It doesn’t take her long to drift into dreamland once she’s stripped down to nothing but her tankini top and shoved onto the bed with her ass in the air.
I grab the spare blanket from the closet and toss it over her. “Nice, buns,” I joke, even though I’m certain she has no idea she’s unabashedly flashing me.
Peace sets in and for the first time since waking at the crack of dawn, exhaustion kicks in. But one buzz from my phone and the tiredness is quickly replaced by a flurry of exhilaration.
Lane: Hey, beautiful. How’s the Sunshine State?
I shot him a quick text earlier to let him know I landed safely but was soon preoccupied with Raven and her antics. The fact he’s checking up on me is so sweet it warms the chilliness in my bones brought on by the A/C pumping through our hotel room.
Me: Good. Just got back from the pool. Cut it short because my boss is trashed.
Lane: Oh, boy.
Me: Yup. You can say that again.
Lane: Any big plans for tonight?
Me: Nah, I think Raven needs to sleep this off, and she asked me to join her for the meeting with the photographer tomorrow so I should rest up, too.
Lane: Look at you! That sounds awesome, Len.
I take a moment to let that sink in. Is it just me or does everything seem to be falling into place lately? I’m not sure if that thrills me or scares the shit out of me. It’s either a foretelling of good things to come for Madeline Moore or the proverbial ‘other shoe’ getting ready to drop and kick me in the ass. But I don’t want to give those negative thoughts any power, so I continue texting my man (oh, the glorious sound of that) with my legs curled underneath me, cozy and content.
Me: Thanks! I’m definitely stoked. What’s on your agenda for the day?
Lane: Oh, nothing, just pining over this sweet thing that left me here all alone.
Swoon. He misses me. This is good.
Me: You could always hop on a plane and join me . . .
Lane: Don’t tempt me.
Me: What if I want to tempt you?
Lane: Babe, if I could, I would. I’m working crazy hours this week so we’ll just have to resort to the long distance thing on my down time. Looks like you’ll have to tempt me with something else.
Oh, really? Lane has a feisty side. Fantabulous. I only wish it hadn’t come out now, while I’m thousands of miles away.
Me: Not fair! No teasing when I can’t exactly do anything about it.
Lane: Are you alone?
Whoa! That’s usually the way most sexting starts, isn’t it? I’ve never done this. Do I have it in me? I mean, on the one hand, he’s initiating and ever since that night in the cab—maybe even before—I’ve been dying for this side of Lane to come out and play. But even if Raven is passed out and ossified, the fear of the unknown and screwing this up gets the best of me.
Me: Um . . . kind of.
Lane: Good enough. Still remember that kiss?
Me: Haven’t stopped thinking about it.
Lane: Me either, but I’m in need of something . . . visual.
Me: Lane Sheffield are you asking me to send you a nudie shot? What kind of girl do you think I am?
He doesn’t need to answer that. I’m already snapping cleavage selfies like they’re going out of style. His text comes in as I’m saving a pic that highlights just the right amount of moundage.
Lane: The kind that has me all worked up after only a few dates. I can’t tell you how much I regret not coming up to your apartment that night.
Ah! The infamous rejection. I’ve been secretly hoping it haunted him. I’m not sure how to answer him, so instead I send over a tasteful money shot of the girls, accentuated by the gold and black netting of my swim suit.
The phone feels like a grenade in my shaky hands. Did I really just do that? Yes, you whore, you did. You sent the dude a picture of your jugs and for all you know he’ll post it on social media for the whole world to see.
Regret floods me in nasty swells, but the vibration of my phone startles me out of my shame. I expect it to be another incoming text, but this time it’s actually him. He’s calling. Shit! What do I do?
I scurry to the bathroom and lock myself inside, as to not disturb Frank the Tank in there. I take a deep breath and pray for the heat tingling throughout me to calm the hell down. Clearing my throat, I answer in a sugary pitch, “Hello?”
“If you think I regretted my mistakes before, that picture just solidified my you’re-an-asshole-for-not-jumping-her-bones-when-you-could-have status. Leni, you are fucking hot.”
