Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (6 page)

“Oh, thank God,” Milla said, blowing the words out on a heavy breath. “Last night out with you was so much fun, but the last time Jarrod and I had a real date was…” She paused, wrinkled her brow, and looked up at the ceiling. Then her cheeks turned pink.

“About seven months ago?” Trudy asked, pointing to Milla’s burgeoning belly.

“The El Camino has a big back seat. We call the car ‘The Babymaker.’”

One-handed, Trudy balled her cloth napkin and threw it at her sister. “What did I say about TMI? Ugh.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window, pensive. “Looks like you got the good-in-bed gene. Not that I’ve heard complaints before, but who knows? Maybe my former boyfriends were being polite.”

“I’m sure you’re fine in bed. Some people just don’t match up well. Or so I’ve heard. Jarrod’s the only guy I’ve ever slept with.” Milla patted her belly. “One too many times, maybe. The watermelon here is
really
insisting I use the bathroom.”

Trudy helped her sister up, and when Milla headed down the hall, she took Gabbie into the living room where she changed the baby’s cloth diapers, then brought her to the window. She pointed out Griswold, munching hay several yards away. The baby waved and garbled nonsense to the donkey, who ignored the fanfare. Trudy stared off into the distance, clutching Gabbie tighter. The thick tulle fog that covered the Sacramento Valley this time of year was burning off from the morning sunrise. Across the wide expanse of the field next door, a couple of kids struggled with a recalcitrant kite. The wind had dropped and the kids couldn’t get the kite to lift—instead, it simply sat there on the field, stuck.

Like her, she realized. But that was all about to change, because she’d find Gregor Johansson, one way or another. First thing Monday morning, she’d call her agent Lisa and find out if the artist had any other public events. She’d show up. Smile. Be brilliant. Get hired.

And not have to worry about money for the next three years. Oh, yeah!

* * *

M
ac yawned widely
and squinted into the late morning sun as he steered his Porsche Cayman up the circular gravel drive to his home in Meadowview, too tired to park inside the carriage house and walk the twenty yards to the main house. After a rather sleepless night and an overly long meeting with Ian Ackerley, the two-hour drive home from Sacramento with the spring sun warming his car had made him slow and sleepy. He’d give anything for a nap. But before he could think of sleep, he needed to find the portfolios various modeling agencies had sent over and get the name and contact info for Trudy’s agent. And start the ball rolling with the contract with Trudy.

With the engine idling, he stared at the two-story Victorian home he shared with his father, sister, and his nephew, Aaron. Living with his family hadn’t been anywhere on his list of things to do as an adult, but when his mother died after her protracted battle with cancer, Doe had sunk into nothingness. Then, a few years later, she’d reached out to the wrong person for comfort (a total shit named Buck) and had ended up a defiant and pregnant unwed teenager. His father, quite loving but rather incompetent as parent and often traveling the world, hadn’t known how to handle her.

Mac immediately moved from New York to California, into his father’s house, to provide support for his sister. The last year and a half had been spent with him driving Doe to medical appointments, being there for the birth, babysitting Aaron when Doe needed a break, and bringing in money through commercial photography.

And ignoring the fact that he’d run from his dream of being an artistic photographer.

Until a month ago, that is, when he’d been approached by Ian. The art director had seen Mac’s several art showings in New York five years earlier, and had politely asked Mac to put together a collection of his art photography for a new West Coast show.

Mac had not so politely reminded Ian of the disastrous showing of his last public art display four years ago and how the critics called him a one-hit wonder.

Ian pushed.

And that’s when Mac let slip his conceptualization of the Warrior Woman series. The images had been tangling in his mind for years, but only recently had they coalesced into images he could see as an artistic presentation.

Ian loved the idea, and Mac had agreed to meet.

The meeting had gone well. By the time Mac left Ian’s gallery, he’d agreed to show a series of twelve photographs, all telling the story of a woman facing life’s challenges with a warrior’s will. Now all Mac had to do was produce the photographs to bring the concept to life. To do that, he needed a live artist’s model.

And he’d met the perfect one last night.

