Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (2 page)

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G
rape successfully removed
, Trudy left Milla at the hors d’oeuvres table and worked her way back into the crowd, scanning for the tall, silver-haired man she hoped would be her new boss. God, she needed the work. Mortgages waited for no one. Neither did creditors, who called more frequently than lonely kids at camp. But where the heck was Gregor Johansson? The artist seemed to be playing some sort of messed up
Where’s Waldo
routine. Only without the cool red and white striped hat.

She needed to find him. Needed to convince him to award
her
the contract. The contract up for grabs was only a couple of months in length, but had an extension that would bring it up to three years if the artist was happy with the first project. With what Gregor was paying, she could get herself out of the financial hole where she was stuck, and sinking fast. For a while she’d been the front-runner for a lucrative five-year contract with a natural clothing company, Essentially Green, but right when she thought the job was in her grasp, it had gone to one of her competitors. She had nothing.

Four years ago a series of surgeries changed the course of her career—and her life. She’d run away from Foster Family Number Seven once Milla had turned eighteen and headed out for college. Lucky enough for her, she’d ended up agented and became a high-fashion model, working the runways in New York, Milan, and Tokyo. The work didn’t earn her a ton of money (supermodels got millions, but runway models…yeah, not so much) but enough to put a down payment on a gorgeous loft in a bedroom community on the outskirts of Sacramento.

But then a medical condition had forced her and her uterus to part ways, and her body had responded in a most inappropriate manner by gaining twenty-five pounds. And her catalogue and runway modeling career had stopped, just like that.

Being a live model, posing for various types of artists, however, paid well enough, and that’s what she turned to when it was clear the weight was there to stay. But the work was sporadic, and the medical bills she’d incurred had her falling behind in her mortgage and maxing out her credit cards. The contract with Gregor Johansson was exactly what she needed—a three-year guarantee of work, so long as the extension was put in place, which she was certain it would.

Too bad she’d have to pose nude for him.

Posing nude as a model wasn’t a big deal, really, but one of her former clients had made it into a big deal when he’d posted pictures of her online after the surgery and weight gain. Those photos turned into an online joke. People had left nasty comments—
Massive Model…Miss Fatty-Pants
…
Tubster Trudy ate a whale
...And then the meme started. A picture of her naked (except for where her hands covered her tummy and lady bits) kept showing up on social media sites with various sarcastic slogans about Tubster Trudy plopped right on top.

The Dog Shaming meme had
nothing
on Tubster Trudy.

It got so bad that for a while, people would stop her in the grocery store and ask her if she was Tubster Trudy. At least now, three years after her image had gone viral, not many people remembered her shame.

The good thing about working for Gregor Johansson was that the man was a sculptor—whatever he created using her nude image wouldn’t be discernable as her. Plus, her agent Lisa always made sure any contract she signed contained a clause directly stating the artist would not put any images of her out there before the actual art pieces were complete without her permission. Now, if she could just track down Gregor…

Her gaze followed the curve of the grand staircase that lead to the long balcony overhead, with a wrought-iron railing interspersed among heavy columns. No Gregor on the balcony, but at the very last column stood two men. Two very hunky men. Well-dressed. Gorgeous. Sexy. And who were both staring right at her.

And then the man on the right winked.

Her heart jumped. This was no ordinary good-looking guy—this was a fireman-calendar-worthy hunk. Tall and broad shouldered, but lean through the hips. Thick black hair, flashing smile, long black lashes over piercing blue eyes, and full lips usually found on women who’d injected collagen. If it weren’t for his strong jaw and a nose a little too long for his face, he’d be close to pretty. Similar to the playboys she used to date during her high fashion days. The other guy stood a couple inches shorter and looked a little older. Cute, too, but not as hunky. Or as intense. Her gaze flipped back to the first guy who’d caught her eye.

He leaned against the metal railing, one hand holding a glass of champagne, his gaze fixed firmly on her. He raised the flute and nodded.

At
her
.