Me? Hot? Bottle up and sell whatever the hell this guy is drinking because clearly it’s giving him a distorted view of life. “It was nothing, but had I known this would get you so excited I would’ve flashed you a long time ago.”
What can only be described as a frustrated growl comes through the phone, sending pulses of pleasure to my lady bits. “I won’t survive this week, but know this, I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Well, that sounds delicious. “So, should I expect a hot and heavy welcome home?” Yes, please?
“Expect the unexpected.”
Oh, do I love that, because that, in a nutshell, is Lane. Someone who’s been so guarded and timid, yet pleasantly surprising in all the right ways. As much as I’m tickled pink to be here because this trip means great things for my career, this week better fly on by so I can get home to whatever it is Lane has waiting for me.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP ME? You’re fired!” Raven’s fired me at least nine times this morning since waking with the hangover from hell. She pops four Advil tablets in her mouth and chases them down with a swig from her second cup of coffee.
I pull a bunch of bangle bracelets over my wrist as I move about the room, getting ready. “Hey, listen, it could’ve been worse. You had no intention of retiring the martini glass until I cut you off. Fire me if you must, but I think I deserve a raise for dealing with your shenanigans. You do know you tore off your bottoms, stripper style, as soon as you got up here and then proceeded to flash me with that tiny tush of yours.”
Raven clicks her tongue and grabs her boobs, one in each hand. “James calls it pancake ass. And let’s not even talk about the girls.” She points to her boobs, shaking her head. “Minion number three wouldn’t wean off the breast milk until he was a year old. I want a lift but James doesn’t see the need for it. I guess he likes that they sag down to my knees and clap when I walk.”
I break into a fit of giggles just thinking about it, but truth is, I’d give . . . well, my left tit, to have a body like hers. “Listen to James. He’s a good man.”
That seems to close out the tits and ass seminar for the day because Raven dashes around the room, filling her rolling studio with more brushes and products.
I sit at the edge of the bed to lace up my gladiator sandals, allowing the excitement of our meeting with the photographer to catch up with me. I’ve always dreamed of doing a fashion shoot, but a fashion shoot and a runway show—this is beyond amazing. “You do know I’m freaking out a little inside, right?”
“Why?” Raven doesn’t look up from organizing her bags. She’s in the zone—regardless of the hangover—and that frays my nerves even more.
“Because you know what you’re doing and I don’t. I’ve never really stepped outside that make-up artist box and thought about the infinite possibilities of the cosmetology world. What if I fuck up? What if the photographer thinks I’m a flake?”
“He won’t think that, Leni, and you do know what you’re doing. Why do you think I picked you?”
“Because I’m your friend?”
Raven stops what she’s doing and glares at me. The stone cold look on her face kind of scares me. “When have I ever showed favoritism because of our friendship, number one? And number two, I’m friends with all my artists. Carol’s my cousin, for God’s sake. I chose you because of your talent. Because you have an eye for detail that no one else does. You’re fresh and funky, yet classic
and timeless all rolled into one. I also think you hide behind your insecurities and settle for what’s in front of you when your gift would be so much better put to use out in the field, on projects like these.
“I picked you because you’re the best candidate for this job and I think this is a great opportunity for you. I don’t muddle my personal relationships with my career. So, even though you are a dear friend and you’ve seen me half naked, I will not let you sit here and doubt the reasons you’re here with me on this trip. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” I nod. It’s always been hard for me to accept a compliment—flaw number one hundred and ninety seven—but hearing someone I see as a role model say these things about me puts me in my place. “Thank you,” I offer, needing her to know that being under her wing has been a godsend.
“Good. Now, finish getting ready and then help me pack the rest of this stuff so we can grab another coffee before our briefing with David.
“Yes, ma’am.” I hop to it and thank my lucky stars that there are so many people who believe in me when I haven’t been able to believe in myself.
