.
“If that’s you, Tiffany, you can go roll in a cow pat.”
“It’s me, Grace. Can I come in?” No response. “Please?”
She opens the door a crack. “Only you.”
I nod. I enter the room, closing the door behind me.
“What’s happened? You don’t seem . . . yourself.”
Her eyes are rimmed with red, a pile of tissues on her bed.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
Not convincing.
I sit on the end of her bed as she cuddles up to her pillow, looking thoroughly wretched. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” She gets another tissue and noisily blows her nose. “It’s just Tiffany’s so… so… confident. You know she’s got loose morals, don’t you?”
I chortle. “Loose morals? Have we been supplanted into an E. M. Forster novel all of a sudden? Taylor, honey, this is not new information.”
Tiffany is all those things, but I accept it about her. She’s also full of fun and can even be sweet at times. You just need to know how to bring it out of her.
“Yeah, well, it feels new to me,” Taylor grumps.
“Okay,” I reply uncertainly. “Why does it bother you now?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
At the risk of sounding like my mother once again, I comment, “I think you do.”
She sighs. Seems to decide something. “Okay, here’s the thing. It’s that guy. The one I told you about?”
“The one you’ve fancied forever?”
She nods, looking grim.
“Ah. You asked him out and he said no, huh?”
“Something like that. Let’s just say he’s made it clear he’s not interested in me.” She hangs her head.
“Oh, Taylor. I’m so sorry.” I rub her arm.
Another sigh. “It was bound to happen. I’m hardly his type. He goes for the beautiful, skinny girls with great boobs. Not short, fat chicks from the farm like me.”
“You’re not short and fat! You’re gorgeous. You need to get yourself a mirror if you think that.”
Her eyes brim with tears. “Thanks for being nice. You’re a total liar, though.”
“Did you see yourself when you got all dressed up for work the other day? You looked a-mazing. So hot.”
“You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” she comments glumly.
I disregard her negativity, partially because I’ve no idea what a sow’s ear is.
“Believe me, Taylor. Any guy would be lucky to have you.”
A faint smile appears on her face, vanishes. “I don’t want any guy. I want this one. And he doesn’t want me.”
“That sucks.”
“I guess that’s the way it goes for me. I don’t look like you or Tiffany so I don’t get the guys. I know I’m just a country girl at heart. Didn’t you used to joke I thought a seven course meal was a leg of lamb and a six-pack?”
I laugh. “I think that might have been Tiffany. And you have to admit, it’s quite funny.”
She gives a begrudging shrug.
“And excuse me, when did I last get a guy? I haven’t had a boyfriend in freaking years. I’m like some sort of anti-men-magnet, repelling them at every turn.”
The faint smile returns. “You could get a guy if you wanted to.”
Deciding it’s a lost cause I take a different approach. “Look, I’ve got an hour before I need to get to the show. You know what we’re going to do? We’re going to get you into your workout clothes and we’re going to go for a run. Deal?”
She shakes her head. “No, thanks.”
“Come on,” I reply, hauling her off her bed by her arms. “Time to stop feeling sorry for yourself. And once the Wearable Arts is over we’re getting all dressed up and going out for a night on the town.”
With reluctance, she pulls her running gear out of her chest of drawers. “Thanks, Grace. You’re the best.”
“No, I’m not, but I’ll take it anyway. Race you to the rotunda?”
She grins. “Prepare to lose, my city slicker friend. Prepare to lose.”
Chapter 6
MY HANDS ARE SWEATY as I knock on the door of Room 1123 of the Royal Hotel. The receptionist has already rung ahead, so my arrival at Rick Deckard’s suite will come as no surprise.
This is my first official duty for Estil, and I want it to go smoothly.
A large African American man with a shaved head answers the door.
“Ah, Mr Deckard?” I ask, confused. This guy has to be eighty pounds more than I was expecting. And these suits I’m carrying? There’s no way he’ll fit them.
His laugh booms down the corridor. “No, no. Grace Mortimer from Estil, right?”
I nod. The penny drops: he must be one of Rick Deckard’s friends. Or his assistant. Or something.
“Come on in,” he says.
I follow him through the door into the lush suite interior. For such a modern hotel it’s decorated very traditionally, with beautiful cream brocade sofas, paintings of some of New Zealand’s striking landscape adorning the walls, tasteful Turkish rugs on the floor. There are large bunches of expensive looking flowers dotted around the spacious room, soft classical music playing from the discreet speakers.
“Take a seat,” Not-Rick Deckard offers. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Sure, thanks.” I place the suit bags over the back of one of the sofas and sit down in a high-backed chair, looking out onto the city’s harbour. This Rick Deckard sure has some cash.
A moment later Not-Rick Deckard reappears. “Right this way, Miss Mortimer.”
“Sure, great. Thanks. And call me Grace.” I grab a hold of the clothes and follow him through the door into one of the bedrooms.
