Finding the One
Meadowview: Meadowview Heroes 1
Rochelle French
Contents
Title Page
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
Also by Rochelle French
About the Author
Excerpt, Always the One
Copyright
Finding the One
The Meadowview Series: Meadowview Heroes Book 1
Rochelle French
* * *
In a really bad case of mistaken identity, Trudy Prendergast, a camera-shy former model, and Mac Johns, an art photographer with a bad case of self-doubt, sign a contract, leading what could either be love or disaster.
* * *
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Trudy Prendergast eyeballed the grape stuck in her cleavage with something close to horror. Here she was, minutes from introducing herself to the artist she needed to hire her (being jobless and about to lose just about everything kinda sucked), and a grape had been jostled off a passing waiter’s tray to fly out into the crowd and lodge between her boobs. So much for the decision to wear a plunging neckline. Ugh. Butterflies that earlier had been playing a rowdy game of soccer were now sinking to the pit of her stomach.
She swept her gaze across the crowded art gallery, but couldn’t find her “date” for the evening, her sister. Good god could she ever use Milla’s help to calm her nerves. And get the grape out.
Because if world-famous sculptor Gregor Johansson caught her with her hands down her top, he’d no doubt be suitably unimpressed. Hire a model who felt herself up in public? Not likely.
The message from her agent had been clear—several live models were applying to pose for Gregor’s upcoming art series. To up Trudy’s odds at getting the job, she should get herself into the event honoring him at the River City Art Museum and Gallery in Sacramento. Make sure he knew she was more than just a photographed face in a portfolio. Be real. Be three-dimensional.
Be without a grape.
Her bank account and her loft (how many mortgage payments was she behind in now?) were both relying on her to get this job.
“Cheese puff?” Her sister Milla appeared at her side, holding a plate topped with hors d’oeuvres, all precariously balanced on her ever-expanding pregnant belly. Seven months and counting. “Gruyere and Irish cheddar.”
“Not now. I kind of have a problem.” Trudy shimmied slightly, hoping to work the grape down her dress and to the floor, but the zipper at her waist cinched the dress in tight.
“You’re checking out your own cleavage. I hadn’t realized you were that desperate.” Milla went on tiptoes to peek down the plunging vee of Trudy’s dress. “Oh. How’d you manage that?”
“Hey, I don’t need any sibling grief right now,” Trudy said, giving her sister what she hoped was a glowering stare. “What I need is help in removing this grape before I meet the artist. I can’t fail getting this contract.”
“Failure’s in the eye of the beholder.”
“Wasn’t that Foster Dad Number Three’s motto?”
“Number Four, remember? Number Three spouted Biblical sayings.”
A reporter and his cameraman pushed their way between the two, cutting off their conversation and sending Milla off-balance. When her pregnant sister wobbled, Trudy grabbed her arm and steadied her, then pushed back against the crowd to give Milla more room. She waved the cameraman onward, but a flash went off in front of them in a blinding light.
Her chest clenched and her jaw slammed shut. Blasted photographers. Three years ago a client with a camera had harmed her career and left her emotionally reeling. She hated the lot of them. “Can’t you guys give us some space?” she ground out and glared. The photographer, a young man with a press ID around his neck, held up a hand and backed off.
“I’m fine,” Milla said, now balanced on two feet.
Relieved her sister was safe, Trudy let go of Milla’s arm, but the crowd shifted and pressed in tight. Too tight. The grape squished between her boobs. Gross. “Bathroom, Milla,” she said. She had to get rid of the annoying fruit, and fast. Because if that wretched thing stayed stuck in her cleavage for one moment longer, she’d have to introduce herself with jelly in her cleavage.
Definitely not how one became a world-famous artist’s new muse.
* * *
Mac Johns leaned over the wrought-iron balcony above the gathered crowd. He looked down to the floor below, tracking the redhead’s steps as she stomped toward the bathroom. Aww, how adorable. Her pissed-off expression was the cutest attempt at fierce he’d ever seen.
Next to him, his friend Remy Toussaint waved a hand in front of his face. “Stop drooling at the redhead down there and hand over the money.”
“You’re a sheriff,” Mac said, tipping his head in Remy’s direction but keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the gorgeous woman with the flaming red hair he’d mentally named Red Hot. “Isn’t gambling illegal in California? Shouldn’t you arrest yourself?”
“We’re not in Deloro County, so I’m outside my jurisdiction and therefore off duty. Now pay up.”
“Crap.” He’d been so certain Red Hot would pull that grape out right there in the middle of the crowd, and that he would’ve liked to see. He put his glass of champagne down on the balustrade, fumbled in his pocket, then pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off a hundred-dollar bill and then handed it to his friend with a resigned shrug. “God she’s cute. Even with that lovely don’t-fuck-with-me look.”
“Not an uncommon expression among women in your vicinity.” Remy shoved the money into his jacket pocket. “She was sexy, for sure. But there was something…” He paused, then said, “She remind you of anybody?”