David’s portfolio is beyond incredible. It’s so posh and glamorous my fingers itch to trace every outline of his work. This particular room in his studio is packed with racks of intricate clothing, both from the shoot I’ll be working on and others. My eye is immediately drawn to a silk kimono that is simply exquisite. The mix of colors on the delicate fabric pops, making it something that I’d love to add to my wardrobe, if only I could afford it. I vaguely remember that ventures of this magnitude usually come with perks. I’m all set on the makeup goodies from our vendors, but a designer freebie would be really freaking sweet.
I try to stay up to speed with David and his assistant’s photographer lingo, but my ears perk to attention as soon as he asks for Raven’s input on a color palette for the shoot. He stands to roll one of the clothing racks over to us; the hangers clink against the metal rod, bringing the bold pieces to life.
“Here’s the line. This season the designer is working with lots of bright neons. If we don’t complement them the right way, taking into account all the different skin tones and hair colors of the models, the prints will wind up . . . unappetizing to the eye.” I can tell from his tone that the color scheme is not his favorite. I tend to agree—neon reminds me of the 80’s, but the trend is back and we’ll have to make the best of it.
My fingers rove the patterns, the textures, the intricate weave work of one of the swimsuits. I immediately have an idea I would love to pitch. “Rave, I think . . .” I stand from my seat and head for the rolling studio. “Is it okay if I mess around a minute?”
Raven nods, a huge smile painting her fashionably made-up face. “Go for it.”
Her obvious belief in me and her compliment from earlier give me a confidence I never knew I had the ability to embrace. Especially in a position like this. I have to admit it feels amazing, and for once I don’t doubt myself or the creative vision begging to be seen outside the realm of my brain.
Raven and David sit at the table ironing out more details as I mess around with my tools. I play with and mix the colors on the back of my hand, but I soon run out of surface that’s yet to be coated with vibrant shades. I flip open the vanity mirror attached to the case and wipe my own make-up off one of my eyes only to replace it with the shadows and liners I have in mind for the shoot.
My hands do their thing as if someone else is controlling them. A swipe of this here, a dab of that there—it’s so much better on my face than it was on my hand. I take a step back, closing one eye to focus on the other. It pops, just like the designer’s work, but I have to do the other eye for the full effect. I check over my shoulder to make sure no one’s waiting on me and my perfectionism, and when I notice that David and Raven are still engrossed in their own conversation, I make quick work of duplicating what I’ve already done on the other side of my face.
“Done!” I shout a few minutes later, jumping out of my seat like I’m the winner of a race. I clutch my chest, take a breath, and do another once over, inspecting every angle of every feature. When I’m totally happy with the result, I spin around to show them my suggestion and my eyes land on a new face. She must have snuck in while I was in the zone.
“Who are you?” She starts to make her way toward me as if she’s in a trance, mesmerized by me for some odd reason.
“I’m . . . uh . . . Leni Moore. I’m Raven’s . . .” Her scrutiny is unnerving. I can’t tell if she likes the makeup or hates it, and who is she, anyway?
Raven bounds to my rescue, forming the words that have escaped me. “Leni, this is Siobhan, the designer of the gorgeous line we’re working with this week. Siobhan, this is Leni. She’s one of the best girls on my team. I had her sit in because I knew this was exactly the kind of reaction her work would produce. It’s stunning, isn’t it?”
Siobhan Colbert. THE Siobhan Colbert. I cannot believe I’m in the same room, sharing the same air as one of the most influential designers of my time. I can’t believe Raven didn’t tell me this was the designer we were working for. I can’t believe I’m—oh my God, I’m gonna pass out.
Siobhan examines my face, her head tilting for a better view, her fingers at my chin to angle me to her liking. “She’s stunning. David, darling, how have you not sunk your claws into her yet? This face is a work of art and I’m not just talking about the makeup, doll.” Siobhan smiles, tapping me on the cheek.
I bring my own hand up to touch the skin she’s just blessed with her own, in awe of what’s transpired around me. Someone pinch me. This is a dream, right? I cannot believe Siobhan Colbert is talking about me and using those words. I’m fucking speechless, immobile, in shock.
