Love Handles (A Romantic Comedy)

by Gretchen Galway

  The aspiring model, a thin-hipped woman in her early twenties, kicked up her heel. “Aren't they profound?”

  Liam had known instantly she was all wrong for what Fite needed for the woman's line. Still, she’d come all the way from Ukiah to interview for the fit model job, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings. “Very,” he said. “Please take them off.”

  “But—they're Christian Louboutin.”

  Sally, the patternmaker waiting to check her measurements, patted her on the shoulder. “They mess up your posture for the fitting,” she said. “Barefoot works. Flats are fine. Or tennis shoes.”

  “Tennis?”

  From the depth of the disappointment on the woman's face, Liam decided she had purchased the designer shoes just for the interview. “Maybe you can return them,” he said, and didn't say anything else until Sally took all her measurements. He thanked her for her time.

  Jennifer ran in just as the model was heading for the elevator. “Liam, I’m sorry I’m late—Oh, it’s over.” She gave the woman a head-to-toe rundown before she disappeared behind the elevator doors. “What was the matter with this one?”

  Liam threw down the sheet of the woman’s recorded measurements. “Too tall, no butt, too short in the waist. And she’s a six.”

  “I thought she looked great,” Jennifer said, then cleared her throat. “But perhaps we do need to get someone a little more realistic.”

  Liam raised an eyebrow at her. “You met with Wendi’s mother?”

  Jennifer smiled tightly and crossed her arms over her chest. “I met with a number of women, including Wendi’s mother, and wrote up a report. Didn’t you get my email?”

  “Summarize for me.”

  Her smile strained, Jennifer walked over to Sally’s table and rifled through her piles of sketches and pattern pieces. Without looking up she said, “Nobody seems to like our fit. Nobody.”

  It wasn’t really Jennifer’s fault, being under Ellen’s command until recently. At least she had the guts to admit it. “I’ll read your report. Good work. Now we fix it.”

  “This chick just now was the last person I could find,” Jennifer said. “Model agencies don’t have women with average bodies. That’s why they’re models.”

  “What fit model does Levi's use? They've got a decent fit these days. It's not an athletic fit, but it's—” He held out his hands at butt level as though holding something round. “Feminine.”

  Sally edged between her desk and Jennifer, who was touching everything like it was hers. “They use an eight,” Sally said, closing a binder, picking up her coffee mug. “You said you wanted a ten.”

  “It’s more accurate in terms of the grading. To get closer to the average customer,” he said.

  Sally sighed. “I agree. I haven't been able to wear Fite since Rachel was promoted.”

  He put a hand on the table. Rachel. “That's right. She started out here as a fit model, didn't she?”

  “Right out of college.”

  “And it's not like she's gained weight since then,” he said. “She's remarkably consistent.”

  Jennifer’s eyes gleamed with the anticipation of trouble. “She will totally freak on you.”

  Sally looked between Jennifer and Liam, realized what they were suggesting, and shook her head. “She'd never agree to it. Never. Not even when we've been desperate for a quick fit to make an important meeting. After all these years, to poke and prod her like that, she'd find it humil—”

  Liam gave her his sternest look, the one that used to command effortless authority, and she snapped her mouth shut. He let that sink in then said, “I'll talk to her.”

  Jennifer bit her lip. Sally nodded and said, “Of course, Mr. Johnson.”

  In spite of what Liam had told Sally, he feared they were right about Rachel never agreeing to fit model again. He interviewed a few more candidates, even dragging Carrie from the front desk up to Engineering for measuring, but none had the specs they needed.

  They were running out of time. He sat in the conference room, the long oblong table piled high with abandoned sketches and magazine tear sheets and swatches and sample trim, and worked through the Target dog and pony show in his mind. Jennifer thought it was just concept development for the main line, and he hadn’t enlightened her, in part because he wanted a solo shot at the deal, and in part because he knew she’d be annoyed and snotty about expanding into middle America. Expanding into expanding middle America.

  Behind him the racks on the walls were heavy with samples hung three to four deep, and whatever concept he’d been going for was as opaque as granite.

