say logistics, Irene,” Holly begged, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “My head hurts when you say logistics. And if you’re standing there trying to figure out a way of slipping in my considered opinion into your next sentence, I warn you, I may just have to hurt you.”
Irene was tall. Julia was tall. The models were all tall. The whole world was tall. And Holly sometimes got tired of looking at everyone’s kneecaps. It could make her moody.
“Don’t pout,” Irene said, obviously deciding that today was a moody day. “Now, I’ll explain. As you know, the finale is a parade of eleven of our bridal gowns, each model being escorted down the runway by a groom. That leaves the big moment for Jackie to enter wearing Julia’s real showpiece, the peach peau de soie. Eleven plus one, for a total of twelve. Thirteen’s unlucky, remember? But Jackie has to have a groom, and we only have eleven male models. A tall groom, because Jackie’s…well, she’s tall.”
“You’re all tall,” Holly grumbled. “The world is prejudiced toward tall people.”
“You mean, the world is prejudiced against small people,” Irene, always punctilious, corrected.
“I mean I’m short,” Holly said hotly. “Look at these gowns. I tried one on, you know, just in case my mother’s prayers are ever answered and I actually need some silk and lace. And I drowned. I looked like a little kid playing dress-up. First thing I’m going to do when this is over and I see Julia, is to tell her that there has to be a petite collection. Not just smaller sizes, but designs that won’t overpower us short people. I mean, the gown I tried on had the loveliest poof sleeves. And I ended up looking like Joan Crawford in one of those thirties movies. Shoulders out to here,” she said, using her hands to show the width of her shoulders. “I could play fullback in my nephew’s peewee football league.”
Throughout this tirade, Irene had been counting male heads, watching the door, and counting heads again. “You’re through?” she asked with the patience of a mother of five. “Good. Now, back to our problem.”
“No problem,” Holly said. “We just ax one of the other bridal gowns and slip the groom on Jackie’s arm.”
“No can do,” Irene said, holding out the clipboard to Holly once more. “This is the finale, Holly. CNN is here, filming the whole thing for their special on weddings. One by one—with escort—we send eleven fantastic gowns down that runway, not twelve, because Jackie can’t wear two gowns. Each gown with its own close-up and description. That’s mega airtime for our ladies. Which one do you want to ax, and then wait for the hysterics? We got these top models because we promised them CNN, Holly. Do you want to take a chance on losing any one of them for Julia’s next showing?”
Holly glared at her assistant. “I hate it when you’re right.”
“Ten minutes, Holly,” Irene said, glancing at the silver watch on her wrist. “What do we do?”
“Can’t she walk alone? What’s the problem with her walking alone?”
Irene rolled her eyes. “Are you forgetting that gown? It’s the show gown, Holly, not really meant to ever be worn by any halfway human person. I think the thing weighs seventy pounds, and that’s without the headpiece. Jackie needs an arm to lean on, or she’s going to end up facedown in the front row of laps. That would look real great on CNN, wouldn’t it? And I don’t think Julia wants today’s event to appear on some television blooper show.”
Several thoughts went flying through Holly’s brain, most of them painful, and none of her ideas workable. “Find out who this model is who was a no-show. I’ve always wanted to be able to say you’ll never work in this town again. When I find him, that’s what I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tattoo it on his perfect forehead.”
“Nine minutes,” Irene said, continuing her countdown.
Holly came to a decision. “We yank the eleven male models and pick one to escort Jackie.”
“Airtime, Holly. For the boys as well as the girls. You’d have a riot on your hands, and I hate to see handsome grown men cry. Besides, the first two brides have already hit the runway—with escorts. Oh—eight minutes and forty-five seconds, Holly.”
“Trying for a second career doing countdowns at NASA, Irene?” Holly bit out, then grinned. “Yes! Irene, look over there. At the door. I think I see our man. Quick, what’s his name?”
“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Irene said, consulting the clipboard once more. “Harry Hampshire. Has to be a made-up name, right? Sic him, Holly, while I get the tuxedo ready. And, please, don’t give him that you’ll never work in this town again line until after the finale.”
Holly was already halfway to the door. Harry Hampshire, huh? He didn’t look like a Harry. He looked, actually, like some sort of Greek god. Max Rafferty looked like a Greek god. Harry made her second Greek god in two years. That had to be her quota. She doubted she would see another in her lifetime.
Tall, definitely tall enough to make Jackie look fragile, he had the slim, muscular build of the professional model. A mane of blackest black hair, one lock sort of slipping down onto his forehead. Blue eyes that sparkled inside a fringe of black lashes any woman would die for. Full lips that were more sensual than hot fudge licked from a spoon. That square, model jaw, those creases in his cheeks as he returned the smile of one of the female models.
Dear God, he made Holly’s palms itch. Gorgeous on a stick. Masculinity refined, smoothed, and yet definitely not domesticated. The kind of guy who’d actually look good in a morning beard. The kind of guy who smiled and that smile made you blink, because surely this guy couldn’t be human. No human could be that perfect.
Yeah, well, so much for waxing poetic over some skin and bones.
“You’re late, buster,” Holly accused, grabbing his arm as he winked at one of the models. “Come on, we’ve got like seven minutes to get you into your tux.”
“I beg your pardon?” the hunk said, although he did move along with her, which was a good thing because Holly was more than ready to try tossing him over her shoulder and personally stuffing him into the tux.
“Look, Harry, I’ve got no time for this. Strut on your own time, okay? We’ve got—Irene! How much time have we got?”
“Six minutes,” Irene called out, lining up more of the other models, each of whom had her own attendant with her, ready to fluff out the train on each gown before the model stepped on the runway. “Tux is ready to go, studs beside it on the chair.”
“Got it,” Holly said, turning around, tugging on Harry’s tie, beginning to unbutton the model’s shirt. She then dropped to her knees in front of him, began untying his shoes. “Come on, come on. No time for modesty, Harry. Kick off the shoes. Drop those pants. We’ve got to get you into this tux now.”
“You want me in a tux?”
Holly looked up at him, motioned for him to slip out of his suit jacket. Nice suit, probably Armani. Modeling must pay even better than she thought. Of course, with this guy’s face and body, he could probably command top dollar. “No, I want you in this tux, right here, right now. So strip!”
His smile invaded her solar plexus, gave it a punch that nearly sent her toppling over, onto the floor.
“Okay, since you asked. But isn’t there
