Bedding Mr. Birdsong

by Deborah Camp

“You are deep in thought,” she observed, snapping him to attention again. “What about? Melting panties?”

  He chuckled. “You expect me not to react to that? Honey, I’m male.”

  “Honey, I noticed.”

  His heart bumped against his chest wall. Weird. “Uh . . . have you ever had a man as a friend. Just a friend? Not dating. Nothing sexual.”

  She made a pffftt sound. “Of course.”

  “You’ve had a male friend.”

  “Yes. I have several as we speak.”

  “Hetero or homo?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, froze, shut her mouth, tipped her head to one side, opened her mouth again, shut it. Blinked at him.

  “Ah-ha! Homosexual male friends. No heterosexuals.”

  “Whoa!” She smiled, triumphantly. “Ronny Stapleton. He’s married to a friend of mine, but I consider him my pal, too.”

  He shook a finger at her. “No couples. A single, male friend. Someone you hang with, but never think about having sex with.”

  “Tyler McKenzie. He’s single, good-looking, straight, and we go to movies sometimes and grab a meal here and there. He’s a lighting technician, so he’s busy and travels from location to location, but we get together whenever he’s in town for longer than a minute.”

  “He does seem to qualify. You’ve never wanted to have sex with him?”

  “No way. He’s like a brother to me.” She fished her tube of gloss from her purse, used the napkin dispenser as a mirror, and applied a peachy color to her lips. “What’s all this friend talk about?”

  “I was thinking about how I’ve never had a woman friend.”

  “Get out! Really? Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” He pondered that for a few seconds. “I’m sexually attracted to most women, I suppose, so I eventually want to sleep with them. That moves them out of the friend zone, if they were ever in it.”

  Her gaze intensified and he could swear that her eyes darkened to a mossy green. “That’s sad, really. But it explains a lot.”

  “Like what? Why is it sad?” And why was he so defensive?

  She batted a hand. “Forget it. What do I know?” She picked up her purse and gave him a sunny smile. “Ready? Let’s walk off those pancakes and syrup.”

  Chapter 5

  A Fashion Faux Pas

  As they approached the apartment building, Zaney stopped talking mid-sentence and squinted ahead of them. Following her lead, Matt focused on a rotund man pacing in front of the stoop, cellphone pressed to his ear, his free hand gesturing wildly as he talked. Dressed in a cranberry red suit with a jacket that fell to his knees, hot pink, collarless shirt, and red alligator oxfords, he was a peacock amid the usual black, gray, and dark blue garbs worn by most New Yorkers.

  Zaney broke into a part jog/part skip toward him, her hair bouncing like flames around her head. “Foster! What are you doing here? You lost? Are you trying to call me?”

  Foster. Matt smiled, recognizing the man now from news clips and magazine photos. Foster Mendoza. Zaney’s boss.

  “Yes, I am, but you’re not answering because you’re here! Zaney, where have you been, girl? I was in your neighborhood and I told Maurice to stop by so I could drop off these sketches. I’ve chosen these looks for the showing next weekend. Wanted you to have them and the accessory list to give you time to pull it all together.” He reached into the limo, grabbed a green binder, and gave it to Zaney. “I know we’re running late on this, but child! I’m busy! And I have a life, sugar! I mean, I can’t work all the freaking time, can I? Not when I’m fabulous and fun.”

  “That’s certainly true, Foster, and thank you for thinking of me.” She ducked down and waved at the driver. “Hey, Maurice! Oh.” She motioned Matt forward. “This is Matthew Birdsong, my neighbor.”

  Foster whirled about and his brown eyes widened and then narrowed to sexually suggestive slits as he held out his hand. Not to be shaken, man to man, but to be lightly grasped, so Matt obliged.

  “Well, hello there, neighbor Matthew. Aren’t you something sweet?”

  “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

  “It is so very nice to be met!” He allowed his soft hand to slide out of Matt’s loose grip. “Zaney, why have you been hiding this luscious man?”

  “I haven’t. He has a busy social life and I’ve only recently been able to catch him between conquests.”