  Something about action, he thought. Happy, rejuvenating action.

  His mind kept wandering to the rejuvenating feeling of Beverly Lewis's breasts under his hands. He hadn't intended to do that. His plan, to treat her as shittily as she had him, only lasted—what, two minutes? Then as soon as she had some job crisis, he was back on his white horse. And then trying to get back on her.

  Thanks for the fuck.

  How dare she? They were having a perfectly nice time. Very, very nice. She didn't have to spoil it with a bitchy slap-down, as though he'd committed a crime by making love to her.

  Needing to do something, he picked up the phone and called Jennifer, frustrated to get voice mail. “Get somebody over to clean up the first floor conference room. It's an embarrassment,” he said and hung up. One second later, he dialed her again. “And don't ask Rachel—she's not your assistant anymore. Why not clean up after yourself for a change?” He tossed the receiver back into the cradle.

  If they wanted touchy-feely they could talk to Bev.

  Getting up so fast the chair skidded out behind him, Liam left the room and stalked down to his office, slowing his pace outside Bev's door. For some reason she had insisted on being the one to talk to Rachel about fit modeling for them, but Liam feared the fallout—Rachel carried grudges, one reason he’d never been aggressive about promoting her. If she didn't like a designer, their Fed Ex packages turned up missing at critical times. Design boards turned up with coffee ring stains. A sales guy from Reno who loved sexist jokes kept having his rental cars impounded.

  Standing in the hallway, Liam reminded himself Bev was plenty bitchy enough to handle her. Hadn't he seen evidence of that?

  Still, he lingered, unable to walk on to his office.

  Thanks for the fuck.

  He pushed through the partially ajar door into Bev's office just as Rachel was saying, as she reclined in a leather swivel chair, “Sure, Bev. It would be my pleasure.”

  Bev beamed and glanced up at Liam, who had frozen in place. They must have been talking about something else. “Morning.”

  Looking smug, Bev leaned back in her chair and waved. “Rachel's cool with trying on some stuff for us.”

  He looked at Rachel. “Great.”

  “She doesn't mind at all,” Bev said.

  “Really,” he said. “Good.”

  Rachel bit her lip, not meeting his eyes, and he felt a chill down his spine. He sauntered over to lean on the desk, and stared at her until she began to fidget. “So, what was your price?”

  Bev came around the desk and poked him in the shoulder. “Don't bully my Vice President of Trend. She’s a miracle worker. In two hours she explained the workings of this business in a way that would have taken me years to learn myself. She's made me charts and graphs and diagrams—awesome. I love visuals. Of course she doesn't mind keeping the company afloat for a few more weeks.”

  “Ah, you gave her the full scoop.”

  “That we'd be dead without her perfect body? Yes.”

  Rachel gave her a half-smile. “I hope it'll work. I'm not quite as firm as I used to be.”

  Bev swung around and slapped her own behind, wiggling it for emphasis. “You ain't got nothin', babe.”

  Liam gazed at her round ass and forgot what they were talking about.

  Thanks for the—

  He gritted his teeth and focused on Rachel. “Since
you don't have a problem, none whatsoever, perhaps you could head up there right now,” he said. “Have Jennifer and—whatshername, her new assistant—start checking out the entire Green Valley group, the Speed Demon group, and the rework of the fit on Core. Comfort and fit are key—don't take off your underwear to make it work. No ass cracks. No camel toes. No muffin tops. We need mass market appeal or we're dead.”

  Rachel's smile looked a bit forced, but she got up. “Sure.”

  “And don't let Jennifer boss you around,” he added.

  “Or what? You'll fire her?” Rachel asked, not laughing.

  “I'd love to, but it's up to Bev.”

  They both looked at her hopefully.

  “I'm not firing anybody! I thought I'd made that clear,” Bev said.

  “She said you were fat,” Rachel said. “In case that changes your mind.”

  Liam choked, interested to see how Bev handled that bomb, but she just rolled her eyes and walked back around to her desk chair. “Don't be mean,” she said to Rachel. “And thank you again for your heroic offer to play fit model temporarily.”

  Clearly disappointed, Rachel shrugged and left the room.