Raven nudges me and I take an inhalation of air that feels like the first since I realized Siobhan is Siobhan. “Say something,” she mumbles through clenched teeth.
Saying something would mean I’d have to form a coherent thought and string together words that don’t make me sound like a complete fool. Panic strikes and I bite my lip, looking to Raven for guidance. Her eyes widen, a warning for me to be a big girl, the woman she trusted to do this job. I delve deep within, and finally say, “Thank you, Ms. Colbert. It’s an honor to meet you. I absolutely love your work.” Not too gushy, but right to the point. Kudos to me for not stuttering through that.
Siobhan darts over to David and wraps an arm around his neck. She lifts her hands up to her face and forms them into an open-palmed square, framing her line of vision—me. “Davey, she’s walking and I want her dressed and prepped in an hour.” With that, Siobhan whirls out of the room as if she was never actually there. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was all an illusion because I’m so confused I don’t know what’s reality and what my brain has fooled me to believe.
Raven grabs my arms and shakes me. “Did you hear that? Do you know what this means?”
I don’t. I honestly have no clue what the hell just happened. “No. What does she mean I’m walking?”
“She wants you in the show, Leni. Have you ever modeled? Please tell me you’re not a runway virgin.” David’s scribbling something into a large notepad and then passing it off to his sidekick who jets out of the room faster than I can say, “What the hell is going on? Can someone please fill me in?”
Raven’s smile is so big I fear her deep, jovial laugh lines will stay that way permanently. She rubs my arms up and down and kisses me smack on the lips. Hello! “You, my gorgeous girl, just wowed Siobhan with everything that is you. I don’t know how we’ll pull this off in such a short amount of time, but you just booked your first gig as a model and I couldn’t be prouder.”
Me? A model? Is this chick on crack? Has the world gone completely mad? All eyes are on me, everything at a standstill. I have no idea how or why this has happened and I haven’t a clue how to process it. So, I don’t. I ignore the ogling of David, the bumbling of Raven, and the measuring tapes snaking my body in the hands of what must be the seamstresses on Siobh
an’s team. Where’d these grabby hands come from?
I haven’t even agreed to this madness, but something tells me that an offer like this doesn’t come along more than once. How does one deny her fashion icon hero something as simple as modeling her clothing? Yeah, simple, my left testicle. Right, I don’t have a left testicle. Shit, the room’s spinning. Please excuse me while I go crap myself.
“AND THEN SHE CALLED ME stunning. Me! Stunning! That word has never been uttered in conjunction with me. How is this happening? Is this real life?” I babble on and on to Tatum who is as much in shock as I am. Not for the same reasons, but simply because this is not the type of good fortune that ever comes my way.
“Have you told Lane yet? What did your mother say? Oh Em Gee, Ashley’s probably shitting herself.” Her bubbly reaction to my news gives me more reason to freak out.
“Would you come up for air? You’re the first person I called and I don’t have much time. I’m due back at the studio in less than an hour.” I’m frantically shaving my legs and plucking at the stray hairs that have sprouted since my last bikini wax a week ago. I knew the pain of that shit was not in vain. Though I had imagined Lane would be getting the benefit of my grooming before Siobhan would.
“Tell me again how this happened. Slowly this time. I need to soak it all in and live vicariously through you.” Tatum’s mouth runs a mile a minute. She might even be more excited than I am.
I perch my other leg on the ledge of the tub and switch the phone to speaker. “I told you . . . she loved what I did with the makeup and then she literally pointed at me and told me I was walking. At first I had no idea what the hell she meant, but after David—the photographer—gave me the run down, it all fell into place. She has a plus size line that is to die for, Tay. You know how much I hate bathing suits, right? Well, this . . . this thing is magical! I look slim and curvy and dare I say it, va-va-voom!” I can barely believe the words coming out of my mouth. Who is this woman who likes herself, and what has she done to the snarky bitch who hates what she sees in the mirror?
Moore To Love Page 13