Tall…gorgeous…redhead… Wait a sec. Red Hot did seem familiar. Mac thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “I’m getting New York and fashion. Was she one of the models I used to photograph? Oh, wait—I didn’t sleep with her, did I?”
“Christ, Mac.” Remy shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Wait until she comes out of the bathroom and look again. Closely, this time.”
Mac grabbed his champagne and took a swig, waiting for Red Hot, sans cleavage-grape, to return. Below, waiters wound their way through the crowd full of women glittering in evening dresses and men decked out in Italian suits, all eager to meet Mac’s father, the world-renown sculptor, Gregor Johansson. Press photographers snapped photos with rapid succession—pictures that would most likely appear in most town and country publications. Those photos could hardly be called art, but as Mac knew as a commercial photographer, the pictures paid decent money.
“Your sister did a great job organizing this event to honor your dad,” Remy said.
Mac downed the rest of the now-warm champagne. “Yep, Doe did herself and Dad proud. Reporters all the way from New York are here to cover the event. Heck, half the population of Meadowview drove the two-hour trip to Sacramento in order to be here for good ol’ Dad. Some event.”
An event as boring as watch
ing mold grow on cheese.
He immediately regretted the thought. He loved his dad, honored his work, but a party that catered to wealthy art patrons didn’t exactly raise the roof. Even with Remy to hang out with, Mac had practically been asleep on his feet until a few minutes ago. With the average age at the far side of sixty, the crowd hadn’t held his excitement until the tall willow of a redhead and her beyond-pregnant companion had walked through the door.
After another minute, the redhead and her friend came out of the restroom.
“Nope,” he said, checking her out again. “Didn’t sleep with her. A few of those days in New York remain a hazy blur, but not hazy enough to forget sex with her. Why do you think she should be familiar to me?”
“Your sketches, Mac. The ones you showed me earlier.”
The murmur of the crowd faded into the background as Mac stared at the woman. Well, hell. Remy was right. Red Hot’s expression reminded him of those he’d sketched for the art series he wanted to create: Warrior Woman. Like the mental images of the female warrior who filled his mind, the woman below looked alive, open, strong. Determined, and yet still sensual and with an air of grace.
No wonder he’d been instantly attracted to her.
Funny, though, he hadn’t pictured a photo of Warrior Woman fuming at her own breasts. Didn’t quite fit in with any of the images he held in his mind, but that expression he could definitely use.
“You getting any inspiration?” Remy asked.
“Thought you weren’t going to push me.”
“Stasis leads nowhere, Mac.”
“We’re not playing Scrabble.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m evading the point.”
“Look,” Remy said, frustration clear in his tone, “you took the first step at regenerating your art photography—you contacted a modeling agency for a live model. And you have a meeting tomorrow with the director of this place.” Remy swept out his arm to indicate the gallery.
Yeah, sure, Mac had agreed to meet with Ian Ackerley to discuss showing his planned Warrior Woman series here, but that might have been a mistake. He shrugged. “Maybe my glory days are behind me. Maybe the original hoopla about my work was over a fluke. Maybe a washed-up artist is all I’ll ever be. Maybe all I’ll ever be good at is commercial photography.”
“And maybe you’re throwing yourself one hell of a pity party. Nope, I don’t buy it. You’re ready to start again. You’ve made the first step. And it’s been how many years since your mom died?”
Emotion caused Mac’s throat to tighten up. God damn it. He didn’t need the reminder. Didn’t need to recall the pain his mother experienced as the cancer ate away at her. Didn’t need to recall how the responding pain in him had triggered him to capture the most haunting and artistic photographs of his career. Didn’t need the reminder that his muse had died that windy day as he and Doe and their father laid her to rest.
“Mac.”
“Drop it,” he said, his voice low. “I have other things on my mind tonight.” He pointed to the woman below.
He may not have slept with her in the past, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t tonight. He’d thought she was hot when she’d walked in, but when he saw the grape disappear into her delicious cleavage and her incredulous but feisty reaction, his interest had spiked. And now he was picturing her as the model for his Warrior Woman series. The art photography series of a woman facing all odds could get him back into the world of acclaimed art photography. And he could see Red as his Warrior Woman.
He could also see her in his bed.
“She’s going to do the horizontal tango with me, I hope,” he said.
Next to him, Remy blew out a breath. “Stasis.”
Mac jabbed an elbow into his friend’s gut. Not that an elbow to Remy’s twelve-pack could do much damage, but still. “What did I say? That conversation’s over. I’m headed downstairs to introduce myself. See if she wants a drink. Maybe suggest a night of debauchery. But first I need to see if Doe needs help with the baby.”
“I saw your sister carrying your nephew around earlier. Why’d she bring Aaron?”
“Dad insisted when the babysitter—who has the work ethic of a sloth, by the way—texted to cancel.”
“Has to be hard for her, managing both you and your father’s business affairs and being only eighteen and raising Aaron on her own.”