Images of Trudy—her wild hair and her alive eyes—filled his mind as he turned off the car and got out. Then he stopped suddenly , realizing that all the petunias he’d planted earlier in the week along the front walk were completely gone. Damn it.

“Doe!” he bellowed.

A moment passed, then Doe appeared at the doorway, dishtowel in her hand. He pointed to the missing petunias.

“Uh, yeah…about that…”

“Did Nanny get out again?” he asked, frowning.

Doe swallowed and nodded.

Damned goat. Nanny had been Doe’s 4-H project when she was in grade school. Doe was supposed to spend a year raising her, then sell her. But the night after their mother’s funeral, Mac had found Doe in the barn, arms tight around Nanny’s neck, crying buckets. Until then, he hadn’t seen Doe cry. Not during the diagnosis of breast cancer. Not during the double mastectomy. Not during chemotherapy or radiation or when their mother’s hair fell out in chunks or the moment Mac had to pull the life support plug. Not when either Mac or her father had held her at the funeral. But she’d cried to Nanny.

Sometimes family came in the oddest forms. Nanny had stayed.

“So did you get lucky with the redhead last night?” Doe held the door open and motioned him inside.

“Trying to change the subject?”

“I’ll fix the gate,” she grumbled. “Just answer my question.”

Huh
.
He considered what she’d asked. The word “lucky” probably wouldn’t be Trudy’s term of choice. Not after he’d given her such a lousy ride. He’d always taken pride on tending to a woman’s needs. Trudy deserved better than what he’d given her last night—she deserved a mind-blowing orgasm. Or five.

After all, the poor girl had packed not one, but three condoms in her purse. And he’d choked.

“Where’s the baby?” he asked, attempting to change the subject as they walked into the kitchen.

“Napping,” Doe answered. She grabbed a Spode platter and rubbed it with the dishcloth until the china squeaked. “So when will you see Trudy again? I liked her. You going to call her today?”

He shrugged. “She took off without giving me her phone number. Or her last name.”

“Seriously? What the heck did you do that would make her leave?”

Yeah, right. He wasn’t about to share with his own sister how badly he’d sucked in bed. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know how to find her again. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” He loped off down the hall to his office, returning a moment later with the large stack of portfolios that had been sent over by a modeling agency in Sacramento. “Take a look at the top one.”

Doe grabbed the stack. With careful movements, she opened the file and thumbed through the photographs before her. A frown crossed her forehead and she snapped her head up to stare with dark eyes at Mac. “She slept with you in order to get hired as your model?”

“Nope. I never gave her my last name. I’m figuring she and her agent thinks Dad’s the one looking for a model. We have the same address, the same legal name. Not many people know me in the art world the way they know Gregor.”

Doe waved the portfolio. “I think you’re right. The cover letter from her agent is addressed to Gregor Johansson. Not MacGregor, or Mac Johns. The lines of communication must have gotten mixed up somehow.”

“Yeah, I think Trudy was at the gallery last night to meet Dad and put a face to her name. Remember she asked if you’d introduce her?”

“Vaguely.” Doe looked down at the portfolio again. “So she doesn’t know Gregor Johansson’s your dad?”

“Nope.”

“Then she wasn’t using you to get to Dad, either.” The frown on Doe’s face relaxed a bit. She held up the photograph of Trudy’s portrait. “Are you going to call her agent and get her number?”

Mac grabbed a Gravenstein apple from the fruit basket on the granite countertop. “Nuh uh.”

“I don’t get it.” Her brow creased back into furrows. “I thought you wanted to see her again.”

“You know, Doe, if you keep on worrying so much, you’ll end up needing Botox by the time you’re twenty,” he teased.

“Now who’s changing the subject? Besides, I don’t buy it. You’ll call her—you have to. I’ve never seen you like this over a woman before.” She looked at him, quizzically. “Seriously, Mac, what are you planning to do?”

“I’ll give her what she really wants,” he said simply. “I’ll award her the contract. She’ll be my new live model.”

Doe’s eyes narrowed. “I’m assuming you’ll tell her who you are first, right?”