Trudy went all fluttery. It had been a while since a guy like that had come on to her. Since the Tubster Trudy event, she’d dated, sure, and had even had sex a few times, but usually with everyday men like her sister’s accountant (rather pedantic and with an unusual interest in plaid socks), the bartender at her favorite pub in the city (sweet, but totally hung up on his ex-girlfriend), and a high school physics teacher (potential long-term dating material until she overheard him on the phone telling his mom he was dating “Tubster Trudy from the Internet”). Was she ready for someone like this?

Unable to resist, she sketched a hesitant wave back.

Hunky Dude’s grin widened.

A rush of heat blazed up her chest to her cheeks. That man packed one hell of a smile. Something glimmered in his eyes—seduction, playful teasing maybe—she couldn’t tell, but she went all mindless and breathless and warm in her belly.

Milla shoved a stuffed fig in front of her face. “Want some?”

“I’m steering clear of small fruit for now.” She glanced at the fig, then back to the more appetizing meal on the railing. “Besides, I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Drooling.”

Milla followed Trudy’s gaze up to the balcony and gasped. “Oh my god. Gertrude T. Prendergast, that man is beyond gorgeous. And he’s looking straight at you. The dude is seriously getting his flirt on.”

“Think so?”

Still holding her gaze, the man tilted his chin upward, a gesture of familiarity.

Trudy’s stomach did a quick flip, then tugged inward. Milla was right. The hunk was definitely flirting. But her quest for the contract with Gregor Johansson couldn’t wait. Sigh
.

The man lifted a finger in the air, as if to tell her to stay put, then disappeared behind a pillar. Um…was he coming down to talk to her?

“Honey, I think he wants you,” Milla said, still gaping.

“Yeah, but I need to find Gregor.”

“Gertrude—”

“We’re in public. Call me Trudy. And focus on tonight’s agenda, which does
not
include me picking up a hottie. You know how bad I want this contract. Without it, I could lose my loft.
And
go to debtor’s prison with what I have on my credit cards. You don’t want to visit me in jail—it’s impossible to hug anyone through that thick layer of safety glass. I can’t lose focus tonight.”

“Good luck with that. Because if the look in that dude’s eye was any indication, he’d like to take you home wild, passionate stranger-love to you.”

“Milla!”

Her sister ignored her protest. “But I do have to interrogate him first. Look him up on Facebook. Check out his Linked-In profile. This place has Wi-Fi, right? Hey, you
are
carrying condoms, aren’t you?”

“I’m
working
,” she said, fervently. Although yes, she had several condoms in her purse from the last time she’d gone out with her sister, who’d shoved a handful at her and warned her never to leave the house unloaded, just in case a Greek god dropped out of the sky and offered to give her carnal pleasure.

At the time, Trudy had snorted with laughter. Greek gods didn’t drop from the sky.

Or did they?

Normally, she’d consider putting the pack of condoms to use. After all, he had the look of a playboy—all expensively dressed and slightly cocky—which put him in her category of a Dude To Do. Playboys worked well for her—they didn’t expect full-on commitment and were cool with things ending rather quickly. Just her style.

Milla teased her about having an allergy to relationships, but her sister didn’t understand her need to avoid men who wanted unconditional love and babies and stuff. Casual sex and serious dating were both fine, but full-on relationships—those kind with the mutual understanding that marriage would inevitably be discussed? Yeah, not so much. Once she’d dreamed of a husband, babies, and a white picket fence, but those dreams had flat lined four years ago. Removed along with her fertility bits.

She gave herself a mental shake. She couldn’t be distracted right now. This contract with Gregor was too important.

But then movement caught her attention, and she realized Sexy Dude was coming down the stairs. They connected gazes again, and an uncontrollable rush of flutters dashed about in her belly and thoughts of her negative bank account dipped out of her mind.

But then the man pointed to her chest, smiled broadly, and mouthed the word “grape.”

