Stephen waggles his brows. “Just remember...to fill in the infamous Kimbra on your little romp with her brother-in-law?”
I punch his arm again. “If you say one word...”
He presses his lips together. “You can be so violent! Sealed. My lips are sealed.”
“I’m not violent. And it’s also not that I want to be dishonest with her. This was a hard secret to keep. But I didn’t tell her when it happened and now...well, now, it doesn’t matter. Water under the bridge.”
As you may have guessed, we’re talking about my disastrous love life.
Disaster isn’t the right word.
Disaster by definition implies a onetime catastrophic event with unimaginable consequences. My love life is more like a cataclysmic prolonged weather phenomenon better known as the century-long drought. Similar to both of my best friends, I like men. I like men a lot. I’ve dated some. I’ve even dated boys if you want to go back to my youth. But when it comes to long term, my relationship with Stephen is the longest one I’ve had with anyone with a penis. Not that I have seen Stephen’s—or want to. But you understand.
And a romp, as Stephen called it, isn’t exactly an accurate account.
However, when it comes to describing this man from my past as Kimbra’s brother-in-law, that is one hundred percent on point.
Thus, the reason for secrecy.
Whatever Trevor and I had happened innocently enough. On the morning of Kimbra’s wedding, I happened to wake in the bed of a handsome, sexy gentleman who later that day became her brother-in-law. It’s a long story, but the reality is that it was simply that—one secret night. Even the next night as we grew more familiar, we didn’t take it further. The timing wasn’t right. I was headed back to London and he back to the state of Washington where he was overseeing an engineering project.
If romp implies sex, we didn’t romp.
We had attraction—off-the-chart sparks—enough to ignite a forest fire with a side of some teenage making out—without the teenage clumsiness—but that was all. You could say that the lack of sex is another element to the drought I mentioned. Seriously, if things don’t look up, my vagina may dry up and blow away.
After that secret one, we spoke a few times on the phone—off and on for a few months. While absence may make the heart grow fonder, distance sucks big hairy balls. Living on two different continents separated by thousands of miles does little for a future. The spark didn’t die as much as it was suffocated by the Atlantic Ocean.
While Trevor and I haven’t spoken in months, now that I’m back in New York, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. I imagine seeing his green eyes in a crowded restaurant or his wide shoulders in a packed elevator. I remember his dark blond hair that never seemed to stay in place, beckoning my fingers to comb through the soft tresses. I recall how protective he was and how we would talk for hours. Nevertheless, any hope for a future with him is simply my overactive imagination. Life has a way of interrupting dreams and even messing with our imagination. We both chose our careers. The last time we spoke, he was still working on a project on the other side of the country. Granted, that was a while ago, but still, Trevor Willis is water under the bridge.
That’s what I keep reminding myself.
And now I’m here, back in New York, with a great opportunity to further my career. Not talking about that secret one helps to nullify its significance. Since only Stephen has heard my sad tale, I don’t need to discuss it with anyone else. That way I can keep Trevor in the safe recesses of my memory, only to take him out when my mind slips to what could have been.
When Stephen meets my other best friend, Kimbra, he’s forbidden from saying, “so I hear you have one sexy-as-hell brother-in-law,” after introducing himself.
Life could be different if I were back here for good. However, there’s no guarantee we’ll be moving back to New York. Our promotion to ladies’ lingerie is contingent upon the success of this fashion show and the work that follows. As it stands now, we’re simply in the city for a trial run.
All at once, as Stephen and I enter the sound booth, the subject of our conversation changes. No more entertaining the memories of the one sexy man from my past. As the booth door closes and I’m faced with the empty stage, an array of lights, and plethora of buttons and switches, I’m back to work—no longer a lovesick woman but the possible new budding director of ladies’ lingerie at Saks Fifth Avenue.
Mentally pushing Trevor aside, my mind is now consumed with beautiful women, sexy lingerie, and pulling off the best runway show this city has ever seen.
Chapter Three
Shana
“No, no!” I say to Chantilly as I stare into her eyes. “Tell me this isn’t happening.”
“Shana, if I could, I would. Jenese is sick. Food poisoning, she thinks.”
“Food! She doesn’t eat.”
“You know if she could be here, she would. It hit her hard last night. She tried to push through and early this morning she ended up in the ER.”
“No. She’s our top model. Everyone is expecting her, especially in the finale.” I take a deep breath. “We have an hour to showtime...what are we going to do?”
“You could take her place.”
I look at Chantilly as if she suddenly grew another head. Of all the possible solutions, this is quite possibly the furthest from my mind. To be honest, it wasn’t even a consideration. “What? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard in my life. I’m obviously not a model.”
“It’s not that obvious. No, you have never done it, but you know the routine.” When I don’t respond, Chantilly goes on. “Shana, you’re a beautiful woman. The only thing stopping you from modeling is you.”
“And my height, body, and, oh yes, inability to walk a straight line in flats, much less heels.”
She looks me up and down. “Okay, you’re not as tall, but let’s face the reality. It’s too late to get a backup here and teach her the routine. That leaves you and Stephen who know every step for every model. Even I don’t. My job is backstage.”
I take a deep breath, afraid to listen to her reasoning.
“Shana, you can do this. Besides, think about it. Stephen won’t fit into the lingerie.”
I close my eyes, hoping that if I wish hard enough, Jenese will magically appear.
“The doors are open and people are coming in,” Stephen says through an earpiece.
“The show, as you two have made it, isn’t like it was when it first came to us,” Chantilly goes on. “The changes are great, but no one else knows them, not like you do.”
My head moves back and forth. “You do.” I look her up and down. Chantilly is a pretty brunette with chocolate skin and big blue eyes. She’s about my height, and as I take a closer look at her figure, I notice she has a shape that would easily be flattering in lingerie. “You say you were backstage, but you know everyone’s place.”
“Shana, I want this for you. I do. Putting me in heels out there is a mistake.”
“What if we do some last-minute adjustments?” I ask, grasping at straws. “We can move Shelly to lead.”