Wrangled

“Only the cute asses. Oh, you’re talking about the reception at that restaurant right down the street from where the show took place, right? The restaurant with the silver statues outside it?”

“That’s the one. Are you coming?”

“Nope. I’ve got plans with Richie. Hence my freaking out and calling you like a runaway bride.”

“Aww, too bad. Everyone would’ve been thrilled to see you,” I point out. “I even saw a piece or two on that runway I think you should have modeled instead.”

“I’m afraid my lovely self will not be making an appearance. But someone else will, though,” Salvador tells me. “He gave me a call a few days ago, I told him a thing or two, and he made a plan.”

Wait, what? “Uh … Who called you a few days ago? What do you mean?”

“Oops. Richie’s back from the store. Gotta go, sweet cheeks!”

Click.

I pull back my phone and stare at it.

That’s always been Sal’s signature move: dropping a bomb on me, then hanging up at once.

It could be any number of people he’s referring to. We have so many mutual friends in the business—between models, designers, actors, photographers, costume designers in the theatre world—there is no telling.

I assume I’ll find out soon enough.

I pass through the doors, reach the host, state my name, let it be matched to their elite little list, then proceed into the party. All of my fashion school cohorts and design partners are here, many of them clustered in small gatherings, sipping middle-of-the-day wine, chatting about their favorite pieces, and charming each other. I grab myself a glass, then find myself roped at once into a circle of colleagues who—despite their cold shoulder at the show itself—can’t wait to tell me what they think of my work.

“You’ve got such a way with—”

“There were so many great ideas, and—”

“Your ability to edit back is expert—”

“I’ve tried to nail down that stitching technique, but—”

“Did you see Emile Von Clare’s face when that one look came down the runway and—?”

“Oh, I just died when I saw your first look, and—”

“How did you come up with the styling of—?”

It’s an endless barrage of questions, praise, and curiosity, of which I’m lucky to answer or react to one out of every ten.

It’s half an hour into the party when I notice the commotion at the front. It’s difficult to see from here in the thick of the crowd that surrounds me, but someone seems to be having trouble with the host.

At once, I realize it might be my surprise plus-one. “Excuse me for a second. I need to tend to my … uh … guest.”

I cut my way through the crowd, taking care not to spill my wine, apologizing here and there, smiling at anyone who smiles my way, almost crashing into Emile Von Clare herself, then at last break through, my vantage restored.

My walking slows, then I come to a dead stop.

He stands there in a crisp blue button-down shirt, black fitted slacks, shiny shoes, a belt, and his light brown hair styled with perfectly deliberate messy flair. His blue eyes shine from his handsome face, piercing me in place. There is strength in his stance as he awaits whatever it is I might say, like he prepared himself for a thousand different reactions, for the best and the worst, and is willing to brave any of it—for me.

The host sighs, then addresses me. “He claims to be your plus-one, and I told him he’s not on the list, you didn’t approve him, and unless there’s been a mistake, this is an invite-only affair, and he needs to—”

“He’s my plus-one,” I affirm. “Chad Landry. He’s … He’s mine.”

22

Wrangled

There are likely several sets of eyes on us right now.

Even the host is watching us suspiciously, despite our having relocated to the side of the room, away from the crowd, right by the front windows.

“What in the hell are you doing here?” I ask in an incredulous, bewildered tone.

Chad glances over his shoulder at the crowd of my peers and superiors. “Seems like a pretty boring party to me.”

“Did you fly here? Or did you drive all the way here in your truck? Who’s watching over your ranch?”

“Old Man Mitch. Seriously, Spruce can throw a bigger party in an hour if you call the right people.”

“Can Old Man Mitch really handle it all on his own? I mean, no offense, but he really looks like he’s on his last leg. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Damn, boy, you’re full a’ questions.”

Chad looks gorgeous, by the way.

Stunning. Breathtaking. Every bit of the man I fell for during my short time in Spruce. It’s taking everything in me not to want to jump him right here in front of everyone.

“And you still haven’t answered the most important one,” I point out, my eyelids half-closed with frustration.