Heat flashed over her skin, instantly mottling it red like some sort of color-changing octopus.
Oh, God.
He knew where that damned grape had landed.

And he was
laughing
at her.

The flutter in her tummy squeezed, and not in a good way. How mortifying. Here she thought a guy who could rival Michelangelo’s David was coming on to her, only apparently
he
thought she was the joke of the night.

Memories of the on-line comments about her body flooded her mind. No way, no how. She would not be humiliated again.
Ever.
She cut off eye contact and whirled around, her vertebrae snapping into a stiff iron core. She didn’t have time to get laid, anyway.

Not when her whole future was at stake. She needed to locate Gregor Johansson immediately, and put that obnoxious Greek god out of her mind—permanently.

Yeah, right. Like
that
was gonna happen. Sighing, she turned and scanned the crowd, looking for the silver-haired man she hoped would be her new boss.

M
ac snagged
a flute of champagne from a passing waiter as he headed over to where he’d last seen Red Hot, who had scurried away. How adorable was it that she’d ended up with a grape accidentally caught between her boobs? Maybe he should tip the waiter who’d stumbled, causing the entire fiasco with the escaped grape to unfold. Not that he’d wanted the waiter looking at her that way. Or any other man.

Tonight, she’d be all his.

But first, he had to find her in this crowd before she took off for good. Introduce himself. Ask her out. He hadn’t taken his friend Remy’s bet (for a sheriff, Remy had some rather compromised principles) but still had visions of how the night could turn out, with his naked body covered by her luxurious red hair. He looked around the crowded art gallery and found her.

Red Hot.

He squeezed through the crowd and came up to her. Shoulders stiff and her back ramrod straight, she stood before him, still wearing that delightful expression of sexy-pissed. Not that her displeasure gave him satisfaction, but the two little lines that formed between her brow when she glared was beyond cute.

“Excuse me,” he began, giving her what he hoped was a dazzling smile.

“Yes?” Her voice was tight, her eyes narrowed, and instead of looking at him in the eyes, she’d dropped her gaze, which was now riveted on his feet. Her face held none of the excitement he’d seen earlier when they’d first connected. Now she was glaring at his shoes.

Huh
.
Not quite the reaction he’d anticipated. She
had
been flirting with him, right? He ignored her expression and pressed on, saying, “I saw what happened earlier. You know, with the grape and all.”

At his statement, she ripped her stare from his feet to his face, her green eyes flashing anger. Whoops
.
Her expression said it all—she’d misunderstood why he’d been laughing.

“Oh, crap. I didn’t mean it that way,” he backpedalled. “I thought the situation was funny, not that
you
were funny. Here we are at this stuffy fuddy-duddy event and you end up with a—” He cut himself off at her glare. Her adorably
cute
glare.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

Mac held out the flute of champagne. “Peace offering.” When she hesitated for a few beats, he held his breath, breathing out when she finally accepted the flute. “I’m Mac.”

The tiny muscles on the right side of her mouth relaxed. Then a small smile formed. “I guess in retrospect, that grape’s sneak attack
was
rather funny.” Her smile widened, fractionally. “I’m Trudy.” She raised the flute up and sipped.

“Cute name,” he said, thinking the name as one normally associated with a round little thing, not someone as tall and strong as Trudy, but somehow it fit her.

Red Hot—no,
Trudy
—nodded at the shorter and very pregnant woman next to her, wedged in tight by the crowd. “My sister, Milla.”

Up close, he could see the similarities—the light lines creasing the side of their mouths, the flecks of gold and grey in their eyes. Milla shook his hand vigorously, beaming at him. Cool
.
Score one for him—he’d managed to win over the sister. Now to win over Trudy.

And he had a proven process…

Step One: meaningless chitchat.

“Are you two Gregor Johansson fans?” he asked the sister, throwing out the most meaningless chit-chatty line he could come up with.

Milla let go of his hand, and said, “As an overwhelmed mom and a former accountant, I haven’t exactly focused on art. So no. No clue who the man was until about five hours ago. Trudy convinced me to come.”

