Falling for Grace
Wellywood Romantic Comedy Series
Book 3
by
Kate O’Keeffe
Falling for Grace is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
WOW®, World of Wearable Arts® and Bizarre Bra® are registered trademarks of Valetta International Limited.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.
ISBN-13: 978-1517612887
ISBN-10: 1517612888
Cover design by Kate O’Keeffe and pixelstudio
Copyright © 2016 Kate O’Keeffe
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Sneak Peek at One Last First Date
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1
SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIFTH IS THE day that changed everything. It’s the day I metaphorically—and literally—fell into my new, off the charts out-of-control life. The day I became The New Me.
September twenty-fifth isn’t anything special: it’s not New Year’s, it’s not my birthday—hell, it’s not even the day my rent is due. It’s simply a day like any other.
Or at least it was.
So, here’s what happened. Here’s what changed my life forever.
I’m about to walk out from behind the huge black curtain separating backstage from the audience onto the brightly lit catwalk. The music is thumping, the arena is packed, there’s an almost palpable excitement in the air. Backstage is a swarm of models, performers, choreographers, and wardrobe technicians.
Despite the fact I’ve been out on the catwalk twice tonight already, my tummy loops into a reef knot as I wait for my cue.
“Grace, Tiffany, Aroha? You’re on in twenty seconds.”
I take a deep breath and nod at Kari. She shoots me an encouraging smile as I do one final check of my black rubber bra strap. Feels firm: good. I smooth my black leggings then shake out my hands, hoping it will calm me.
A cool hand brushes my back. “Just switching you on, Grace.”
“Thanks, Kari.”
I glance down at the large rubber appendages strapped to the front of my chest. With a flick of the switch the bra lights up, traffic lights flashing red, yellow, and green as a series of brightly coloured matchbox cars whizz around on a racetrack made entirely of rubber, circling each breast.
A discreet, sensible T-shirt bra this is not.
And this isn’t exactly your usual, run-of-the-mill fashion show either. It’s the World of Wearable Arts, an annual event held in my hometown of Wellington in New Zealand. It’s a wildly popular event, showcasing the weird and the wonderful world of art you can wear—hence the name. I’m modelling an artwork in the ‘Bizarre Bra’ section, and this one certainly lives up to its title.
Tiffany, standing on my left, chuckles as she takes in my outfit. “That one kills me every time. What’s it called again, Grace?”
“’Racy Rubber’, I think.” I take a deep breath. My tummy seems to know more loopy knots than a Boy Scout this evening.
The smell of rubber clouds my nostrils and I feel a small vibration with the whizz of the cars, circling round and round. “The cars feel kind of weird.”
Tiffany arches an eyebrow. “Good weird, I bet. Well enjoy it. A girl’s got to get it where she can. Especially a reclaimed virgin like you.”
I shake my head at her, smiling despite my nerves. “You’re hilarious, Tiff,” I deadpan.
She shrugs, adjusting her own bra, a shell extravaganza, complete with protruding prawns on extended wires bouncing in front of her with each movement she makes. Not exactly the kind of bra you would wear to church—unless of course you worshipped some kind of sea creature god, I guess.
We shuffle forwards in our sky-high heels, waiting for our final cue to go on. I take a deep breath.
You can do this.
Tiffany grabs me by both shoulders, spinning me around to face her. Our bras knock into one another. I gasp, check mine is still in full working order. Relieved when I find it is.
“Remember, Grace, when we get to the centre you dance to the left, not the right. Otherwise: disaster.”
“Sure, I’ve got this. No stress.”
Stress! Left, left, left!
I bite my lip. I went right and smacked into another model four times in rehearsal, once wearing the rubber-tastic bra I’m modelling tonight, knocking one of the traffic light nipples clean off. I wasn’t exactly the top of everyone’s Christmas card list that day.
I’ve got to nail this tonight.
Modelling at the World of Wearable Arts—or WOW, as it’s known here—is like no other job. It’s more theatre than fashion, and the models are expected to dance in character with the artwork they’re modelling. For ‘Racy Rubber’ that means darting quickly around the stage, like a car speeding on a racetrack. If it weren’t for the tightly arranged choreography I might do myself—or some other poor model—a serious injury.
In my defence, I was a last-minute ring-in thanks to a broken leg, meningitis, and a death in the family. Not all for the same model, you understand. That would be horrific—not to mention highly unlikely.
Tiffany’s my roommate and suggested me to the organisers as a replacement. I guess I was a shoe-in. I worked for WOW once in the past and loved it, despite the nerves, but didn’t think I had the time this year.
But, thanks to my wonderful boss making me redundant a month ago, I found I had all the time in the world—and a growing hole in my wallet. Hence a crash course in the complicated choreography, Tiffany’s concern, and ‘Racy Rubber’ ready to rumble.
Tiffany smiles at me. “Hey, did you hear that Sam Montgomery is in the audience tonight?”