Of course he’d let Trudy know who he was, but he did so love needling his little sister. “Letting her think Dad is the one offering the job
would
be rather disingenuous.”

“Ya think?” Doe snorted.

He added, laying on the fake levity, “But if I don’t, I’d be guaranteed of seeing her that way.”

“Mac, you seriously—”

“Although, if
she
did sign the contract, would it be ethical to sleep with her while she’s my employee?”

“You cannot seriously be considering
not
telling her who you are, right?” Doe shoved her hands on her hips.

He hefted the apple’s weight in his hand and stared out the window, pretending to be deep in contemplation. “But what if she never wants to see me again? What then?”

“I swear to God,” Doe snapped, “if you don’t tell her who you are before she signs that contract, I’ll disown you as my brother.”

He turned to grin at his sister. “I was just teasing you. Besides, you’d never do disown me. You need me too much.”

Doe’s chin wobbled and he promptly let go of trying to get a rise out of her. Christ. Sometimes he forgot she’d just turned eighteen—still a kid, really. And she did need him. As hard as their mother’s death had hit him, Doe had completely unraveled. In every way that mattered, he was her family, and she couldn’t raise Aaron without his help, even as much as she tried to help by assisting him and his father in their work.

Still, he shouldn’t have said what he did.

“I promise, Doe. I’ll make sure she knows who I am. That the contract is with Mac Johns, not Gregor Johansson.
And
, I’ll be a gentleman and let her come to me instead of chasing her.”

And then he’d have to wait and see if Trudy would want anything to do with him. But he didn’t plan to wait long.

T
wo days later
, Trudy clung to her cell phone, relief flowing through her. Phew! She’d been awarded the contract with Gregor Johansson. She could keep her loft. She wouldn’t end up defaulting on the massive debt she’d accrued from her medical bills. She’d been saved.

Her agent, Lisa, had been in a rush when she spoke with her, but had added that Gregor had been incessant that he hire nobody else but Gertrude Prendergast. Lisa mentioned Gregor had seen her at the gallery event and had apparently been amazed. And Lisa thought by Gregor’s reaction that Trudy would be all but guaranteed the contract extension—the three-month job would extend to three years. Woot!

Her new job would start bright and early Monday at the Johansson place in the small town of Meadowview, about two hours away. Trudy was to be there by eight Monday morning, ready to pose for a series of nudes.

The contract was to be messengered to her later in the day for her signature. Trudy was to sign both copies, keep one, and send the other back to her agent, who’d in turn would get it to the artist’s assistant. The girl with the multiple piercings and the cute little baby with the grabby hands.

Mac’s little sister, Doe.

She figured she couldn’t hide from the guy the rest of her life, but she wasn’t going to make it easy for him to find her—not that he wanted to. The events of the other night spoke quite clearly a second do-over would never happen. She hoped he hadn’t mentioned the infamous night of bad sex to his sister.

Of course he hadn’t, she argued with herself. Who would tell their sibling they’d had horrid sex?

Uh, yeah, so she’d told Milla. But that was different, right? Sisters shared almost everything. Surely Mac had kept his sexy mouth shut. And if it came up, she would let Doe know she wasn’t interested in reconnecting with the girl’s brother, without offending Doe, of course. She definitely wouldn’t want to start off her job with Gregor Johansson on the wrong foot with the sculptor’s assistant.

Wow. It was still hard to believe she’d have a steady and well-paying contract for three years. Lisa seemed pretty confident the trial period would get extended to the full three years. With the amount the artist was paying, she’d get her credit cards back to black and would be able to pay off a sizable chunk of her mortgage. A few weeks ago she’d been despondent when she hadn’t been chosen to be the exclusive model for Essentially Green, but now? Now she didn’t need that clothing company’s contract, anyway. Sure, this job paid a little less and wasn’t as long, but it was a job. And a good one. Little thrills of excitement sizzled through Trudy’s body. She hadn’t been this excited since… A memory surfaced, bumping its way unwanted into her consciousness.

Oh, heck. Since Saturday night. The night she met Mac.

That night, when their eyes met, her heart had done the same bumpety-bump it was doing right now. And when he’d kissed her in the bar, the same tingly zings had raced up and down her spine. Until, of course, she’d caused sex to be an epic fail.