He focused his attention on Trudy. “Because you’re a fan?”

She still wore that tight expression, although a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Um…I’m actually here to network.”

Hmm…she hadn’t quite melted. But what had he expected? For her to accept his first attempt at breaking the ice after he’d found the grape incident funny when it was now clear she most definitely had not? Remy was right—a cheesy pickup line, such as “If I told you that you had a good body, would you hold it against me?” wouldn’t cut it with this woman. He instead opted for more chitchat. “So…what do you do, Trudy? Professionally, I mean?”

She hesitated, staring intently at him. After a pause, she swallowed. The tiny muscles on the left side of her mouth relaxed and the tiny smile widened. “When I’m not serving as a fruit bowl, you mean? I model.”

Distracted by the pulse along her neckline, it took Mac a second to register what she’d said. He clapped a hand to his forehead. “
That’s
how I know you. I knew I’d seen that mane of hair and that strut before. You worked the catwalks in New York, about four or five years ago.”

Her brow wrinkled slightly and her grin faded. “Yes…” she answered slowly. “Four years.”

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “I couldn’t figure out how I recognized you.”

“You remember me from a fashion show?”

“Not exactly. For a second I thought maybe we’d slept together and I’d forgotten.”

Trudy’s eyes narrowed.

Hell
.
“Uh…I didn’t mean to imply sex with you would be forgettable.”

Her jaw dropped.

Shit
.
He hadn’t blown a pick-up this bad since he wrote a love letter to his teacher Mrs. Livery, proclaiming his fourth-grade adoration. He needed to get this conversation back on track. Because the more he spoke with her, he realized that not only did he want to sleep with her, he was also considering asking her to pose for him.

Yeah, he’d told Remy to drop the discussion about his exploration of reentering the art world, but seeing Trudy had triggered his creative juices that had almost disappeared the day his mother died. He could see Trudy as his Warrior Woman—could see the photographs in his mind.
Warrior Woman in Repose. Warrior Woman in Despair. Warrior Woman in Defiance.

Tension wound its way through his spine. He still wasn’t certain he wanted to push forward with his plan to get back into art photography, though. Even though he had a meeting scheduled in the morning with Ian Ackerley to discuss showing his speculative yet-to-be-made Warrior Woman series, and even though he’d been searching for a model to pose for him on that project and others he’d like to create in the future, he still wasn’t exactly completely committed to the idea.

Yeah, Trudy had said she was networking, and yeah, he could see her as his Warrior Woman, but he wasn’t sure he should mention he was in search of a model until he knew for sure he was fully committed to delving back into his art. He knew how hard it was to get work in her industry—he didn’t want to get her hopes up. After all, the contract he was offering was rather substantial. After a short trial period in which he’d create the Warrior Woman series, the contract would extend to three years. Definitely a good gig.

So maybe for tonight, he would go with his first idea—get Trudy to go out with him. After, he could think about seeing if she’d pose for a few test shots. For now…

Step Two: honesty.

“Look,” he said, placing a hand on her arm, “I didn’t mean to insinuate you’d be forgettable in bed. So if you want to take out a six-shooter and blast several holes through me, I couldn’t blame you.” In the last two minutes, Trudy’s expression had transitioned from cautiously optimistic to shocked to royally pissed. Now the new smile forming gave him hope. God, she was cute when she smiled.

“Mac.” A tap on his shoulder accompanied the sound of his name.

Uh oh
.
Not exactly the voice he wanted to hear in the middle of a pick-up. When he turned around, he shot his sister his best
I’m busy here
look. Doe glared back at him, her son Aaron clinging to her like a limpet and grinning at him like a loon.

“Not now, Doe,” he muttered quietly. He turned back around and flashed a quick glance at Trudy. She was watching the unfolding scene with narrowed eyes. Wow
.
Those lines around her mouth had grown as deep as the road ruts he made four-wheeling. What had he done now?