“Who?” I reply, distracted. Turn left, Grace, left.
She looks at me wide-eyed. “Sam Montgomery. From Portal 51.”
Irritated, I reply, “Portal 51? Tiff, what are you talking about?”
“You know, that British sci fi show I’m always telling you about? Sam Montgomery is the star and he’s out there right now.”
She shoots me a ‘did-you-come-down-in-the-last-shower’ look. I may as well have when it comes to Tiffany’s TV shows. Not my cup of tea.
“Grace, you really should watch something other than those lame-assed documentaries you love so much, you know.”
Before I have the chance to defend my taste in programming Kari signals for us to go on stage. “Okay ladies, you’re up.”
I take a deep breath and walk out from behind the curtain, instantly getting into character as I do my choreographed racing car impersonation.
I pose. People applaud. My confidence grows. So far so good.
Yeah, I’ve got this.
Head down, race, pose. Stop, turn to the left—not the right. I catch Tiffany’s e
ye, triumphant. She raises an eyebrow at me, almost imperceptibly, acknowledging my success.
Yes, this feels good. I’m rocking it.
Opening night came off without a hitch last night, although my heart had threatened to leap out of my chest and into the packed audience, but that’s nothing in comparison with tonight. Tonight is awards night, the night the country’s dignitaries, celebrities, and the media are all here.
And my parents.
I turn in time to the music and begin to walk towards the centre of the stage. It’s all working beautifully. I begin to relax into it, confident I know the choreography. I’m actually enjoying this now. What was I worried about? I’m acing this!
Suddenly, without warning, the bra strap stretched across my back somehow breaks its clasp, slapping my arm with a painful whack.
Uh-oh.
The bra begins to lift. This can’t be good.
Potential public nudity alert!
What am I going to do? Quick thinking, Grace. Immediately I clamp my arms to my side, managing somehow to secure the edges of the strap under each arm. I can feel the bra slipping up my chest. I grab it with both hands before it has the chance to ping off and ricochet around the auditorium.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The traffic lights are still flashing, the cars are still circling. Everything is in place: calamity averted.
I risk a quick glance down to check nothing’s poking out where it shouldn’t be. All good. I heave a sigh of relief.
This will be a funny story for backstage after the show.
I look around me. I’m now out of sequence with the other models! I need to get to the front of the stage—and fast.
I put my head down, assume my racing car stance, and head as quickly as I can to the front of the stage. God, I hope the audience thinks this is just part of the choreography.
I reach the front of the stage and prepare to step into place. Ordinarily I would be here by now, posing and ready for what happens next.
Not tonight.
The circular stage begins to rotate. No! Wait! I’m not there yet! I wobble in my sky-high heels.
This can’t be happening.
My instinct is to steady myself with my arms, like an aeroplane. It works.
Phew.
As I straighten up I hear gasps and murmurs from the audience.
I look down. Oh, God. Racy Rubber has ridden up my body. I’m flashing the entire audience!
My throat tightens in panic. Think, Grace, think! I grab the bra and pull it back into place, successfully covering my modesty. As I do so I step one foot off the rotating stage. With the other foot still on the move I lose my balance and stagger towards the edge of the stage, trying to regain my equilibrium.
I don’t.
Suddenly everything goes into slow motion. It’s like I’m watching a movie of a girl gracefully falling through the air to slow orchestral music, everyone around her frozen in time.
But this isn’t a movie and I’m not watching a girl fall gracefully at all. It’s me, and it’s far from graceful.
By now the bizarre bra is up around my neck. With my arms flailing I’m forced to leave it there. Having teetered off the edge of the stage I know I’m hurtling towards the ground and I can’t do anything to stop it.
I can almost hear my big sister Brooke’s voice in my head, describing me as a bumbling hippo on roller-skates.
Damn her—why does she have to be proved right tonight, of all nights?
I just know this is going to hurt.
I clench my eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable impact of hard, unforgiving ground.
Instead, soft, strong, safe arms envelop me, pulling me into a warm, solid chest. Still in slow motion, a hand pulls my bra back down, restoring my modesty.
Realising I’m not about to break a leg—or worse—I look up into the most mesmerizing blue eyes I’ve seen in my life.
Holy crap. I didn’t know they made eyes like that.
And the face: so gorgeous it would make angels weep.
My breath hitches in my chest.
“Well, hello there.” A smile creases the handsome face looking down at me. “I suppose this is one way to meet.”
His voice is like liquid honey, running over me. What sort of accent is that? Irish?
Oh, my god. This. Man. Is. Hot.
I gaze up at him, enjoying the feel of his body, his arms holding me close. I take in his sandy blonde hair, his strong jaw, his five-o’clock shadow. I blink at him, my body feeling like it’s been slammed into a wall.
A warm, solid, extremely sexy wall.
It’s as though everything around us has become a blur, and there’s no one but the two of us in the universe. My legs turning to jelly. Lucky he’s holding me because I don’t think I could stand right now for all the chocolate in Belgium.