She shook her head, hard. She needed to forget Mac and focus on the new awesome in her life. She was about to become Gregor Johansson’s new muse. She deserved the zings and tingles of excitement.

Trudy refused to leave her loft for the remainder of the day, unwilling to even grab a latte at the bakery at the end of the dock in case she’d miss the messenger. By late afternoon, the messenger had yet to arrive. At four o’clock, she placed a hesitant call to her agent Lisa’s office, and by four-thirty, she’d left almost a dozen messages on Lisa’s voice mail. No response.

At five minutes to five, she heard a knock on her front door.
Finally
.

She tore down the hall and opened the door.

“Gertrude Prendergast?” A young man stood in front of her, motorcycle helmet under one arm, messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

When she nodded, he handed her a rather wrinkled sheet of paper. “First, here are the instructions to MacGregor’s place.”

She took the paper and noted a map and driving directions to Meadowview, California, with the name MacGregor Johansson sprawled in a heavy hand across the top.

“MacGregor?” she asked, puzzled. “I thought his name was Gregor.”

“Just following instructions.” The courier shrugged and dug around in the bag, finally producing a manila envelope he handed to her. “Here. You’re supposed to sign this.”

Trudy opened the metal clasp and slid a bound document out. The contract. But only one? Lisa had said two would be delivered—one she’d sign, and the other she’d keep. She pulled out her phone and dialed her agent’s number again. This time she was met with Lisa’s cheerful voice informing her the agency was closed for the weekend and to call back on Monday. She hung up, confused.

“Why is there only one copy? I was expecting two, and I don’t have a copy machine.”

The courier shook his head. “Dunno. You’re supposed to sign, I’m supposed to leave.”

“But—” Trudy bit off her words. Maybe it didn’t matter. Lisa could always send her a copy sometime next week.

“Look,” the courier added, “if I don’t get back on the bike soon, I’ll be stuck in traffic as soon as I hit I-80.”

“Why would you get on the interstate?”

He shrugged. “As soon as you sign, I’m to take this back to Meadowview. Doe’s expecting it.”

She nibbled her lip. “I thought you were taking this to the agency. That’s south of here, off Highway 50.”

He sighed. “I don’t know about that. All I know is that Doe everything got screwed up this morning because of some goat.”

Goat?
Had she heard right? Trudy’s head spun. She tried Lisa’s number again, only to be met with the same canned “We’re closed” response. Then she tried Lisa’s cell again and it went straight to voice mail. God, what was her agent doing for her commission? Certainly not answering phones. She could refuse to sign and potentially lose the job, or sign the damned thing and show up at work on Monday. But she
couldn’t
risk losing this job. Not with all that was at stake.

She heaved a sigh and quickly flipped through the contract, making sure the contract amendments Lisa put in ever since the Tubster Trudy incident was clear on the page: no images of her of any kind would be posted online or in any other medium prior to the artist’s official showing of the work without her signed consent. Good. Everything looked perfect.

She clicked the pen. In under a minute, she’d signed on the dotted line and handed the contract back to the courier. Instead of feeling elated, though, she felt a sense of unease wash over her as she watched the courier jump start his motorcycle and zoom off in a cloud of black smoke into the late afternoon sun.

* * *

E
arly Monday morning
, Trudy drove her Prius through the quiet streets of Meadowview, wishing she could enjoy the quaint scenery but frustrated that she was thoroughly lost. The instructions she’d been given had directed her up Interstate 80 until the interstate was surrounded by towering pines, then onto a two-lane highway that twisted and turned through the northern California foothills for about an hour before putting her smack-dab in the middle of an adorable small town.

But her GPS didn’t seem to recognize the street name on the directions given to her by the courier, and no matter which way she turned the paper, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out the map and instructions she’d been given. She was supposed to turn right off Main Street just after some business named Jenny’s Barn, but she couldn’t find the store. She’d driven the length of Main Street twice and had found two grocery stores—Dillards and Camden’s—an old-fashioned stage theater, a bakery, and a pub, but nothing named Jenny’s Barn. Would it be a clothing store?

