by Lulu Pratt
Until, that is, I reached the bottom of the stack and found a pink, tea-length dress in chiffon, with cap sleeves and pearl buttons. It looked like the sort of dress you’d wear to meet Meghan Markle. That is to say, it was perfect. I smiled to myself, feeling fairly certain that the curvy intern had picked it out for me.
“Thanks,” I whispered to her, wherever she was.
I quickly touched up my make-up, wanting to get it all set before I put on the dress so that I wouldn’t have any staining mishaps. Once that was finished, I looked around, then carefully began to disrobe. I know, I know, it was a private changing room, but even so, I’m a modest girl.
I’d stripped down to my white lingerie set. I’d gotten a matching one, just for this occasion. It was a balconette bra, trimmed in airy lace, and white panties with that rode up around my hips, emphasizing the goddess-like swivel of my curves.
I glanced in the mirror, allowing myself a moment of true vanity. The white, on top of my tanned skin, mixed in with the peachy hue at my cheeks and the bright blue of my eyes… I was a Monet painting of summertime. I was fat, and I was fabulous.
And then the door opened.
I shrieked, and reached for my dress, for a towel, for anything that could cover me. But it was too late – a man had already stepped into the room, and the sight of him stopped me dead in my tracks. He was just over six feet, lanky and stretched out, limbs dangling akimbo, dressed all in black with black curls flowing down around his face, grazing the black stubble on his cheeks, silver jewelry peeping out from behind the wall of black.
He was hot. Majorly hot. Almost-make-me-use-a-swear-word hot.
And he was grinning at me, his eyes running hungrily over my body, drinking it in like I was the last drop of water in the middle of the Sahara.
Chapter 4
FINN
ONE OF THE PAs had pointed me down a hallway, with instructions to go to the ‘first door on the left,’ saying that would be my dressing room. Not much point – I was already dressed – but I figured I might as well put my feet up for a few minutes before the show.
He must not have checked his paperwork very closely, because when I threw open the door, ready to languidly plop down on the couch for a quick sit, maybe a whole catnap, I was confronted by a woman.
Oh boy, and I do mean woman.
Her image struck me like a slap directly across my face, her figure leaving imprints behind my reddened eyelids.
Fuck, where do I begin?
Her face, yes that’s as good a place to start as any. She had tumbling blonde hair in full curls, like the kind you’d see at a county fair, only it looked natural, not held up by any clip-ins or copious amounts of hairspray. In fact, it looked the like the sort of hair all the Regency models wanted to have, but never did. Her eyes were a crisp blue, nine-in-the-morning sky blue, and her lips and cheeks were tinted roses entering bloom. She was the cusp of seasons. Her eyelashes were so long they nearly grazed her eyebrows.
And her body… God, her body.
She was absolutely bodacious in this little white lingerie getup. As you can imagine, I’ve seen all variety of lingerie in my life, but she made this look better than any set I’d seen before. Her breasts, tinged with the same pink as her cheeks, threatened to spill over the edge of the cups, and the panties tugged naturally upwards, hinting at what lay beneath. In between those two areas of secret delight were her hips and waist, which plunged and rose in such sinewy patterns they almost seemed fake. Her arms and legs, both quite plump, tapered down to miniature hands and feet, all her nails painted the same eggshell color.
She looked unlike any woman I’d seen in the last two years, or possibly ever. She also looked totally murderous.
“Who the heck are you?” she spit out, and it occurred to me she didn’t have the accent to ‘spit’ words out. Her accent called for sweet tea and porches, not rage.
“I’m–”
But she was already grabbing some nearby pink fabric and holding it in front of her body, blocking me from taking in the rest of her figure. Oh, how I cursed that pink. I’d only had a fraction of a second to get a look at her, and already I wanted much, much more.
“You’re intruding, is what you are,” she said, casting about for something that would cover her entirely.
