I squeeze his bicep. “Thank you. Thank you for being you and always making me smile. I’m sorry if I lost you your deposit.”
“Nothing that happened today was solely your decision. I was one hundred percent behind you going onstage. You nailed it, and not in the Pinterest nailed it kind of way. No regrets. I’ll admit, with your natural grace, I was a little nervous.”
This makes me laugh. “I was more than a little nervous. But I did as you said. I walked onstage and imagined that one person.”
“And it worked?”
“Well, I didn’t fall on my ass.”
Walking back into the dressing room to change, I’m a mix of thoughts and emotions. Despite Vicky’s less than enthusiastic review, I accomplished a successful lingerie show. I did it—not alone, but with the help of everyone involved. It’s then I see Chantilly.
“Hey,” I whisper, causing her to turn my direction. “Stephen and I are meeting someone later. Would you like to join us and celebrate?”
She looks up from the tablet in her hands. “Celebrate...um, the numbers are really good.”
I try to see what she’s reading, but from the angle I can’t. “Chantilly, is everything all right?”
Her lip disappears under her teeth for only a moment before she smiles. “Thanks.”
“For?”
“I had more fun on this show than any in a long time. I think the way you and Stephen changed things up was great.”
Why do I feel there’s a but coming in her sentence?
I wait.
When she doesn’t go on, I ask again about drinks. “We’re going to the Martini Club on Houston. Come on by if you’d like. Drinks are on me.”
Chapter Eight
Trevor
“So it didn’t exactly turn out the way we planned,” Matt says as he pops more peanuts in his mouth.
I want to disagree. The fashion show was much better than I ever imagined. I still can’t come to terms with the fact that Shana was one of the models. I’ve decided it must be my imagination tainted with too much alcohol from the night before. Unwilling to give up on my illusions, I join the other three as we all drink, working to maintain that permanent bachelor party buzz.
No matter what else it was, the afternoon has definitely been entertaining.
We’re now in one of those out-of-the-way bars, known mostly by locals, the kind that is ten feet wide and one hundred long. I may be exaggerating, but you get the idea. Our table near the front window gives us a view of the crowded street and if you turn a little, a view of the long, shiny bar. From my angle, I’m getting mostly heads, but it’s a sea of people. Located in an upscale part of the city, this place is a longtime goldmine. Surrounded by more expensive establishments with fancier signage, I’d take this bar to the ones filled with tourists any day.
That’s just part of what makes this place special. It’s unique. Instead of dancing, there are a few pool tables near the back. Currently, we’re waiting on one opening. A twenty-dollar tip helped move us ahead in the waiting order.
“I guess this means that we should take Trevor up on his offer of conceding,” Max says. “I mean, it wasn’t much, but I did talk to the one man from Christian Dior.”
“You didn’t get his number or his name,” Eric reminds him.
“How do you know?”
“If you had, we’d all know!” Matt says with a laugh.
“Wait a minute, the night is young,” Eric interjects. “I heard some people talking, and they said that some of the models like to go out and party after a big show. That’s why we’re down the street from the Martini Club.”
In all of our planning, we hadn’t considered the springtime crowds. It’s an epidemic. As soon as the temperatures rise and the snow stops falling, everyone is out and about. Max was in charge and should have made a reservation for the Martini Club. I’m a planner. Then again, I live in Manhattan now and could have volunteered. It might not be fair to think Max could have done it all from the UK.
“Remember, you’re getting married in less than a month,” I remind Eric.
“I am. I’m also the judge. And I think watching you three get turned down flat sounds like fun.”
“I’m not conceding,” I reason. “No one made a move on a model.” I turn to Max. “You said models, not buyers. That means we’re all still tied.”
“We can up the ante,” Max says with a grin.
“Forget the model. Anyone gets laid tonight and his expenses for the weekend are zero. Eric, you’re exempt.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care if we have separate hotel rooms. We’re not in college.”
Eric takes a long draw on his beer. “You’re right, Trevor. This weekend isn’t about your dicks. It’s about my wedding. I’m happy to keep drinking and know that tomorrow I’m going home to Cynthia and that none of you have a new number in your phone.”
“Awfully concerned about the little woman, aren’t we?” Max asks. “I believe there’s a name for that.”
“It’s a phrase,” Matt says with a chuckle, “and it begins with P.”
“Second word begins with W,” Max volunteers.
“Yeah,” Eric responds to Max. “Just because you don’t like pussy doesn’t mean I don’t.” He turns to Matt. “And as far as the second word in that phrase, I remember a story about a college student who went to this BDSM club.”
“Whoa!” Matt says, lifting his hand. “What happens in college stays in college.”
“Good thing this isn’t college!” We all laugh as more and more people make their way into the bar.
When our table finally quiets, Matt says, “I know I may be hallucinating, but when I went to sign us up for a pool table, I think I saw one of the models sitting at the bar. I know we talked about going to some other places, but who knows, maybe even Saks Fifth Avenue models know about our treasure here. There could be more on their way.” He waggles his brow. “Maybe we don’t have to give up on the models.”
Eric looks at Matt’s empty bottle. “We’re in trouble. He’s seeing models everywhere. Operation stop Matt from sleeping with the first woman who talks to him.”
“That’s the exact opposite of my idea,” Max says.
Matt shakes his head before tilting it toward the bar. “No, I did. The blonde who was only in the finale, remember her? I swear that’s who I saw near the end of the bar.”
I immediately remember her—everything about her.
“You blokes keep imagining your models,” Max says with a grin. “I’m stepping outside for a smoke.”
While I listen to the conversation that ensues, I try to inconspicuously look down the bar. I haven’t told anyone that I thought I recognized the blonde from the finale or that I was confident I’d awakened beside her at one time. These guys know me too well to believe my story. Yet with the bartenders and busy bar, my view is blocked. The stools are all filled, and there are people standing near the stools—blondes, brunettes, redheads, and even a few people with purple and green hair. I’m having trouble making anyone out until I zero in on a blonde near the end. She appears to be with a man. They’re talking with their heads together. From this view all I can see is her hair.