“I know, Dad. You bring that up every time someone talks about a hot spring. And you know what else? That’s the same thing Dalton said.”
“Smart guy.”
“He claims he isn’t.”
“Playing dumb can work to your advantage. Not that you’d ever try it.”
“Hah! I got you to help with my contract, didn’t I?”
He frowned over the papers. “You should have an agent for this. This matters. As far as the other stuff goes, dating and whatever, you’re only twenty-two. Date whomever you want. It’s not like you’re ready to get married.”
“Really. You don’t say.” I put my hand on my hip, the attitude working its way through my suddenly-in-demand, voluptuous body. “And at what age am I ready to get married?”
“Twenty-nine. You’ll wear a big, white dress. Too expensive, of course. Your mother and I will pay for everything, and we’ll book the same hall as we had for our wedding.”
I honestly didn’t know whether to chew him out for being so bossy, or hug him and kiss him for having given it so much thought.
“Dalton seems nice enough,” he said, nodding.
I threw myself into his arms. “You’re a good daddy.”
“All I want is the best for you.” He patted my back. “What temperature do you have the air conditioning set to? Seems a bit chilly.”
He went off to fiddle with the settings for the HVAC system.
Some customers came in, and I helped them with their shopping. My father slipped out, the contract in his hand.
Once I was alone again, I remembered the text message on my phone that I hadn’t read yet.
Dalton: This lunch the catering truck made us today is insane.
Me: You’re making me hungry!
Dalton: Haven’t had lunch?
Me: I’ll get something from the coffee shop soon.
Dalton: Don’t bother! Vern is bored out of his mind here today. He’s going to bring you over lunch.
Me: How would you feel about dating an underwear model?
There was a long delay with no response. Over half an hour. Then I got this:
Dalton: I don’t know what you mean, but I’m not seeing anyone but you.
Me: An underwear company called me this morning, about modeling their new plus-size line. Do you think I should do it?
Another delay, maybe ten minutes.
Dalton: I don’t want you to get hurt.
I typed a whole bunch of responses and deleted them all without sending. I appreciated his concern, but I wished it didn’t make me feel like he thought I was an idiot. It was bad enough I had my father working on the contract, like I was some child who didn’t understand consequences.
If Dalton had been dating someone skinny, who got asked to model non-plus-size clothes, would he say the same thing?
I guess the worst part about my father and Dalton both being apprehensive was how they introduced more doubt to my mind. Right after I’d talked to the woman, my mind had whirled with dreams coming true. I’d get pampered, take instructions for a photo shoot or two, then gather my big stack of cash and buy the brand new house that was for sale down the street from where I lived. Then it would be goodbye to the grotty old rental house with “character” and scary spiders in the basement, and hello to long, hot showers in my new house. Shayla would still be my roommate, and we’d have a formal dining room and tons of fancy dinner parties.
Oh, and my books! I’d line the formal dining room with bookshelves.
What the doubts did was rain all over these dreams. I’d have bookshelves, but wouldn’t enjoy them because I’d be sobbing on the bathroom floor over hate mail and awful things about me on the internet. If people started to dig—really dig—they’d find a gossip goldmine. People magazine would want to write a feature story about me, and then everyone would know everything.
The door jingled, and Vern came into Peachtree Books, looking every bit a butler with a silver-lidded tray in hand.
With a flourish, he revealed the lunch sent over from the movie set. It looked like spaghetti and meatballs, but the healthy version, where half the pasta was stir-fried vegetables.
“What are these?” I asked, sampling a green vegetable that looked and tasted like asparagus, but rolled into a circle at the tip, like the fiddlehead on a fern.
“Fiddleheads,” he replied.
Of course.
“I’ll watch the door while you eat,” he said, and he started browsing through the new releases on the front table.
I took a seat back at the table where I usually unboxed new orders, and scarfed down the meal as I texted Dalton.
Me: These meatballs are really good. Thank you!
Dalton: I’ll show you meaty balls.
Me: I’ll bring the peaches for dessert.
Dalton: Stop it. This scene doesn’t call for wood.
Me: Are you in that room we visited last night?
Dalton: Yes. And I keep thinking about you on your knees, with your sweet lips on my…
Me: I do love meatballs.
Dalton: Back to your previous question. If you want to be an underwear model, then I say go for it. Opportunities are good. One should always make the leap when Fate winks.
Me: Leap?
Dalton: Leap! Gotta go. Very long day and long night ahead of us.
I said goodbye and was putting the phone away when I got one more message.
Dalton: I can smell you on my skin, you little minx. XOXO
With a huge smile on my face, I put away the phone and chased the last bit of noodle from the plate. I’d never had someone send me lunch at work. The beautiful flowers he’d sent me were now enjoying their final day, looking gorgeous in their decay.
Flowers or lunch, or even just a text message, it all showed he was thinking about me. I’d been so concerned about him getting into all my thoughts that I forgot I’d gotten into his.
And now I lived in his mind, along with his script lines, his fancy life, and his awful memories of a lover who killed herself, a vindictive stepdaughter/sister, and a mother who overdosed on his money.
He had a lot to worry about, so I vowed to myself that no matter what happened with the underwear modeling, I wouldn’t add to his problems.
~
Friday.
On Tuesday morning, I’d gotten the call about modeling an as-yet-unnamed underwear line.
By Friday, the details had been ironed out, thanks in no small part to my father’s savvy negotiating.
It had been his idea to lend not just my image, but my name to the underwear line. That’s how I found myself acting as the “consulting designer” on the Peaches Monroe line of plus-sized bras, panties, and body shapers. Me! A fashion designer! Specifically, I received a FedEx packet of fabric samples and chose five colors from the ten samples; I was assured my involvement was very important.