Seeing her discomfort, I darted to a nearby couch, picked up a tartan blanket, and threw it her direction.
“Thank you,” she muttered, wrapping the blanket around herself as I snorted. “What’s so funny?”
I explained, “You look fit to bury me in a ditch, but you still thanked me.”
She discarded the dress on a nearby chair, her cheeks bright red, as if hued to match the blanket. “An angry lady is still a lady.”
I hoped to ask her more, to get her name, her job, anything. And as much as I wanted her to be comfortable, I also wished with all my might that she’d drop the damn matter.
Her eyebrows raised in the silence. “What are you still doing here?” she demanded. “A blanket is not clothing – I’m still not fit to be seen by a man. Get lost!”
“I only–”
“Scram!” she insisted in a high-pitched, melodic voice, like Snow White calling all the animals to her heel.
Shit. I was overstepping. Years of shooting lingerie had made me forget that some women were still modest in their underthings. I nodded a half-bow, and she made a noise of annoyance. I’d overstayed my welcome. I pivoted and exited from whence I’d entered, shutting the door behind me and hesitating in the hall.
Who was she? I wondered.
A Greek goddess, probably. How else could you explain that body, those full lips?
Where had my head gone? I shook it, hoping to clear out some of the lust I felt coming on.
Since when does a woman have this effect on me? I wondered as I trotted towards the stage. I considered myself immune to their wily ways, but this recent run-in was sending me for a damn loop.
I found myself near the edge of the stage, right in the wings. Apparently, in my haste to flee the scene of what crime, I couldn’t say, I’d ended up right where I was supposed to be. Jolly good.
“You’re on stage in five,” a nearby producer wearing a bulky headset informed me.
“Thanks,” I replied.
I’d agreed to do this show because it was in my contract. I occasionally had to make appearances on behalf of Regency, and this was one of them. Most photographers they work with don’t have public events stipulated in their contract – we are, in theory, behind-the-scenes people – but then again, I don’t look like most photographers.
All I had to do today was sit on a couch, flip my hair, give a little wink to the audience, and I’d make ten grand. Not bad for an afternoon delight. Though given my current state of distraction and confusion, I worried I’d be an absolute wanker of a guest. Oh well. They’d all just have to make do. I mean, nobody really wanted to hear what I had to actually say, right?
At the moment, the host was finishing up a segment with some guest where they smelled different sorts of “slimes” and ranked them. Don’t ask me to explain what that is, because I sure as shit don’t know. I think, when it comes to talk shows like these, sometimes they just make up words and activities to fill the time.
Finally, the slimes had all been sniffed, and the producer laid a hand on my back and firmly guided me to the stage.
“He’ll call your name in a minute,” she explained, “and then you walk on.”
“I know. I’ve been here before.”
She nodded and speed-walked off to take care of some other task. Before long, the host was announcing me:
“And here with us today is Finn Maguire, an internationally acclaimed photographer for Regency Lace who’s the brains behind every one of the most famous shoots in the last two years. Ladies, watch out – this one’s a heartthrob.”
The audience laughed, and the host called out, “Come on in, Finn!”
My cue. I stepped forward, following the b
lue taped lines that led me to the stage. The women in the bleachers cheered, a thing which never ceased to be gratifying, and the bright lights of the soundstage bore into my skin. I was on parade and on air, and all I could think about was that girl from the dressing room.
After giving the audience a little wave and my contractual wink, I made my way to the overstuffed sofa which sat across from the host’s desk.
“So, Finn, how’s tricks?”
I shrugged. “Fine, thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do anything awesome for Regency lately?”
I sighed deeply and leaned back in the chair. “Not really.”
The guy made a face at me, as if to say ‘I know this sucks but come on, play along.’
He tried again, valiant fellow that he was. “Must be sick, being surrounded by all the Regency babes.”
“It’s all right,” I replied dully. “Gets a little monotonous.”
