Falling for Grace

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “Clark Gable,” I say, satisfied I know my pop culture. Well, pop culture from about a century ago.

  Maybe I should get some of those magazines, change the channel every now and then?

  “You know Clark Gable but not Sam Montgomery? You’ve got it twisted, babe,” Tiffany comments, her arm draped around Rangi’s shoulders.

  I shrug. “I saw something on Marilyn Monroe once and how she fantasised about Clark Gable being her dad.”

  “Really? And where did you see that?” Tiffany asks, her eyes wide in mock innocence.

  “Ah . . . umm . . . I can’t remember,” I lie.

  “The History Channel?”

  The colour rises in my cheeks. “Yes.” I look down, embarrassed.

  She shakes her head at me. “You’re old before your time, Grace Mortimer.”

  “Hey, do you still need a job?” Rangi asks, mercifully changing the subject. “If you do I’ve got a photographer mate who needs models right now.”

  My ears prick up. I definitely need a job. “For what, exactly?”

  He looks sheepish. “Modelling. You know, the usual stuff. Just, err . . . without clothes.”

  “Nude? No way,” I reply vehemently. I may have lost my job as a fashion buyer but I’m not desperate. Yet.

  Rangi pleads his friend’s case. “It’s all really tasteful. He’s an artist.”

  I laugh. “I bet he is.”

  “It’s not like you should be shy, Grace, now the whole city’s seen the girls. What little there is, anyway,” Tiffany glances at my chest.

  I shoot her a look. “Classy, Tiff.”

  Everyone suddenly goes quiet. Sammy Jo nudges Tiffany as they both look wide-eyed at something—or someone—behind my back.

  I furrow my brow. “What is it, guys?”

  “Ah, excuse me.” I hear a voice behind me. “Are you Grace?”

  I turn to see the same piercing blue eyes I gazed into only hours ago looking directly at me. An involuntary shiver races down my spine.

  “I, err—” My mouth dries as construction workers start hammering things in my tummy.

  What is he doing here?

  His smile drops as uncertainty clouds his face. “Well, I hope you are. At least Sally-Ann told me I could find you here.”

  Sally-Ann? He must mean Sally-Ann Baxter, WOW Managing Director. She knows where I go for a post-show drink?

  “Oh . . . um, yes. I am. I’m Grace . . . err . . . hello.”

  Smooth, Grace.

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, wishing I could get a do over. Then I take a deep breath, push my chair back, stand, and turn to face him.

  Although I’m five foot ten he’s much taller and I find myself looking up into his face.

  He extends his hand. “I’m Sam. I’m the one that, ah, caught you.”

  I take his hand, feeling its warmth pressed against mine. “Yes, I . . . thank you so much for that. You were there just at the right time.”

  “I aim to please.” He nods his head and smiles at me.

  Be still my beating heart.

  “I wanted to check on that scratch. I’m terribly sorry but I think my cufflink caught your face.”

  He fingers his shirt cuff and I spot a small smear of blood on his shirt. My blood.

  Well that’s a weird feeling.

  I touch my fingers to my face. “It’s nothing. Really. Thank you.”

  An arm snakes around my shoulders. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your new friend, Grace?” Tiffany asks, making doe eyes at Sam.

  Sometime during our awkward exchange Tiffany’s loosened her hair, applied lipstick, and somehow managed to tighten her shirt.

  What has she got back there? Clothes pegs?

  “Oh, umm . . . of course. Sam,” I say, trying out his name for the first time, “these are my friends. This is Tiffany, Rangi, and Sammy Jo. They’re all in the show too.”

  Before he has a chance to respond Tiffany leaps on him, grabbing his hand and pressing her body up against his. “So pleased to meet you, Sam. I’m a big, big fan of your work.”

  Models can look like spokespeople for starvation. Tiffany does not. She’s one of those lucky girls who are slim and toned with a perfectly perk butt and D-cup breasts. So not fair.

  “Thank you. It’s great to meet you all. The show was amazing,” he says as Tiffany simpers, her eyes sweeping over his body, drinking him in.

  He takes a step back, releasing Tiffany’s hand in one smooth movement. He’s done that before. By the looks of him I imagine he’s used to fending off rabid female fans.

