Nobody's Fool (29 page)

Keep reading for an excerpt from

NOBODY'S PRINCESS
,

the next Willow Park Romance
from
Sarah Hegger,
on sale in March 2016!

 

 

 

And don't miss

NOBODY'S ANGEL,

available now.

 

 

Tiffany needed a man, about six two with blond hair and a tan. Right now, or life as she knew it was over.
Teeny
exaggeration but she was desperate and one man, how hard could that be? It wasn't as if she needed anything unusual. One white male, twentysomething, handsome, light-eyed, and ripped and cut like every girl's dirty dream.

In Chicago, a city of a shade over 2.7 million people, forty-eight percent of them male, and thirty-one percent of them white. Of course, to accurately calculate the chances she'd need to break that down into how many of the male residents were white and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. If she could get five seconds to write this all down in her book, she could do it.

“Did you get hold of the casting agent?” Piers fussed with his camera, his face already the telltale pink prefacing a meltdown. Dear God, not that. Piers could throw a time-chewing tantrum to rival a toddler. Time was not her friend today. Where the hell was her white male?

“No.” Tiffany snapped her book shut and hit redial. She kept Piers in sight in her peripheral vision.
Please, let the woman be there.
Piers was going nuclear any second now. If Piers lost it, the shoot would run over. Her new life started in a little under three hours and she couldn't be late for that.

“Shit.” Tiffany ended the call. She refused to let this stop her. If necessary, she'd march outside and drag the next blond man in here, but she was going on her date. Tonight. “I'll keep trying.” She smiled apologetically at Piers. As if that would stop a meltdown.
Not.
“Okay, let's get the rest of you ready.”

It was so unfair, she had all the other models—Asian, Black, Hispanic, Indian—and Franco, who was Italian, but had the bone structure and sleek, long hair to pass for Native American. Tiffany wasn't sure his real name was Franco. Maybe he wasn't even Italian.

“Tiffany?” Piers tapped his foot impatiently.

She spun toward the cluster of hotness lounging about, looking effortlessly gorgeous. Except that much perfect took serious work. The fresh bagels she'd fetched this morning lay untouched—two hundred and fifty calories per bagel, another fifty for the cream cheese. She moved the bagel plate to the other side of a dish of strawberries. One dish aligned to the right of the cream cheese, another to the left. She snatched up a strawberry and popped it in her mouth. Four calories. You had to love numbers.

The models shifted to their feet in a tidal wave of undulating muscle. Pumped up, made up and ready to shoot. Six two, six four, six one—no, the order didn't work for her. Tallest to shortest or the other way around would be better. Maybe even tallest in the middle and descending in height order on either side. If Piers ever asked her opinion, she would tell him so. This was not her job, however. Her job was gofer, as in go for this and go for that. Shut your mouth, do as you're told, and show up looking fabulous. She took a deep breath. Two hours and fifty-five minutes to the launch of New Tiffany.

“Give me beautiful, darlings.” Piers glanced up from his camera. “Get me that casting agent,” he yelled at her. “And for Christ's sake get them oiled down.” Piers winked at the models. Flirting with the “meat” his soul prerogative. “I need muscle. Big, shiny, I want to lick it, muscle.”

Didn't they all? Tiffany patted the side pocket of her Dolce & Gabbana tote, reassured by the feel of her notebook in the side pocket. Daddy always made sure she had the best of the best.

She hit redial with one hand and grabbed the bottle of body oil with the other. God, she'd stroked more abs than any girl could fantasize about. Pretty much her only job perk. Six models each with a six-pack, did that make it thirty-six abs or eighteen? It would depend on whether you considered one ridge of muscle as consisting of two separate . . .

“Lower,” Franco purred in her ear.

“Oh, puh-lease.” Tyrone grabbed the bottle from her and oiled himself. “There's nothing down there, sister.” He rolled his eyes at Tiffany dramatically. “And, believe me, I've looked. Now, if you really want to—”

She slapped a handful of oil onto the nearest corrugated stomach. Her gaze drifted to the hot-pink corner of her book peeking over the edge of the tote, the abs calculation forming in her head. She needed to write it down before she forgot. A tiny moment of sanity hovered, right there between those special pages. Later.