  Matt sent her a speaking glance, which she pointedly ignored. Meanwhile, Foster circled him like he was an object d’art he was thinking of buying.

  “I don’t doubt that one little bit! You are tall, sugar. Have you modeled before? No? Well, that’s a pity. Clothes drape good on you. Real, real good. Zaney, he could make a gunny sack look splendid, couldn’t he?”

  Zaney propped her chin in her hand and surveyed him. “Yes, he could. Easily. I’ve seen him in shorts. He has great legs.”

  “So do you.” It was out before Matt could weigh the wisdom of it. Zaney arched a brow, grinned, but let it pass without further comment.

  “You should bring him to the showing Friday night,” Foster said, grasping Zaney’s hand in a spasm of exuberance. “Show him off. Make everyone drool.” He turned back to Matt. “Have you ever been to one of my affairs, sugar? I didn’t think so. You must come as my guest. I absolutely insist. Zaney, cupcake, twist his arm. I’d do it, but we’ve just met.”

  Matt laughed under his breath, feeling as if he’d stepped into the middle of a sitcom and he didn’t have a script. Nodding and gently steering Foster toward the open back door of the gleaming, gold Lincoln idling at the curb, Zaney made assurances that she’d do her best. Foster settled into the back seat, but leaned forward to blast Matt with his dazzling, white teeth.

  “I’ll see you Friday, Matthew! Ta-ta for now!” He flicked his ring bedecked fingers, signaling Maurice to get going. Zaney closed the door and gave it a quick tap before she stepped back to watch the sleek and singular car ease into the traffic.

  “Whew.” She laughed and spun around to face Matt. “He’s something, isn’t he?”

  Matt laughed with her. “Working for him must be stimulating.”

  “Yes, and rewarding. He has a huge heart and he genuinely loves people. Why don’t you come with me Friday night? It’s sort of a trial run. Fashion Week is in September and everyone is giving sneak peeks here and there to gauge reactions before the really, big show. You’ll have a backstage pass!”

  They walked up the steps and Matt punched in the numbers that unlocked the street door. Inside the lobby, he made a snap decision.

  “Sure, I’ll come. What time Friday night?”

  “I have to leave by five, but the show won’t start until seven-thirty. Why don’t you plan to show up around seven? It’s at the Gramercy Hotel’s rooftop terrace. I’ll reserve you a front row seat.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Foster will insist on it. He loves having handsome men in the front row.”

  Being called handsome so many times in a matter of minutes was getting to him. “You two are good for my ego.”

  She rested a hand on his forearm, then let go as if static electricity had zapped her. It hadn’t, but he’d felt a zing, too. “You look in the mirror every day when you shave,” she said, a flush working up her neck into her cheeks as she dug through her purse. “We’re not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  Was she blushing because of that spark that had ignited between them when she’d touched him? He had to admit that it had been a long time since he’d felt something like that.

  She sounded a little breathless as she yanked her door key from her purse and presented it as if it were found treasure. “Got it! Thanks for the breakfast and the company.”

  A faint yapping bled through her door. Matt smiled. “Frito missed you.”

  “He always does, bless him. See you Friday, then.”

  “If I can’t make it for some reason, I’ll let you know.”

  She unlocked the d
oor. “Get back, Frito. I’m coming in.” She faced him, just staring at him for a few seconds until he opened his mouth to say something and then she closed the door. In. His. Face.

  He stared at the gold 1-B as anger built in him like a storm. Suddenly, the door opened again and Zaney smiled at him.

  “How did that feel?”

  He tamped down his anger enough to answer without yelling, “Not good. Your point being?”

  “I’ve seen you do that to girls leaving your place and I’ve felt really bad for them. It’s not a great send off to someone who has just tickled your pickle.”

  His answer drained away as he struggled to follow the conversation. “Tickled my . . .” He pressed his lips together to keep from chuckling. She’s a pickle!

  “Don’t be mad at me.”

  “That was an interesting demonstration,” he allowed, then leaned closer and pitched his voice between a whisper and a hiss. “But I’ve never received any complaints from the ticklers.”