Aaron tugged his jacket sleeve, demanding his attention, and he turned back to his nephew. A shiny streak appeared. Drool.

“Hada, dada, dada,” the baby babbled, holding one hand out to Mac. The other gripped Doe’s multiply pierced ear, chubby fingers entwining in a variety of silver hoops.

Blast
.
Drooling babies played no part in the seduction scene he’d envisioned.

“Would you just take the baby for a minute?” Doe asked, working Aaron’s fingers out of her earrings.

Did his little sister not understand he was busy? Did she not see the amazing woman standing before him? But at Aaron’s sudden sob, Mac melted. Seeing the little guy cry always undid him. “Come here, big boy.” He pulled the baby into his arms. He could introduce Trudy to his nephew—women liked babies, right? He pivoted, but instead of that soft-eyed, glazed-over expression women usually put on when they saw an infant, Trudy had recoiled.

Uh oh… So maybe she wasn’t a baby person after all. Fine. He’d hand Aaron back in a second. As soon as he apologized to Trudy. Yet again.

Step Three in seduction: ask her out.

“So—”

Her fierce glare shot him down. She turned her back on him, her shoulders jolting upward. Had he blown it that badly? Trudy certainly seemed as if a rather large-sized bug had crawled up her butt.

He snuck a quick peek. Bug or not, Trudy had one sexy ass.

The swell of the crowd’s applause filled the air, turning Trudy’s attention to the podium, Mac’s gaze following. His father had stepped up to the podium, commanding the attention of the room, Trudy included. Damn. Speech time.

He’d have to complete Step Three later. But no problem—he’d win her over. He always did.

* * *

O
h my god
,
Trudy thought. Was the guy married? He had to be, right? The baby had called him “dada.” So this wasn’t a pick-up? Ugh
.
The whole situation was beyond confusing. She’d thought Mac had been flirting with her, but he’d just recognized her from when she was a high fashion model. Probably had wanted to talk about the good old days. At least he hadn’t brought up the whole Tubster Trudy fiasco—maybe he didn’t know. After all, not all corners of the world had known about her shame.

Just most corners.

Three out of four, she figured.

She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be distracted by a guy, anyway. Because now Gregor stood at the podium, receiving the award being presented to him, and there was little to no chance she’d be able to speak with him after his speech.

“Hold this.” Milla shoved her plate of food in Trudy’s free hand. “I’m off to pee.”

Poor Milla, what with the watermelon sitting on her bladder and all. Trudy glanced around for a cocktail table on which to place her flute of champagne and Milla’s plate of food. All she saw were bodies—no tables, no ledges, no surfaces of any kind. She shifted from one foot to the next, her wrists aching, as Gregor spoke, thanking everyone from his mother (may she rest in peace) to his daughter (may she stop getting tattooed) to his son (may he get off his duff and get back into art). The artist had the crowd laughing, but Trudy was way to stressed out to join in.

Finally, the crowd erupted into applause—Gregor’s speech had ended. He stepped down from the podium and into the applauding throng. Trudy craned her neck—his path lay straight before her.

She smiled, hope swelling in her chest. Maybe tonight might turn out okay, after all. She could still introduce herself and let him know she’d applied to be his next model. She hoped he wouldn’t think her rude by not shaking his hand, but unless Milla got back in the next few seconds (doubtful, given the watermelon), her hands were otherwise occupied.

She took a step toward Gregor, edging slightly forward in the tight crowd, but was suddenly forced to a halt by a hard tug on her hair. A ripping sensation suddenly shot through her scalp. She held back a yelp.
What the heck?

She turned as much as she could, trying to see who had her hair in a death grip. The young woman she assumed was Mac’s wife stood behind her, engaged in an animated conversation with a member of the press, the baby casually dangling off one of her hips. The infant held not only her hair, but also the straps of Trudy’s bodice, which was tied in a bow at the back of her neck. Those straps were interlaced with two large handfuls of long red hair, which the baby shoved with little pudgy hands into its slobbery mouth.