“She’s a trooper. Wish she didn’t insist on working—I’d be happy to support her, but you know how bullheaded Doe can be. Wants to earn her own way, or at least earn as much as she can. Guess I’d better head downstairs now, check in on her and the baby.” He grinned. “Then hit on Red Hot.”
Remy chuckled. “That woman doesn’t seem like the type to believe one of your standby pickup lines. She’ll give you the death stare the way she did the grape. Two hundred says you crash and burn.”
“You want me to bet on having sex with a woman? For a sheriff, you have severely compromised morals.”
“Said the spider to the fly.”
Mac grinned. “This spider is too busy for bets.”
* * *
Grape successfully removed, Trudy left Milla at the hors d’oeuvres table and worked her way back into the crowd, scanning for the tall, silver-haired man she hoped would be her new boss. God, she needed the work. Mortgages waited for no one. Neither did creditors, who called more frequently than lonely kids at camp. But where the heck was Gregor Johansson? The artist seemed to be playing some sort of messed up Where’s Waldo routine. Only without the cool red and white striped hat.
She needed to find him. Needed to convince him to award her the contract. The contract up for grabs was only a couple of months in length, but had an extension that would bring it up to three years if the artist was happy with the first project. With what Gregor was paying, she could get herself out of the financial hole where she was stuck, and sinking fast. For a while she’d been the front-runner for a lucrative five-year contract with a natural clothing company, Essentially Green, but right when she thought the job was in her grasp, it had gone to one of her competitors. She had nothing.
Four years ago a series of surgeries changed the course of her career—and her life. She’d run away from Foster Family Number Seven once Milla had turned eighteen and headed out for college. Lucky enough for her, she’d ended up agented and became a high-fashion model, working the runways in New York, Milan, and Tokyo. The work didn’t earn her a ton of money (supermodels got millions, but runway models…yeah, not so much) but enough to put a down payment on a gorgeous loft in a bedroom community on the outskirts of Sacramento.
But then a medical condition had forced her and her uterus to part ways, and her body had responded in a most inappropriate manner by gaining twenty-five pounds. And her catalogue and runway modeling career had stopped, just like that.
Being a live model, posing for various types of artists, however, paid well enough, and that’s what she turned to when it was clear the weight was there to stay. But the work was sporadic, and the medical bills she’d incurred had her falling behind in her mortgage and maxing out her credit cards. The contract with Gregor Johansson was exactly what she needed—a three-year guarantee of work, so long as the extension was put in place, which she was certain it would.
Too bad she’d have to pose nude for him.
Posing nude as a model wasn’t a big deal, really, but one of her former clients had made it into a big deal when he’d posted pictures of her online after the surgery and weight gain. Those photos turned into an online joke. People had left nasty comments—Massive Model…Miss Fatty-Pants…Tubster Trudy ate a whale...And then the meme started. A picture of her naked (except for where her hands covered her tummy and lady bits) kept showing up on social media sites with various sarcastic slogans about Tubster Trudy plopped right on top.
The Dog Shaming meme had nothing on Tubster Trudy.
It got so bad that for a while, people would stop her in the grocery store
and ask her if she was Tubster Trudy. At least now, three years after her image had gone viral, not many people remembered her shame.
The good thing about working for Gregor Johansson was that the man was a sculptor—whatever he created using her nude image wouldn’t be discernable as her. Plus, her agent Lisa always made sure any contract she signed contained a clause directly stating the artist would not put any images of her out there before the actual art pieces were complete without her permission. Now, if she could just track down Gregor…
Her gaze followed the curve of the grand staircase that lead to the long balcony overhead, with a wrought-iron railing interspersed among heavy columns. No Gregor on the balcony, but at the very last column stood two men. Two very hunky men. Well-dressed. Gorgeous. Sexy. And who were both staring right at her.
And then the man on the right winked.
Her heart jumped. This was no ordinary good-looking guy—this was a fireman-calendar-worthy hunk. Tall and broad shouldered, but lean through the hips. Thick black hair, flashing smile, long black lashes over piercing blue eyes, and full lips usually found on women who’d injected collagen. If it weren’t for his strong jaw and a nose a little too long for his face, he’d be close to pretty. Similar to the playboys she used to date during her high fashion days. The other guy stood a couple inches shorter and looked a little older. Cute, too, but not as hunky. Or as intense. Her gaze flipped back to the first guy who’d caught her eye.
He leaned against the metal railing, one hand holding a glass of champagne, his gaze fixed firmly on her. He raised the flute and nodded.
At her.
Trudy went all fluttery. It had been a while since a guy like that had come on to her. Since the Tubster Trudy event, she’d dated, sure, and had even had sex a few times, but usually with everyday men like her sister’s accountant (rather pedantic and with an unusual interest in plaid socks), the bartender at her favorite pub in the city (sweet, but totally hung up on his ex-girlfriend), and a high school physics teacher (potential long-term dating material until she overheard him on the phone telling his mom he was dating “Tubster Trudy from the Internet”). Was she ready for someone like this?
Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) Page 1