Some of the women in the audience booed at this, though why, I couldn’t be sure. The host turned to some producers who were out of the camera’s view range, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that he wanted out of this interview.
“Got any fun stories to share with the audience?” he asked me in a pleading tone.
I snorted. “Well, I’m pretty racked from staying up late last night eating a mayo sandwich and watching Game of Thrones. That count?”
The host glared at me, as if willing me to evaporate from his stage. But apparently he’d received some kind of white flag from a producer, because he turned away from our miserable little conversation and announced to the audience:
“Folks, I’d like to welcome our second guest for today’s show.”
I exhaled with relief. Good – somebody else could pick up my slack. I was in no mood to be charming, not when there was a beautiful woman, possibly still in that dressing room, who I needed to learn more about.
“She’s a well-known beauty influencer, most acclaimed for her use of natural products and her involvement with charities. She’s going to talk to us about what products make her most passionate, and what it’s like to be a first-time collaborator with BeYouGirl. Everyone, please welcome to the stage – Poppy Reeve!”
The audience clapped, and I averted my eyes to the ceiling. Another damn beauty guru. I’d have to sit here for the next ten minutes while she talked about concealers, and mascara, and whatever other crap people are putting on their faces these days.
“Hi ya’ll!” a voice hollered.
A very familiar voice. I slowly lowered my chin, and my nose caught a scent, like strawberry vanilla, but not manufactured strawberry vanilla – more akin to the smell of a woman who’s just eaten strawberry and put a drop of vanilla on her tongue. It oozed out of her.
I glanced to my right, following my nose.
There, standing mere feet away, dressed in pink and beaming at the crowd, was the girl from the dressing room.
Chapter 5
POPPY
HIM AGAIN?!
My heart leapt as I turned away from the audience and to the couch. On it sat the man who’d barged into my dressing room and seen me with fewer clothes than any of my boyfriends ever had.
Oh, I should’ve been paying attention when I was offstage, should’ve figured he’d be a guest. What was I thinking? I suppose the adrenaline had been pumping so hard in anticipation of my first TV appearance, it hadn’t crossed my mind that a guy looking for a dressing room might also be an interviewee. Shoot, Poppy! I chided myself. Your head sure was in the clouds.
Ain’t that the truth.
And he was smirking at me, one pierced eyebrow raised into a tantalizing arch.
“Come on over, take a seat,” the host instructed. “Finn Maguire will make room for you. Won’t you, Finn?”
The man in the leather jacket nodded. “It’d be my absolute pleasure.”
He patted the space next to him on the couch.
“Come on, love, I don’t bite,” he said with an ill-concealed grin.
I reminded myself that this was a big opportunity, and I couldn’t pass it up just because a man had made me flustered. Besides, not like I could exactly kick a fit on air.
So, with a deep breath, I crossed the stage, mounting the platform and going to sit by Finn’s side. He had, true to his word, made a little more space for me, but the prop was more of a loveseat than a couch, so our thighs were inches from one another. His right arm, slung over the back of the chair, could’ve grazed my back at any moment.
“Hi again,” he murmured as I settled into the seat, his voice probably too low for even the mics to catch. “I like your dress.”
I stubbornly leveled my gaze on the host, hoping to avoid Finn’s piercing brown eyes.
“Poppy,” the host said, by way of introduction. “Finn. Finn, Poppy.”
“Oh, we’ve met,” I replied, my tone scathing.
Finn chuckled under his breath, and the host asked politely, “You mean backstage?”
Before I could hop in, Finn returned, “Oh, something like that, mate.”
The lilt of his voice dug into me, each word making the fabric of my dress feel increasingly claustrophobic, as if I were having a hot flash.
“Well, glad to hear you two met,” the host said. “Now, Poppy, we were just talking about Finn’s work with Regency Lace. He’s a photographer.”
My eyes flickered back to Finn, and I had to laugh. “So you work for Regency?”