  “I must get back to my party.” He nods towards a group of people standing by the door to the bar. I recognise the woman from the red carpet shot. I catch her eye and she smiles and waves at me.

  Nice as well as beautiful?

  He turns back to me. “It was lovely to meet you, Grace, and I’m glad you’re okay. Take care.”

  Goodbye, Mr Sexy Knight, I think, as I watch him turn and walk back towards his friends. I spot Malcolm Svenson, the famous New Zealand movie producer, as well as another good-looking guy I can only assume is also in the ‘biz’.

  That’s quite some ‘party’.

  Once he’s safely out of sight I slump back onto my stool, finally letting out a breath.

  “Oh. My. God!” Tiffany exclaims.

  My sentiments exactly.

  “I’m guessing you’re going to start watching Portal 51 now,” Sammy Jo comments.

  “Why?” I question breathlessly, forcing myself not to think about Sam Montgomery: the velvety sound of his voice, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, the way he looked right at me.

  Arrrgh! Stop!

  “Because you’re in total lust with its star.” Sammy Jo crosses her arms, a satisfied look on her face.

  I balk at her. “What? No, I’m not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “If you’re not you’d be the only woman in this room. No, scrub that, on this planet. Am I right?” Tiffany looks around our group.

  Sammy Jo puts her hand over her heart. “Oh, yes. And you know what, Grace? He went out of his way to check on you. He didn’t need to do that.”

  I suppress a smile at the thought. “So? It just means he’s a nice guy, that’s all.”

  “I think he caught a sight of you and thought ‘mmm, I would rather like a spot of that delightful Kiwi girl’,” Sammy Jo says, trying—and failing—to imitate Sam’s awfully proper accent.

  “Exactly,” Tiffany confirms. “He’s probably bored with Vanessa and looking for a fling. Some woman dropping out of the air and into his lap is probably just what he’s looking for. God, it should have been me.” She sticks her bottom lip out like a sulking toddler.

  “Hey, didn’t your bra fly off or something? He probably caught sight of your rack. That’d do it for most guys.” Rangi shrugs, confident in his not-so-complicated theory of attraction.

  I shoot him a condescending look. “Hardly.”

  “Yeah, her boobs aren’t that great,” Tiffany adds.

  “Thanks a lot, Tiff.”

  Sammy Jo gazes off into the distance, her hand still on her heart. She lets out a sigh. “Well, I think it’s so romantic. You fell into his arms and he fell for Grace.”

  I shake my head at her, chuckling. “You’ve read too many of those romance novels you love so much, Sammy Jo. Think about it. You’ve all said it: he’s a big star. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me.”

  “Haven’t you seen Notting Hill? Julia Roberts was a big star and she fell for Hugh Grant. And he owned a book shop!” Sammy Jo leans back in her chair, giving me a satisfied look.

  “Movie: not reality. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend, right?”

  “The path of true love is never smooth, my friend,” Sammy Jo states sagely.

  I throw my hands up in the air. “Enough! Sammy Jo? You’re in romance novel cuckoo land. Rangi? He didn’t fall for me just because he saw my ‘rack’, as you so delightfully put it. I
f that was the way it worked half of Wellington would be in love with me after my bra malfunction tonight. And Tiffany? You—” I’m at a loss for what to say. “You’re on heat and need to keep it in your pants.”

  Rangi and Sammy Jo burst into laughter and Tiffany looks momentarily affronted before she too joins in. “Fair call,” she replies.

  “And what’s more,” I add, downing the final dregs of my Pinot Noir, “I’m heading home. I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered. The only thing I’m dreaming about right now is getting into bed. Alone.”

  Chapter 3

  I WAKE LATE THE following morning feeling like I’ve been mowed down by a bus. Every part of my body aches and my head feels like someone is wielding a large jackhammer inside it, swinging it around with happy abandon.

  It takes me a moment to work out why. Oh, yeah, that’s right. The humiliation of last night’s fall comes flooding back, slapping me in the face. I scrunch my eyes shut, sucking in a deep breath, willing it all to have been just a bad dream.