  Turning away from her, he meandered to his door, his feelings in a jumble. He couldn’t quite sort out if he liked her or if he’d like to never see her again. The jury was still out.

  Zaney whizzed from one model to the next, helping to unstick a zipper, tugging sleeves into place, adjusting a belt, overseeing the other dressers. She motioned frantically for Bruno, the cosmetics guy, to touch up one model’s smeared eyeliner and lipstick.

  “What were you doing, darling?” Bruno asked, looking aghast at the model in question. His arms bulged with muscles and rippling tattoos. Even his thick neck displayed inked lettering and symbols. Diamonds glittered in his earlobes and in the multitude of rings on his large fingers.

  “She has allergies,” Zaney explained for the cringing model. New models who didn’t know that Bruno might appear to be a roaring lion but was, in fact, a purring kitty cat, were timid around him. “Her eyes were itchy and she drank some water when she took a Benadryl.”

  Bruno tutted over her as he went to work with a steady and gentle hand. “I have allergies, too, petal. Papa understands.”

  Checking the time, Zaney turned in a circle as she announced to anyone who cared, “I have to go greet a friend! Be back in ten! Carry on!” As she made her way to the curtains that divided the backstage from the makeshift runway, she paused to look over the bustling scene. Satisfied that everything was running as smoothly as possible, she darted around the black velvet curtains in search of a tall, handsome man. She wasn’t sure he’d show up. Riddled with misgivings about her “demonstration,” she’d called her mother and told her about it. She’d been roundly scolded.

  “You what? Zaney, you just met this man and you’re pointing out his failings? How would you like it if he turned the tables on you? Apologize to him.”

  So, she’d dashed off a note asking him to forgive her and had shoved it under his door this morning. But, had it been enough?

  He was easy to spot. Her lungs seized for a few moments.

  Matthew Birdsong was simply magnificent in a three-piece, gray herringbone suit that had to have been created and tailored just for him. He’d paired it with a pale-blue pinstriped shirt and a bold red and gray striped tie and pocket square. His dagger shaped silver tie bar and gray oxford shoes were a bonus. His blond hair, meticulously combed, shone under the soft lighting on the terrace. Zaney moved toward him, almost as if she were being drawn to him, sweeping around clusters of people, paying them no mind. He saw her coming toward him and sent her a smile that made her catch her breath again.

  “You’re here. Right on time.” Why did she sound all breathy like she was doing a Marilyn Monroe impression? He smelled as good as he looked. Spicy. Woodsy. Sexy.

  “I’m nothing if I’m not punctual.”

  “You look, well, great. That suit is first-rate.”

  “Good to know.” He chuckled and buttoned the jacket. Dipping his head to commandeer her attention away from his shoulders and chest, he furrowed his brow. “How are you doing? You look frazzled.”

  “Do I?” She ran a hand over her hair and laughed. Kind of like a hyena. High, wild, and unnatural in the present setting. She clamped her lips together to keep from doing it again. God, she must look like crap for him to mention it! And why shouldn’t she? She’d been whirling around like a madwoman for more than an hour. Glancing down at her standard black blouse and black slacks, she plucked red, white, and yellow loose threads off them. “I’ve been . . . well, working. Wait until you see me during Fashion Week. You’ll run the other way, believe me.”

  “Working at dressing beautiful models,” he said with a grin. “Must be tough, but someone has to do it.”

  She bristled a little. People often thought that she had a cushy job. Those people had never been around nervous, young, hungry girls who were all hoping this would be the night that Vogue or Elle would ask them to grace the cover. “It isn’t easy. After the show, come back behind the curtain and see for yourself what a madhouse it is.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Thanks for coming and being a good sport. Let me show you to your seat.”

  “This event benefits something, right?”

  “Yes, the North Shore Animal League. Foster is a big supporter of pet rescue groups.”

  “That’s great. I’d like to make a donation.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be given plenty of opportunities to do so tonight.” She stopped by a front row chair, about two-thirds down the runway. “Here you go.” She handed him the program that had been lying on the seat and a lanyard I.D. to wear that would allow him backstage. “I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure that I will.”