“Time?” Piers shouted.

Tiffany checked her phone.
Shit.
“Two forty,” she called back and braced for impact.

“Christ on a stick, Tiffany.” Piers started his meltdown. Tiffany counted slowly backward.
Five, four, three, two, one and—
“Fucking twenty to fucking two. Shit. Fuck. Bum. Bugger. Willy. Dick.”

The models suppressed a snicker or two. They couldn't help it. With his British accent, it never sounded that bad when Piers swore. It sounded sort of cute. The cuteness wore off fast, and after seven years of working for Piers it wasn't even mildly amusing.

“Get that silly cunt from casting on the motherfucking phone and ask her where my fucking white boy is. Tell her to get his pale arse down here or he will never work in this motherfucking cesspit of a fucking, fuck nose shitting town again.”

“Impressive,” one of the models murmured beneath his breath. This must be his first Piers shoot.

“He's just getting started.” Tiffany grabbed the oil and smeared. The waves of rage emanating from Piers almost made her hands shake. She tried the casting agent again. Shit, she had only booked the studio for another two hours and fifty minutes. Her schedule was sliding straight into the toilet.

“Adjust the package on . . .” Piers clicked his fingers as he came up blank on the name. “Um . . . number two.”

“Tyrone,” number two helpfully supplied.

Heat crawled over Tiffany's face. Her gaze dropped automatically to the bulge of Tyrone's crotch. Tyrone spread his arms out and grinned. “Go ahead.”

Sinfully beautiful, and Tyrone knew it. She couldn't resist grinning right back. Such a pity he was gay. And she was in a steady relationship with the most wonderful man. In. The. World. Everybody said so. Ryan was perfect. Maybe not exciting, but she'd had exciting and look how that had ended up? Disaster. No, Ryan was the one for her. No more wild, crazy rides. Her phone buzzed in her hand. “Is that the casting agent?” Piers demanded.

“No.” Tiffany glared as Lola's name lit up her screen. The woman's timing couldn't suck more. As much as she needed to speak to Lola—and she really, really needed to speak to her—she didn't want to answer the call now. Five days she'd waited for Lola to call back. Of course, Lola pretty much ignored every call she didn't feel like taking. Conversely, when Lola wanted to speak to you, she wanted it now and would blow up your phone until she got hold of you.

She hit IGNORE and slipped the phone into her pocket. Why today of all days? It must be some kind of cosmic joke. Could you calculate coincidence? You must be able to. Nearly everything broke down to numbers in the end. Her gaze strayed toward the tote again. Her book seemed to shimmer and pulse for attention. Perhaps she could just quickly . . .

“Hi, I'm looking for Tiffany?” A deep voice spoke from behind her.

Tiffany whirled on her four-inch heels and looked up. And up some more.
Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus.
Her white boy was here and he was totally gorgeous. His blond hair was cropped close to his scalp. It brought all your attention straight to that face. And what a face. You could break rocks on that jawline. The straight blade of his nose rescued him from pretty, but the mouth beneath it curved full and etched, made for nibbling on.

Tiffany did a quick, happy two-step. He even had beautiful blue eyes. He might be a shade on the tall side, but they could fake that a bit. Not as young as she'd first thought, but makeup would fix that. Two vertical lines between his eyebrows gave off a sort of “don't mess with me” vibe. She beamed at him. “You're perfect.”

He raised an eyebrow, and returned her smile cautiously.

Oh, yes, yes, yes.
He had one of those smiles, all innocent on the outside until you looked into those bad boy eyes. Scrap the Botox, those laugh lines were totally dreamy. So unfair, men got yummier-looking as they aged. She did a quick body scan.
Nice. Very nice.
If he looked as good out of that tight T-shirt as he did in it. Seriously, where had this boy been hiding himself?