  I climb slowly out of bed, gingerly slip on a sweatshirt, and make my way to the kitchen.

  Coffee. I need coffee. And lots of it.

  Tiffany is propped up on a stool at the kitchen bench, munching on a piece of toast. “And here she is, ladies and gentlemen, Grace Mortimer, the Flying Nun!”

  I sigh heavily, ignoring the jibe. “Morning, Tiff.”

  I walk with great care into the kitchen and pour myself a coffee from the pot.

  “Oh, you don’t look so good.” She swings her long legs off the stool and walks over to me.

  “I don’t feel that flash, either. My whole body aches.” I stretch my back out, feeling it click. It doesn’t help.

  She takes the pot from me and pours herself another. “That’ll be because you tensed up during your fall.”

  “Yeah. Got that. Next time I’ll remember to relax when I make a humiliating fall in front of thousands.” I sit down at the bench slowly, like an eighty-year-old granny with severe arthritis. Where’s my walker when I need it?

  “Here.” She hands me a box. “Take some drugs and you’ll be fine. But eat something first.” She downs the last of her coffee. “I’m getting dressed.”

  I take a sip of my black coffee. Ahh, that’s better. “Sure. Go ahead. I need to sit for a while before I can face the day.”

  My phone vibrates on the bench next to me. It’s just far enough out of reach that I have to get off my seat and take two creaky steps to get to it. As I pick it up I notice I’ve received no less than seventeen texts this morning. Seventeen? A girl likes to be popular, but that’s ridiculous.

  I manage to sit my sorry ass back down on my stool. A reminder beeps at me, grabbing my attention. Brunch with Brooke and Logan. Dammit. I forgot I’d agreed to catch up with my sister and her boyfriend this morning.

  That means I have to get dressed and go out in public. God.

  I glance at the box of headache tablets. Eat something, and then take drugs. Baby steps—that’s how I’m going to get through the day.

  “Morning, Grace. Gorgeous day!” my other roommate, Taylor, trills in her impossibly upbeat sing-songy voice.

  I hate morning people.

  “Hey,” I grunt.

  She stops in her tracks. “What happened to you? You look like you’ve been up since dawn dipping the full farm’s sheep.”

  Taylor grew up in the rural South Island and loves to throw agricultural sayings into conversation. A lot. Sometimes they make sense—like ‘the rooster may crow but the hen delivers the goods’ to describe how women do all the work—and other times they leave me bewildered and confused, wondering what on this sweet earth she’s talking about.

  From my spot on the kitchen stool I take in her pink koala print pyjamas, pink fluffy monster claw slippers, her long red hair piled up on top of her head. Really, it’s doing nothing for my headache, which throbs at the sight of her.

  “Tiffany didn’t tell you?” I croak.

  “Uh-ah. You all right?” Concern clouds her pretty, freckled face.

  “Yeah, just sore. I kind of fell off the catwalk last night.” I smile weakly at her.

  “Oh, no! Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head. “Just my pride.”

  She examines my face. “You have a cut.”

  “Yeah.” An image of Sam’s face punctuates my thoughts. “A guy caught me, scratched my face with his cufflink. I was lucky, really.”

  “A guy caught you? Ha! He wasn’t just a guy. She landed in Sam Montgomery’s arms.” Tiffany calls out from her bedroom.

  “Who?” Taylor asks.

  I smile. “Thank you, Taylor. See, Tiff, not everyone knows who he is. I’m not the only one.”

  “You two need to get your heads out of your books and live in the twenty-first century for a while,” she pronounces, waltzing back into the kitchen in a pair of black leather leggings and my red tunic.

  “Hey, isn’t that mine?” I ask.

  “You don’t mind if I borrow it.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  I shrug. “Sure. It looks better on you than me anyway.”

  “Damn straight,” she replies.

  Taylor and I gawp at her slack-jawed. Tiffany is nothing if not confident.

  “You can’t say that, Tiff. It’s rude,” I say.

  “Not if it’s true.” She throws on my leather jacket and heads towards the door. “See you at the show tonight.”

  And she’s gone before I have the chance to protest further, the front door slamming behind her.