She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. Gah
.
Fifteen minutes until she was supposed to meet the artist. She needed to stop and ask directions.

The wooden sidewalks lining Main Street were bare—too early in the morning for tourists, she figured. Sighing, she turned the car around and drove back to the first stop-sign in town. A few seconds ago she’d passed a diner at the corner that seemed to be bustling. Surely someone there would know how to find the famous sculptor’s place, right?

A bell over the door tinkled when she entered, but the sound was superfluous—as soon as she stepped into Delilah’s Diner, heads swiveled and warm gazes stared at her. She glanced around the room and took in the eclectic group of patrons. A beautiful young woman in a tie-dyed maxi dress sat at one table, holding hands with a handsome man in a Armani suit, and a middle-aged woman with blond dreadlocks and a 1950s red and white polka-dotted apron stood behind the counter, talking to a thin but busty redheaded woman in a T-shirt with
English Major—You Do the Math
emblazoned across the back and a man in firefighter pants. The rest of the people scattered around wore a mix of Levis, Wrangler jeans, and plaid shirts. Even the two kids in the corner were in plaid—the little girl wore a dress entirely out of red and black hunter (or was that lumberjack?) check.

Wow. Plaid must be the “new black” in this town.

With the exception of the guy in Armani, this was quite different attire from what she was used to in New York, or even Sacramento. When the patrons kept looking at her, she glanced down at her outfit, which consisted of a pale green silk button-down blouse, cream worsted wool slacks and a matching jacket, and Louboutin shoes—maybe she should have worn plaid. Certainly would have blended in a bit better if she had.

“Hey, hon,” the woman behind the booth that stretched nearly the length of the diner called out. “Welcome to Delilah’s. Table for one today?”

Embarrassed, Trudy made her way past a few tables to lean against the booth. “Um, I actually just stopped for directions.”

The woman laughed. “You must not be traveling with a man. No worries. We’ll get you straightened out. Here, have a cup of coffee. On the house.” She reached for a coffee pot and a to-go cup, then called out to a man seated at the end of the booth. “Hey, help this young woman figure out where she’s headed, will you?”

The man’s back was to Trudy, and all she could see was that he was wearing a law enforcement uniform of some kind. But when the officer turned around, heat suddenly crawled up Trudy’s neck. Oh, god, she’d met him before. The night she’d hooked up with Mac. Her mind went blank and she stared, open-mouthed, until she realized she looked like a brainless twit.

“I’m so sorry,” she finally managed to get out. “I didn’t mean to barge in and interrupt your breakfast.”

The sheriff (um…Remy, right?) stood and came over to her, a relaxed smile on his face.
Please, please,
please
don’t bring up Mac,
she mentally whispered. She was nervous enough to start her new job with Gregor Johansson—she didn’t need additional nerves brought about by memories of her sucky time with Mac.

“We met the other night, right?” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Remy.”

“Uh, yeah,” she mumbled, then mentally cringed. Foster Mom Number Five had taught her and Milla better than that. She cleared her throat and took his hand in hers, forcing herself to grip tight and give him a solid handshake. She added, “I mean, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I’m Trudy. Gertrude T. Prendergast, actually. But I go by Trudy.” Better, right?

His smile widened. Cute, she thought. The man was definitely attractive, although he didn’t inspire her stomach to do the butterfly thing. He reminded her of her brother-in-law, Jarrod. More Milla’s type than hers.

“Where are you headed, Trudy?” Remy asked, sincerity in his tone.

“Gregor Johansson’s place.” She held the map and instructions she’d been given out to the sheriff. “Supposedly it’s located past a business called Jenny’s Barn, but I couldn’t see a store with that name.”

The woman behind the counter laughed, the sound warm and throaty, but still. Trudy stiffened. God, she hated being laughed at. “Did I misunderstand the directions somehow?” she asked, a little too abruptly. “It says very clearly here”—she pointed to the paper with scribbled instructions—“that I’m to turn right past Jenny’s Barn, off Main Street. Maybe there’s a mistake with how the instructions are written.”