  “Cool of you,” he said to Bev. “Chilly, even.”

  “I've got Rachel's number. She's a lot like Annabelle Tucker, actually. A bit passive aggressive, but only when she's feeling unappreciated. Underneath the insecurity she's got a big heart.”

  He snorted. “I didn't know you were such an expert on teen pop stars. I would have thought you'd be more of a Dora the Explorer fan.”

  Smiling, Bev pulled herself up to her computer. “Annabelle was one of my first students. Well, I wasn’t the teacher yet, just in my first child psych class. Later, when she was older, I took care of her after school when her mom was working.”

  He froze and stared at her. “Annabelle Tucker? You were her babysitter?”

  “I was desperate for the money. I did a lot of babysitting in those days.”

  Just yesterday he'd noticed the star's young beautiful face on four out of the five magazines in the checkout line at Safeway. Not only did she sing and dance—she climbed, kicked, flipped, swam, and skated her way through her hit musical-adventure show on the Disney Channel. Recently famous for getting into Princeton at fifteen, but deciding to wait a couple years to grow up first, Annabelle Tucker was the it-girl of the year.

  “She was one of the first kids I really came to love.” Her face clouded with pain, then anger. “Which I still don't think is a bad thing.”

  His mind raced with possibilities. “You know Annabelle Tucker.”

  “Don't look like that.” She pointed a finger at him. “Just don't.”

  Feeling giddy, he braced his hands on the desk to look at her. “You know Annabelle Tucker.”

  The chair squeaked as Bev got to her feet to glare back. “Whatever's got you so excited, get it out of your mind.”

  “You know—”

  “Yes, yes! Stop saying that!”

  “Do you have any idea what kind of coup we would pull off to bring pictures of Annabelle Tucker wearing Fite to the Target buyers?” Laughing, he pounded on the desk, danced around it, grabbed her shoulders. “To hell with Target. If you can get Annabelle Tucker to wear Fite—just once where cameras catch her—we are totally made. With every retailer in the country. They'll be taking the first flight here to beg us to deliver.”

  Her face went wide with panic. “Stop it! I couldn't do that!” She jerked away and sat in her chair, pressing her hand to her forehead. “I don't use people.”

  “Oh, right,” he said. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Ri-ight.”

  She shivered. “I shouldn't have mentioned her name. I should never have mentioned her—”

  “This is it, Bev. The moment to face reality and be honest with yourself. Are you a woman or a mouse? Are you the timid, downtrodden preschool teacher, or the ruthless, triumphant leader of men and women desperate not to lose their jobs?”

  She covered her ears. “Shut up!”

  She was cute when she was in denial. He grabbed the arms of her chair and trapped her. “You know you want it.” His breath came fast as he loomed over her. So close to her again, watching the impulses do combat across her adorable, creamy-cheeked face. His gaze dropped to her incredible mouth. For a moment he was paralyzed by the hint of gloss on her full bottom lip. “Admit it.” He leaned down until their lips were so close he could taste the coffee on her breath.

  “I don't do things like that,” she whispered.

  “Sure you do. That's why I like you so much.” And he raised his fingers to her chin, tilted her face up, and before he could think about how shocked and angry and hurt he was at her for walking out on him when he’d begged her to stay, kissed her.

  He didn't hurry this time, or push too hard, or lose himself in the heat that sparked when he touched her; he went slow, and gentle, savoring the moisture of her lips, the curiosity of her tongue, and the little noises she made in the back of her throat.

  Slowly, gently, he kissed her, leading her where he wanted her to go only after he was invited, running his tongue along her teeth. When she tunneled her fingers through his hair and kissed him back, he almost lost the reins, but then he amused himself with the feel of her breast under his hand and the way she gasped at his teasing.

  He drew back. Her eyes were closed, her mouth red and swollen, and she swayed closer for more.

  That’s more like it. He traced her bottom lip with is index finger, studied her face, the curve of her cheek, a freckle on her forehead, then released her. “See you tonight,” he said. Breathing shallow, he strode towards the door while he still had the willpower.