  Taylor shakes her head at me. “Tell me why we live with her? Because it sure is a mystery to me.”

  I chuckle. “She’s okay.”

  “Yes, if you like self-absorbed, clothes-stealing, female dogs in heat. I’m not usually happy about being so short, but at least she doesn’t steal my clothes.”

  She reaches into the cupboard and grabs a packet of crackers and some peanut butter.

  “She doesn’t steal them, exactly. I get them back.”

  “Are you sure about that?” She opens the fridge, grabbing a block of cheese. “Pass me that banana.”

  I stop to think. Hmm, I must check my closet—when I can move without creaking, that is.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. “What are you doing here so late? I thought you were working today.”

  Taylor is one of the receptionists at the popular Capital City Tennis Club in the city. We met when she replied to our advertisement for a new roommate a couple of years ago. We hit it off straight away. She’s easy going, kind, and very down-to-earth: the antithesis of Tiffany, really.

  “I’m not on until later. I’m reading this fantastic trilogy right now. Up to book three.”

  I eye the pile of food in her arms. “Gotcha.” Being an avid reader myself, I understand where she’s coming from. “I’m out of here soon anyway, so you can have the place to yourself.”

  “Take care, okay?” she says as she turns back towards her room with her food stash. She looks like she’s preparing to hibernate for the winter. “We don’t want a lame duck before shooting,” she adds before I hear her door shut.

  A lame duck before shooting? What does that mean?

  My tummy rumbles. Time to eat. Gingerly I grab some cereal and pour it out into a bowl.

  As I’m tucking into breakfast my phone beeps again. Eighteen messages. I suppose I’d better read them.

  I pick up my phone and instead find myself googling ‘Sam Montgomery’. Almost immediately an image of his handsome face gazes out at me. I jump, drop my phone face down on the kitchen bench as my heart hammers in my chest.

  Huh, maybe Sammy Jo’s right: I do have a bit of a crush on this guy.

  Well that’s plain ridiculous. I’ve only spoken a handful of words to the man. Granted, he’s gorgeous and yes, he did go all superhero on me, catching me in his strong arms like Thor, but I need to get real here. He’s a big star and I’m an out of work fashion buyer-come-part-time model with a sev
ere balance problem. Not exactly an alluring prospect for the guy.

  Plus, he’s got a girlfriend who could quite possibly rival Helen of Troy in the beauty stakes. Romance between us ain’t gonna happen.

  Still, one more peek can’t hurt, right? Not for any reason other than I’m interested in knowing who’s visiting my city. Yes, that’s right. This sort of thing is important to know.

  I pick up my phone and am met with those electric blue eyes once more. My tummy does a flip-flop.

  I’m an impartial researcher, that’s all. This is research for… for… for something, something important. I scroll down the page and see images of him on a red carpet, in what appears to be a costume, probably for that TV show Tiffany was going on about, another red carpet.

  I keep scrolling. Sam dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, in some other costume, on another red carpet with a group of other actors, some of which I vaguely recognise. More images, more.

  And then . . . bingo. Shirtless. At the beach, ruffled hair, gorgeous tan, muscular torso, those strong, manly arms. And still with those eyes.

  Oh, mercy.

  Okay, move on Grace. I scroll down further and pause when I spy a photo of him looking all loved up with his girlfriend—Vanessa, is that what they said her name was?—dressed to kill in a tux. He looks so in love. It’s enough to make my heart melt.

  I let out a sigh.

  How would it feel if he looked that way at me? Pretty fan-freaking-tastic.

  My phone beeps again, cutting into my train of thought. Good job, too. I’d started to imagine those arms around me again, his hard, toned body pressed against mine. His eyes gazing at me, my body aching for his touch.

  Ahem. Okay, I’m getting a bit obsessed now.

  It’s a text from my former boss, the woman who fired me a short month ago.

  Heard about your fall. Hope u r ok. Call me!!!

  How did she hear about that? And she wants me to call her? Does that mean she wants to give me my job back? I fire off a quick text, telling her I’m fine and asking her if she would like to meet.

  Her text pings back within seconds.

  No need. Just wanted the gossip

  The gossip? I shake my head. No job then.