Then again, maybe I’m hallucinating.
Maybe the vision before me is my imagination. Maybe it’s induced by the alcohol we consumed last night. I’m sure after the quantity, there’s still some coursing through my bloodstream. Maybe this is a mirage, a vision that doesn’t really exist, one I’ve concocted out of desire. After all, Shana Price has been in my thoughts daily—and especially nightly—since our one secret night.
Whatever is happening...I approve.
This fashion show just got a lot better!
The rest of the models disappear as I concentrate on the blonde. She’s not as tall as most, but damn, she’s more beautiful. High heels move below the long flowing nightgown. Fuck that. It’s not a nightgown. My grandmother wears nightgowns. This one is sexy and hangs perfectly from small straps over her slender shoulders with a lace trim that barely covers her breasts. The long skirt has a slit that allows her long and determined steps as she moves in sync with the rest of the models.
I’m certain this woman in the white negligee isn’t the same model who wore the black negligee earlier in the show. I know it was black because when we entered, we were all given tablets with information on each showcased piece. Yet my reasoning mind can’t come up with a plausible answer as to why they made the change. My heart tells me the woman of my dreams is onstage. The woman I can’t seem to forget. The woman who stars in my fantasies. The woman who broke open my shell with only her smile.
The one I let get away.
Onstage is Shana Price.
But how and why?
I continue to struggle, my analytical brain searching for answers.
Maybe the world is filled with doppelgängers?
No. I’d know if it weren’t her, and damn, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s beautiful and confident and fits right into the show without fanfare.
I’m awestruck.
As the realization settles in, murmurs of approval from the men around me fill my ears, filling me with dueling and equally powerful emotions. The first is pride mixed with amazement. It’s not as if I know her that well; however, from what I do know, I can’t fathom why the top buyer for Saks’s junior department would be onstage for a lady’s lingerie show, but damn if she isn’t stunning. Like many others in the audience, I’m blown away by her presence.
It’s the other people in the audience—their presence and their eyes on her—that fuel my second strong reaction. Gripping the arms of my seat, my pride in her ability is the only thing tempering my growing need.
I’m overwhelmed with desire to rush the stage, wrap the woman of my dreams in my jacket, and carry her off like a prehistoric caveman. My skin heats at the thought that as gorgeous as she is, I don’t want others looking at her. Yes, I know it’s barbaric. I even have a split-second image of myself beating my chest and telling the world she’s mine.
It may be insane, but nevertheless, it’s real. Never before and with none of the other models have I felt such a strong urge to protect someone. It makes me wish that we weren’t in a room filled with others. Instead, I wish I was the only one to see Shana in that negligee.
Whichever emotion I concentrate on, I’m mesmerized by the woman before me.
And then...she turns and looks my way.
Our eyes meet for the first time since our weekend so long ago.
Her expression changes for only a second, but as it does I know with everything within me that none of this is an illusion. The model in the white nightgown isn’t a doppelgänger. She isn’t a mirage. Ignoring the rest of the women onstage, my gaze follows her every move as she works her way to the rear of the stage, mixing with the rest of the models. Her steps are flawless.
The music reaches its climax and all the models stop. Like statues of Greek goddesses, they stand perfectly still. People around us are using their tablets to mark the items they want to order. Even those of us who are here not as official buyers have the opportunity to order. It’s one of the benefits of attending the show. Fingers fly on screens as sales rack up.
Yet the only thought in my mind has nothing to do with lingerie. My thought is getting to Shana Price.
Chapter Seven
Shana
The show is over and as we all make our way backstage, I’m exhilarated like never before. It isn’t only that the show is complete or that I didn’t fall and make a total fool of myself—it’s more.
An overwhelming sense of triumph.
Cheers fill the air as everyone makes their way into the dressing room.
From the sound of the crowd and the look on Chantilly’s face, the fashion show was a shining success. Not only that, I overcame a lifelong fear. I did it. I walked onto the stage. For the first time, I was more than the woman behind the scenes. Putting the show ahead of my own fears, I did what needed to be done.
While allowing myself to be vulnerable, I kicked ass. At that second, I realize that sometimes it takes the first to do the second.
“To Shana!” Shelly yells above the roar of the other relieved models.
The backstage dressing room fills with applause.
“To each of you,” I reply. “You did this, ladies. I’m so proud to have been a part.”
Chantilly motions me toward her but not before I have the chance to step out of the tall shoes. When I reach her, she wraps a long black robe over my shoulders. “Before you change, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
For only a second, I imagine the person I pretended to see in the front row. “Who?”
“Stephen is outside. He has news.”
Stepping from the room in my bare feet, I leave the roar of the models for the sound of the crowd beyond the stage.
As my eyes adjust to the dim hallway light, I’m wrapped in a bear hug. “You did it. I knew you would.”
“Do you have numbers?”
Stephen nods ecstatically. “Through the roof. And they’re talking about the late walk-on model. At first there were questions about Jenese.”
“We knew there would be. She’s Saks’s top model.”
“You, boss lady, are now the talk of the town. Everyone wants to know who wore the white negligee in the finale.”
“They can keep wondering. I did it. I’ll leave it to the professionals for the future.”
“You know,” he says, “if the promotion doesn’t go through, you could consider...” Stephen’s grin widens.
“If it doesn’t go through, it won’t have been for lack of trying.”
“You can say that again.”
Stephen and I both turn toward Vicky. Though her words sound encouraging, I can’t tell from her expression what she’s thinking.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Stephen volunteers as he heads away from the dressing room door back toward the auditorium.
“Stepping in as a model,” Vicky begins, “something that according to your résumé you’ve never before done, at one of the most important shows of the year, was your idea of making this work? Of thinking on your feet?”
I stand taller, remembering the exhilaration I felt only moments ago.
“Yes. The show had to go on. It did.”
“We have an entire backlist of models—experienced models.”