  He heard her sigh behind him. He grinned all the way back to his office, anticipating.

  Chapter 17

  “Can you help me move this over by the window?” Bev bent over to pick up one end of the sofa.

  “Put that down,” Kate said. “I know you're stressed, but that's no way to work it out. It's Friday night. Sit down and make some of this tea for yourself. It's loaded with calming herbs. Then we'll go for a run.”

  “Forget it. I barely recovered from the last time.”

  “Which was all that tool's fault for trying to break into my car,” she said. “I can't believe you haven't fired him yet.”

  Luckily for Bev's peace of mind, Kate was too self-absorbed to guess what Bev had done with the tool a few days earlier. She bent over to drag the sofa herself, but it slipped and thudded onto the floor at an asymmetrical angle. “Come on, just help me get it over there.”

  “You had it over there ten minutes ago. I'm not letting myself get pulled into some psychotic break.” Kate sat on the sofa in question. “What happened to you, anyway? All week you've been hiding in your room, and now you're rearranging furniture. I'd say it was some guy, but it could hardly be that, this soon and with you working all the time. And what's the point with that? It's not like you can get fired.”

  Bev tried to tip her sister out of the sofa but gave up, plopping down at the other end. She stretched out her legs and used Kate's lap as a footrest. “I'm trying to keep Fite from going out of business.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “Thanks for your support.”

  Kate made a rude noise. “I'm here, aren't I? He hasn't broken in once since I got here.”

  Bev sighed. “He didn't even before you got here.”

  “Face it, Bev. You're stupid when it comes to really built guys. He's got means and motive. It's the only explanation.”

  “Aunt Ellen—”

  “I'll let Mom explain why it isn't Ellen. You assumed it was her, which is one reason I can excuse you for falling for another Rand clone. He's even got the same beady little eyes. Like raisins.”

  Rand was the last good-looking guy she swore off. But he was easy to forget, not like—she gritted her teeth. “He's nothing like Rand. Nothing.” Beady little eyes—hardly. Liam’s were like deep pools of melted chocolate. Pushing a
side that image, she sat upright with a start. “What do you mean, you'll let Mom explain?”

  “When she gets here.” Kate looked at her watch. “She left after the morning rush, so I'm guessing any minute we'll be seeing her sunny Botoxed face. And don't look like that. If I'd told you, imagine how stressed you would have been, and it wouldn't have done any good because she was totally coming, like it or not. Ever since Ellen called her last week she's been all freaking out about getting in touch with her youth and shit.”

  Mouth dry, Bev slipped her feet off her sister's lap and stood up. “Since Ellen called?” she asked. “Any minute? And you didn't tell me?”

  “Well, look at you freaking out. Totally my point.”

  Bev sucked in a deep breath. At least she'd be too busy to think about Liam. “I have to clean the bathroom. No, the kitchen. You clean the bathroom and tell me everything Mom said about Ellen.” Bev took Kate's mug out of her hands and jerked her to her feet. “The Bon Ami is under the sink with the sponge.”

  “I am so not getting between you and Mom and Ellen. If you want the gory details you can ask her when she gets here. Something about having a baby.” Kate pulled her blond hair up on top of her head and slipped the rubber band around her wrist down to make a floppy ponytail while she walked into the bathroom. “Get us each a beer, why don't you? And crank up the tunes.”

  Baby? Bev followed Kate into the bathroom. “Who's having a baby?” Ellen was younger than Gail by a couple years, but was in her late forties. Still, stranger things had happened. “Ellen is having a baby?”

  “Well, it's not me.” Kate squatted down below the sink for the cleaning supplies. “Seriously though, get me a beer. Nobody should have their head in a toilet when they're sober.”

  Her mother would be there soon. She wasn't nice, but at least she was coherent. Giving up on Kate, she went into the kitchen, got her sister a beer—and after a second thought, one for herself—and tackled the pile of dishes in the sink.

  While the water ran she sucked down two swallows of beer and squirted dish soap over the dishes. Where was her mother going to sleep? How the hell long was she going to stay? Kate came in, threw her empty bottle in the recycling can, and got another beer out of the fridge.