  “No wolf whistling and throwing money at the girls allowed tonight,” she teased.

  He swung his hand in an arc as he snapped his fingers. “Awww, rats. I stopped at the ATM on the way here just to get a wad of twenties.”

  She appreciated the laughter in his voice and the wink he gave her. It did something peculiar to her heart. Like a squeeze or a hug. “I’ll see you backstage afterward.” She left, but looked back in his direction before slipping around the curtain. Three women, one sitting near him on the front row and two seated behind him, were already talking to him. A twinge of jealousy and a twist of possessiveness squirmed through her before she called herself a fool and went back to work.

  She was immediately caught up in the whirlwind, so it was easy to put away her thoughts of how yummy Matthew Birdsong looked in his bespoke suit. She hustled from one model to the next, helping them slip into garments, zipping and buttoning, her nimble fingers flying without much assistance from her mind. Each digit knew the drill.

  Lining them up, she walked with Foster from model to model, making minor adjustments to anything he pointed out or that troubled him in the least. It was imperative that he was happy with everything. At last, he nodded. He embraced her, then Jennifer, and then Hailey. He sent a thumbs up to Gary, who was dressed in black leather and leaning against the wall.

  “It’s show time, everyone!” Foster announced with a huge smile. “You all look smashing, so strut your pretty selves out there and slay! You are wearing Foster Mendoza designs and you are fabulous creatures!”

  The models giggled and grinned, then put on their “model faces” as the music swelled and the stage manager gave the sign by the curtain that he was about to call for the first model. The orchestral music Foster had chosen was dramatic and sweeping. At a crescendo, the stage manager swept aside a corner of the curtain and the first model strode out draped in a sari-inspired gown in a crepe gold and emerald pattern that shimmered with each step she took. Foster clasped his hands under his chin as he gazed at the monitor and watched the show unfold.

  Zaney kept checking the models as they moved toward the entrance. An earring fell off one and Zaney hastily retrieved it and slipped it back on. A bodice slipped down too far, almost displaying a nipple, and Zaney hitched it up and glued it in pla
ce to prevent any wardrobe malfunctions. With or without boobs, strapless tops rarely stayed put without assistance.

  As the models came off stage, ready for their next outfit, Zaney commandeered the other dressers to get them in and out of the clothes. She checked to be sure the dresser assistants were hanging up the clothes and keeping them pristine. A certain messiness was expected, but she was a stickler about protecting the garments.

  With the hubbub of activity, the time zipped by and the show was over in what seemed like a matter of a few minutes. It was always like that, Zaney mused, as she helped undress the final model. Weeks and weeks of fretting and planning followed by half an hour to forty-five minutes of orchestrated mayhem. Then poof! It was one for the memory albums. She laughed under her breath as Foster paraded among the models, their boyfriends and girlfriends, their mothers and fathers, and social friends who had poured behind the curtain to extend congratulations and pose for selfies and group shots.

  “Who is that?” Shondra, one of the other dressers, asked Zaney, giving her a nudge with her elbow and nodding behind them.

  Zaney didn’t have to turn around to know who she was talking about. She heard a few models whisper his name. “Matthew Birdsong. He’s my neighbor and I invited him tonight.”

  “Well, thank you, Zaney,” Shondra said with a laugh. “He’s Robert Redford pretty like in The Way We Were. You ever see that movie?”

  “Only about fifty times.” Zaney straightened and turned to see Matthew glancing nervously around before he spotted her. His hand went up to his heart and relief flooded his face. Her heart did a backflip. Huh. He did look a little like Redford in his prime.

  “There you are,” he said, stopping before her. “This is nuts back here. Who are all these people?”

  “Relatives and friends of the models and fashion people who know Foster or want to know him.” She removed the pin cushion from around her wrist and stuffed it in the big, kangaroo pouch in the front of her black apron. “How’d you like it?”

  “It was interesting, just like you said. The clothes were so . . .” He paused, his gaze moving past her, and then he extended his hand. “Hello. I’m Matthew.”