Tiffany patted the sort of forearm that could be best friends with a jackhammer, and mentally forgave the casting agent. “Okay.” She stretched her fingers to capacity to grip his arm. Wow! And this from a girl who worked with wow every day. “We are going to have to hurry. Strip and let's get you all pumped up.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Piers snarled. “Your call time was one thirty.”

Blondie opened his mouth to reply. Tiffany spun him toward makeup. It did no good to argue with Piers when he was on a tear. A waste of time they didn't have. Things were turning around. The white boy was here, and he was smoking hot. The shoot would finish on time, and then she could deal with Lola. And still have time to prepare herself for
the night
.

Blondie stood there giving the other models a thorough eye scan. Gay. What a shame.

She shook her head at herself. What did it matter? She was practically an engaged woman.

Blondie hovered at her side.

Tiffany rolled her eyes. Clichés sucked, but some of these boys had no brain between all that brawn. Hooking her hands beneath the hem of his T-shirt, she tugged. “You have to take this off for makeup.”

“Are you taking my clothes off?” Blondie folded his huge paws around hers and stopped her. He had a great voice, like hot chocolate laced with rum. The sort of voice that would do great bedtime stories.

She hauled back on her thought path. “You have to strip.”

He looked right at her. Not past her or around her, but right at her as if he wanted to see straight into the center of her. A snap of something she didn't want to put a name to crackled through the space between them. A shiver snaked down her spine, but she didn't seem able to break his eye lock.

“Strip?” Up went one eyebrow.

Sweat prickled her palms. Her hands were still fisted around his shirt, exposing about two inches of stomach. He had a garden path trail of hair disappearing below the low-slung waist of his jeans. That would have to go. Pity. Tiffany dragged her stare off his navel and focused on the writing on the front of his T-shirt. It read:
NEVER TRUST AN ATOM—THEY MAKE UP EVERYTHING.

Cool shirt. She and Blondie were probably the only two people in the world who thought it was funny. The shirt needed to come off and now, before Piers went into orbit. “Yes, strip.”

She pulled at the shirt and his hands tightened over hers. Tiffany glared up at him. An attack of modesty? Unbelievable. Did he think he would be modeling undershirts and long johns? “You have to take it all off.”

“Normally I get dinner first.” Those bad boy eyes danced at her, inviting her to share the joke. For a second, she badly wanted to.

“Tiffany, sweetie.” Tyrone appeared beside her. “That's not your model.”

“What?” Tiffany stared at Blondie. Of course he was her model because otherwise she was stripping . . . a whimper caught in her throat.

He looked back at her.

Tyrone took her by the shoulders and spun her around. “That's your model.”

He pointed to a beautiful Rocky (as in the Picture Show, not Sly) lookalike talking earnestly to Piers. Piers lapped it up. Waving one hand through the air and patting the pretty, blond boy on the arm.

“I . . .” Tiffany peered over her shoulder. Please let the last two minutes be a figment of her imagination. Her figment grinned at her and tucked his hands into his back pockets.

“Tiffany,” Piers bellowed. “Get Mark into makeup. And get him a cup of coffee. The poor boy has had a horrible day.”

“I'm so sorry I'm late.” Mark approached her, his big blue eyes awash with apology. “I'm new in town and I got lost.”

“Sister,” Tyrone cut across him. “Save it for the preacher and get your ass all prettied up. We are not getting any younger over here.”

“Yes, of course.” Mark scurried over to makeup, leaving Tiffany standing with Blondie.

“Well.” She hoped she wasn't blushing as much as she thought she was. A red face would seriously clash with her hot-pink top. “I thought you were one of the models.”

“Thank you, I think.” His voice held enough of a laugh for Tiffany to see the funny side. The corners of her mouth tilted up.

“Tiffany,” Piers demanded from across the room. “Do we like the color of these?” Piers waved his hand over a pair of briefs and frowned.

No, no, no, no, no.
And just when things were looking up. Thank God she'd had the foresight to pack different colors. “You don't like them?”

“It's just . . .” Piers plucked at his bottom lip, thrust one hip out, and stared down at the models' skimpy underwear. “He has this lovely skin and I don't think these do anything for it.”