“Just that he was your boyfriend and inquired if I was sleeping with you.”
“Oh, Prince, I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot.”
“Well, I had some fun with him. I was staring at our hay beds when he inquired of our relationship so I told him I wasn’t sleeping with you at the moment. Which he did not find amusing.”
Gemma, however, laughed a robust and rich laugh, which made the sun rise a little higher over John’s valleys and shadows.
It was going to be a good day. Maybe even a good week. The awkward mission for the queen aside, he was glad he’d traveled to Hearts Bend.
* * *
Gemma
The chapel was silent except for the hiss of steam coming off Taylor. It was after ten and the model had not arrived and the agency had no answers.
Gemma sat on the altar steps amid her boxes, wondering what to say if anything at all. Poor Taylor.
It’d taken everything Gemma had to string the lights from the rafters. Crawling across the beams, she felt both lightheaded and heavy. There were moments when she couldn’t breathe, and she was back in Vegas, in the dark hole, slipping and falling.
But this time she paid attention to her moves, stayed alert and aware of her surroundings.
You won’t fall. You won’t.All the while her thudding heart said,Oh yes you will.
Because she had fallen, hadn’t she? In more ways than one. Then she heard his voice, Prince’s, telling her about Chandler. She smiled, picturing the big man with thick arms and a mop of rich dark hair cradling the tiniest pup in the litter. Suddenly all was right in her world. She filled herself with a long, cool inhale and finished the job.
Now she sat, staring down the aisle where she’d scattered faux spring flower petals. No use finishing the staging if there was no bride.
“Well, Gemma, I’m sorry.” Taylor’s voice echoed in the stone and beam space with the high ceilings.
“It’s okay, not your fault.” She grabbed one of the boxes to start tearing down. “Let me know if and when you resch—”
“You’re going to have to do it.”
She looked up. “What?”
“You’re my model.” Taylor pulled out her phone and tap-tapped on the screen. “I’m not letting this opportunity go because of some lame modeling agency—IknewI shouldn’t have used them—they’ve done this to me before.”
“Me? No. Taylor, I can’t be your…yourbride.”
“Why not? You’re drop-dead gorgeous and the camera loves you.”
“I’m not dressed.”
“Well no, but there are the dresses.” Taylor pointed to the rack with a smirk and dialed someone on her phone. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“My hair is a mess. I don’t have any makeup.”
“Hey, Mia, Taylor Gillingham… Good, good, listen, I have ahugefavor.”
Mia was the new hairstylist in town. When she purchased Miss Orla’s Cut & Curl last year (she retired) and changed the name to Mia’s and hired stylists from Nashville, everyone in town—from the old men who played checkers in Gardenia Park to the Friday night guitar circles to the Ladies Auxiliary to the teens eating burgers at Ella’s lunch counter—wanted to sit in a Mia’s chair.
“Mia’s on her way,” Taylor said, pointing to the dresses. “Start with whichever one you want. We’ll knock them off one at a time.”
“What about the staging?” Gemma didn’treallycare about the set, she cared aboutnotdoing this. When she left show biz, she meant it. Even a local modeling project was off the grid. She’d vowed, pledged, promised to never, ever put herself out there again.
And now that Matt was calling, telling John he was her boyfriend… She couldn’t think about it. She couldn’t. Otherwise she’d pack up Imani and run away to where no one would find her.
Taylor peered inside the staging boxes. “I’ll decorate the pews. We can use the chapel’s candelabras. And you know, it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s shoot outside. Jack is always telling me, ‘Think outside the box, darling.’ He’s an ad man through and through.”