Butterflies flutter in my belly, right on cue.
Concern clouds his face. “Are you quite all right?
I open my mouth to speak. Fail. I close it and open it again. Still nothing. I must look like an oversized goldfish, nibbling on kibble.
So not my best look.
The thump of the music bursts into my consciousness. Crap! I fell off the catwalk!
I look back at him. He’s like some sort of knight in shining armour, but sexy, oh-so very sexy.
A flush rushes up my neck and burns my cheeks.
I laugh nervously. “I’m . . . err . . . I’m sorry.”
Well at least my voice is working, even if my body feels like a blob of jelly.
Still holding me in his arms—don’t let go, please don’t let go—his mouth curves in an easy smile, his insanely blue eyes locked with mine. “Thank God you’re alright. You had me worried for a moment there.”
I melt further into him. That accent is sex-on-a-stick. Is it English? Somewhere in the north, perhaps?
I shake my head. “I’m fine. Thank you, thank you so much.” One side of my face suddenly stings. I reach my hand up to feel it, touching blood.
“You’re hurt,” Mr Sexy Knight says.
“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s . . . f-fine,” I stutter.
He puts me down so I’m standing next to him. He seems instinctively to know my legs are far from fully functioning just yet as he wraps a steadying arm around my waist.
“Here.” He reaches in and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket.
Who carries a handkerchief? This guy is old school.
I suck in air as he dabs the cut.
“It’s just a graze.” He smiles at me.
A blush creeps up my face.
A loud cheer erupts, popping our private bubble. I’m abruptly aware of the thousands of people around us. I’m hit by embarrassment so intense I could curl up and die on the spot.
With reluctance, I tear my eyes away from Mr Sexy Knight and look around the auditorium. All eyes are on us.
Wow, Grace. You really messed this one up.
I give a wave to show the assembled masses I don’t need to be stretchered out to a waiting ambulance and the crowd claps and cheers. Despite cringing with embarrassment on a global scale, I can’t help a grin from spreading across my face.
I glance back at the man at my side, acutely aware his arm is still held protectively around me. Although it feels so good, I know this has to end. I check the bra is in place—well, as ‘in place’ as a bra with a broken strap can be.
I look at Mr Sexy Knight. “I . . . I think I’m okay now.”
“Of course,” he replies, immediately removing his arm.
“Thank you for . . . ah . . . catching me.” I shoot him a sheepish smile.
“It was my pleasure.” His smile fills my body with warmth.
Oh, mercy.
I turn towards the stage, spotting some steps to my left. I ensure the bra straps are safely tucked under my arms then hold it in place: one nipple flash tonight—well, two nipples, but who’s counting—is more than enough for me.
The show has con
tinued despite my spectacular faux pas—as it should—so I walk with wobbly legs towards the steps, climb up them, take on my ‘Racy Rubber’ persona, and join my fellow models. I twist and turn, giving it all I’ve got as the audience erupts into further clapping and cheering.
Thirty seconds later I’m backstage, heaving a sigh of humiliated relief, my limbs still shaking.
Tiffany is at my side in an instant. “Grace, are you all right? That looked like it hurt!” She gives me an awkward hug around our bizarre bras. One of her protruding shrimps pokes me in the neck.
“Ow!”
“Oops, sorry.” She pulls away as I spot Kari rushing over towards us.
“Right you two—” she begins but stops. “Oh, what happened here?” She holds up the broken bra strap, dangling at my side.
I smile weakly at her. “Things didn’t go quite to plan out there.”
Tiffany chortles. “She fell off the stage, Kari. And of all the people in the audience to land on, she managed to fall into Sam Montgomery’s lap! Lucky cow.”
I dart her an incredulous look. “Lucky? You think falling off the stage is lucky?”
“You fell off the stage?” Kari looks aghast. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, she’s just fine. She got to be man-handled by Sam Montgomery.”
Kari looks confused. “Manhandled?”
I shrug. “It was nothing. This guy caught me as I fell, that’s all. There was no manhandling.” I glare at Tiffany.
She lets out a sardonic laugh. “He’s the hottest guy in the audience and you fell into his arms.”
An image of Mr Sexy Knight’s smiling face flashes before my eyes. I blush beet red as I remember his beautiful blue eyes, his strong arms, the heat from his firm body as he held me close. The way I didn’t want him to let me go.
“If I didn’t know how straight-laced and boring you are, Grace, I would have thought you did it on purpose.”
“On purpose? Are you crazy? I could have been seriously hurt.” I turn to Kari. “Other than this minor cut here,” I point to the side of my face, “I’m fine.”
“I’m glad you’re not hurt, hon, that’s the main thing. And you can get Sammy Jo to give that cut a clean-up.” Kari eyes the bra. “We can fix that. Hand it over.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank you so much. I thought you were going to give me a roasting.”
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