“Sure.” Booming laugh again.
I’m not sure what’s so funny.
Curiosity is getting the better of me now. Who is this guy?
I follow him into a bedroom housing the largest bed I’ve ever seen, covered in soft pillows, the very height of luxury. I can hear the shower running in the adjacent bathroom.
“This is Miss Mortimer.”
“Grace,” I reply firmly once again.
“Sure. This is Grace.”
“I know you’re humouring me, but thank you,” I whisper.
“No problem,” he replies, winking at me.
I turn from Not-Rick Deckard to meet the real deal. I’m midway through extending my hand to shake his when a jolt hits me, smack, right between the eyes.
It’s him.
“Grace. Hello.” His piercing blue eyes zero in on my face as he takes my hand in his.
I blush as red
as a Santa suit—without the large belly to fill it and the white, furry trim, of course.
“Ah, yes . . . hello, Mr Montgomery,” I stammer.
Get a hold of yourself, woman!
Maybe he won’t remember me, maybe I was just some weird thing that happened to him that’s now exited his brain cells, never to return. Maybe I can do my job without the humiliation of my fall hanging over me.
Still holding my hand, he searches my face. “It’s nice to see you again. How’s the graze? Healing nicely by the looks of things.”
Ok, so maybe not.
“It’s . . . it’s fine. As you can see. Just fine. Thank you. Thank you for asking.”
We’re still holding hands. It’s wonderful and exciting and strange, all at the same time. But mainly wonderful. Yes, definitely mainly wonderful.
His mouth curves in a slow smile, his eyes crinkling oh-so attractively. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Oh, that accent.
I swallow. Hard. “And you? Your, ah, arms? Are your arms okay?”
Geez.
He chuckles gently. It’s soft and rich, like vanilla ice cream smothered in warm chocolate sauce. It shoots through me, warming my belly.
“My arms are just fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Good. Good.” I can’t tear my eyes from his face. From those eyes.
“Are these the clothes?” He gestures to my other hand—the one not still clutching onto his.
I nod my head a couple of times. I hope he thinks it’s a nod of affirmation and not what it is—an attempt to pull myself together.
Concentrate, Grace: this is your job.
“Ah, yes. Yes. Sorry.” With reluctance, I pull my hand away from his. “These are your suits and your wife’s—” I trail off.
Sam Montgomery isn’t married so he doesn’t have a wife. These dresses must be for his girlfriend, the impossibly beautiful Vanessa Hudson.
“Not my wife.” His smile is in full bloom now.
It does things to my belly, deep down.
“No. Yes. Your girlfriend. Your girlfriend’s dresses. That’s what these are: your girlfriend’s dresses.”
That laugh again. God, help me.
“Thanks. Vanessa will be with us shortly. Why don’t you do me first?”
Do him? My tummy gives a little flip.
“Ah, yes, of course. Let’s . . . ah do you, as you say.”
I place the suit bags on the bed—the bed!—and unzip one of them. Damn! Wrong one. These are Vanessa’s dresses. My fingers fumble with the zip on the second bag. Finally, I get it open and pull out the first suit.
“This is the Jonathon Langbein,” I say, checking the label. “Here.” With trembling hands—god, I’m ridiculous—I pass him the suit.
As he takes it from me his fingers brush mine. Of course they do.
The air feels like it’s been sucked from my lungs.
I clear my throat. “Why don’t I step out for a moment, give you your privacy? If you need me I’ll be right through that door.”
“Sure, thanks.” He’s still smiling that gorgeous smile.
I turn and leave, my heart thumping up against my ribcage, as though it’s trying to escape.
With the bedroom door closed safely behind me I exhale, my head a-buzz. Now that was one of the more embarrassing encounters of my life. Why did I stammer? Why could I barely pull a coherent sentence together?
“That tough, huh?” It’s Not-Rick-Deckard.
“Hey. No, I, ah, I forgot something, that’s all.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry. It happens to a lot of people. Sam’s big news right now.”
He thinks I’m star-struck? Huh. I guess that’s a possibility. My heart surges at the possibility. I’m star-struck, I don’t have a crush.
Problem is, I don’t get star-struck.
One time in Italy I saw George Clooney. In the flesh. George Clooney, possibly the most lusted-after man in the universe. I felt nothing. Sure, I admired his confidence, his good looks, but star-struck? No.
I smile at Not-Rick-Deckard. If he wants to believe I’m star-struck then I’m not going to stand in his way.
We wait in awkward silence for a while until my need to fill the void overtakes me. “I didn’t catch your name?”
“Trent. I’m Vanessa Hudson’s bodyguard.”
“Nice to meet you, Trent. I’m giving Sam a moment to . . . you know.”
“Sure.” He gives me a knowing smile.
I ignore it, choosing instead to walk off my nerves.
“This is an incredible view.” I look out of the floor-to-ceiling window at the city and harbour eleven storeys down.