Finn nodded and smiled at me. “I do indeed.” His ring-covered fingers tapped on the side of the sofa.
“That figures,” I muttered.
The host leaned in – he could smell something juicy bubbling. “What’d you mean, Poppy?”
I was in hot water now. April always did say I had a secret temper. It rarely made an appearance, but when it did… well, you best steer clear.
“I mean… look at him. Of course he shoots half-naked women all day.”
The audience laughed, and Finn turned completely away from the host to face me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, shaking back his mane of curls.
Oh come on, he couldn’t be that foolish. I wanted to be polite, I did, but he brought out a side of me, a distinctly un-Southern side, which didn’t have time for niceties.
“You look like a cad,” I explained.
That put the audience in fits and made Finn tilt forward, closer to me.
“But maybe I’m not,” he replied. “Perhaps looks are deceiving.”
“Looks tell plenty of truth. For instance, naturally a guy like you is objectifying women in every shoot, putting them in increasingly sexual positions and giving viewers unrealistic expectations for what they should look like.”
The audience sucked in a breath and the host clapped his hands together, apparently excited by the sudden tension.
“Finn,” he began, “do you have anything to–”
“I’ve got plenty to say,” Finn fired back, never taking his eyes off me. “I’d say that you’re shaming these women for doing their jobs. Our shoots are empowering, not objectifying.”
He smelled like pine on the first day of winter. And, despite the fact that I’d insulted everything he did for a living, he looked nearly delighted by our exchange. Weirdo.
“When’s the last time you shot an average woman, huh?” I asked, not about to let him get off that easy. “In fact, when’s the last time you did a photoshoot and then didn’t Photoshop the heck out of it in post?”
“That’s not relevant–”
“You bet your buttonhole it is,” I said, my words bursting forth. “You’re making little girls insecure, and then using that insecurity to sway them into buying the product.”
Finn’s eyes were burning into my own, but I didn’t let up. “And when’s the last time you featured a girl who looked like me?”
I gestured to my body, to my thick curves of which I was so proud, but which I’d never seen reflected in stores like Regency Lace.
“I�
��d kill to shoot a woman who looked like you,” he said in a low voice. “Name the date, Poppy.”
That was rich. “You expect me to strip down to my undies for false empowerment? No thanks.”
He shook his head, and replied, “Wear what you like. Modest… immodest… I don’t care. It’d be a privilege and a pleasure. A great pleasure.”
My heart hitched firmly in my throat as he tucked a black lock behind his pierced ear and bit his bottom lip. I stared him down, hoping to break his will like I would that of a wild horse, but he just bucked me harder. I realized with a sudden sickening certainty that there was a dampness in my panties. Oh, what would Mama think if she knew that I was aroused on live TV? She’d just about die.
“Well, unfortunately, that’s all the time we have, folks,” the host announced, cutting off our staring match. “But haven’t these two been delightful?” he asked, indicating the two of us. “Give ‘em a hand.”
The audience cheered voraciously, and off-stage, a producer announced, “Commercial!”
The cameras turned away, and the host promptly left his desk, saying, “That was great! I gotta whiz.”
Finn and I were left alone – well, as alone as you could get in front of a room of people. I stood up immediately, anxious to show him that I wasn’t about to get pulled into his little mind games. Finn winked at me, a wink that nearly melted my heart and my loins, but I was having none of it.
I turned on my white heel and strode off in the opposite direction of the host.
“Wait!” Finn called out, and in moments, I could hear his heavy boots clomping behind me.
I made it to the wings of the stage, out of sight from the audience and away from the bustle of the crew, before Finn caught up with me.
“Hold on,” he said. I tried to keep up my stride, but there was a mess of wires on the floor, and I worried I’d trip.
As I began to pick through the wires, firmly ignoring him, he blurted, “So you’re Poppy.”
“Observant, aren’t you,” I muttered, my eyes trained to the floor.