“Sure is. It’s a real pretty place.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Anyway—” I begin just as he says, “I have—”
“I’m sorry, what were you going to say, Trent?”
“I have some things to do. I’ll see you later. Make yourself comfortable. I’m sure Sam will be out in a moment.”
“Great.”
Thankfully our awkward exchange is interrupted by the bedroom door opening.
Sam Montgomery walks into the room wearing the suit I’d brought for him, looking even sexier than he had just a few moments ago—which I didn’t think was humanly possible. Shows you how much I know.
“This one fits pretty well, I think. It may need to be taken in a little, though.”
He looks at himself in the full-length mirror and I can’t help but admire his body. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders and long, toned legs.
The pants look like they fit pretty darn perfectly to me.
“Hmmm,” I reply, words deserting me once more.
Come on!
“I can, ah, have a look, if you like?”
“That would be good. Thanks.”
The butterflies in my belly flutter their wings as I stand a few feet away from him, looking down at his pants—trying my best not to think about what’s in them.
“They do appear to be a little, ah, loose here.” I indicate the front of his pants with a swirling motion of my hands.
“In the crotch? Is that where you mean?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye.
“Yes, I believe that’s the . . . ah . . . the common word often used to describe that part of the anatomy. Yes. There.”
I begin to sweat. My eyes dart around the room. I need to look anywhere but at Sam right now.
“Okay.” He turns from side to side, looking in the mirror at the area in question. “How about I try on the next suit and see how that looks?”
“Great idea.” I gush with relief.
Alone in the living room I give myself a stern talking to. Sam’s a client, not Mr Sexy Knight; he’s not flirting with me; he has a girlfriend; I’m a professional stylist’s assistant, here to do a job.
I pause, repeat it to myself again.
When he walks back into the room in a tux, looking like he could give James Bond a serious run for his money, I realise it’s all utterly futile.
“It looks like these are the right length, but we have the same issue again.”
I look down the pants at his crotch, concentrating hard on being professional. Having worked in fashion my whole career I’ve fitted clothes on people before. Hell, I’m a proficient seamstress. This should be easy, run-of-the-mill stuff for me.
It’s not.
“I’ll get my tape measure and we’ll see what we can do.” I walk unsteadily to my bag and pull my tape measure out. The butterflies in my belly have been replaced with a troupe of acrobats doing a series of high-octane flips.
“I’ll, ah, get your measurements now and take the suit back to the store.”
“Thanks, Grace. That would be great.”
With a deep breath, I kneel in front of him, my face at crotch level. I try to concentrate on the pants, not the man. I push away the image of how this would look if anyone were to walk in on us right now.
With unsteady, sweaty hands I unravel my tape measur
e, trying not to notice how tight and toned his butt feels. I fail abysmally. As I wrap my arms around him my face knocks lightly against his crotch. My blush deepens.
Is there any chance he didn’t notice that?
He clears his throat.
That would be a no.
The measurement taken, I bolt back up to my feet, light-headed with relief.
“How about my leg measurement?” he asks, a smirk teasing the edges of his mouth.
“Leg measurement? Sure,” I squeak, reverting to my impression of Minnie Mouse. I take the tape and measure the length of his leg, writing it down on my notepad.
“I meant the inside measurement.”
I dart him a look, check he’s serious. He has a cheeky grin plastered across his face.
He’s enjoying this!
I swallow hard, mustering my steely reserve.
He’s just a man, he’s just a man, he’s just a man.
I hold the tape measure at his foot and run it up the inside of his leg until I . . . bump his . . . err . . . manhood again. I snatch my hand away as quickly as I can.
Kill. Me. Now.
“Miss Mortimer, shouldn’t you at least let me buy you a drink first?” he says.
My eyes dart to his face. Is he flirting with me?
I laugh nervously. Ignoring his comment, I stand up. “All done. I’ll get those tailored to suit. When do you need them back?”
“We need them tomorrow,” a soft and silky American voice says from behind me.
I turn to see Vanessa Hudson wearing the full-length grey satin evening gown I brought, her auburn hair curling about her shoulders, her porcelain skin glowing.
She’s breathtakingly beautiful.
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
What did she see? Surely not me inadvertently touching up her boyfriend?
I contemplate hurling myself out the window.
In an attempt to regain at least a morsel of professionalism, I extend my hand. “I’m Grace Mortimer, from Estil. It’s nice to meet you, Ms Hudson.”
She shakes my hand. “You too. These dresses are simply gorgeous. Tell Jessica well done from me.”
“Of course. Thank you.” I glance at Sam. He doesn’t look the least bit ashamed she caught him flirting with me.
“Honey, how do I look?” Sam turns and models the tux for his girlfriend.
“You look fabulous. As you well know.” She grins at him, her face appearing even more radiant. She turns to me. “I’ll take this one, thank you. No need to measure me.”
Falling for Grace Page 6
