City Chicks

Chapter 2

Two

“Miss Lange, welcome to T+S Productions.”

From the moment I walked through the rusty steel door of the warehouse occupying the address Cassie had given me, I had been in a state of shock. The entire interior had been renovated and converted into a full-service production studio.

Offices lined the length of an entire wall, their stainless steel doors regularly interrupting the rows of TV and movie posters documenting the studio’s moderately illustrious history. High above the polished concrete floor, dozens of lights crowded the massive grid hanging ten feet below the warehouse ceiling, insuring they could light any area within the several thousand square foot space.

From the front entry I could see three different television sets: a kitchen I recognized from a popular homemaking show, a news desk belonging to Channel 17 Action News, and a cozy living room with an easy chair and twin loveseats clustered around a low coffee table.

Busy people, dressed mostly in black—no wonder Cassie hadn’t been inspired to break her habit—bustled in every direction, many talking into wireless headsets.

But nothing surprised me more than to turn to the sound of that rugged voice and find Trevor of yesterday’s shopping duo addressing me.

“Trevor,” I began, unsure how to finish.

“Surprised to see me?” he asked, his rugged features relaxing into a smile. “We had to check you out. You can’t blame us for a little subterfuge.”

“A little…? You mean Steven works here, too?”

“You could put it that way.”

He extended a hand along the bank of offices in a walk-with-me gesture. As we strolled backstage, he explained.

“Steven and I are T+S Productions. Our little shopping expedition yesterday was a test.”

“A test?” I echoed, even as the light began to dawn.

“We couldn’t very well hire a fashion consultant without being certain of her expertise. And to make the test honest, you couldn’t know you were being tested.”

I pressed my lips together, a long-standing nervous habit that three generations of Lange woman had tried to abolish from my behavior.

“But why? I mean, you didn’t have to… All those purchases!”

“Why did we buy so much stuff?” Trevor voiced the question I couldn’t. “Because the stuff was fantastic. Because you sold us. Trust me when I say we are finicky about fashion, but you keyed in on all the right elements. You passed the test, Bethany. With flying colors.”

“Oh,” I exclaimed quietly.

In all my years in retail, I had never felt more proud of myself. I’d always believed I had a knack for fashion, for finding just the right outfit for any given customer. But validation was a magical thing. I instantly walked a little taller.

We reached the end of the row of offices and Trevor turned down another row of doors—these polished maple with large gold stars at eye level.

“These are our dressing rooms and offices.” He tapped the star that read Avilla as we passed the first door. “Gives the talent a real kick, like they’re big time movie stars.”

I nodded, at the same time thinking that if I were an actor I would want a gold star on my door. What girl didn’t want to feel like Grace Kelley?

We passed several racks of clothes—wardrobe pieces—and I marveled at the array of designer clothes. Everything from Armani to Versace to Calvin Klein and back again.

“And this,” Trevor announced, drawing my attention away as we approached the last door, “is your office.”

Following the wave of his elegantly manicured hand, my gaze landed on the gold star with Lange proudly engraved on its shiny surface. My very own star?

“An office?”

“You’ll need one,” he explained. “Our production schedule is very tight. We’ll be shooting three episodes in as many weeks, plus there will be photo shoots and public appearances. We need your input on all of that. And as soon as the press releases go out we’ll be bombarded with free wardrobe offers, samples, bribes. Anything fashion-related is under your purview—and yours to keep, if it’s anything good. I once got season tickets to the Yankees. Unfortunately for that designer I’m a Mets fan.”

I laughed nervously.

This sounded a lot more involved than I had imagined. I pictured popping in a couple times a week, ordering clothes, making sure everything arrived on time and fit as expected.

From Trevor’s description, this would be a full-time position. I was going to need more help in the shop than the occasional sick day I could con out of Fiona and Lydia. Besides, Fiona usually ended up driving the female customers away and going home with the men.

But with the generous signing bonus the contract included, hiring a sales associate was not a problem. For the thirty-seventh time in the last twenty-four hours I thanked the Lord and Cassie for this opportunity.

Trevor waved me forward. I bravely opened the door to my office—my office. The interior was a delicious shade of deep cream, nearly the color of an almond latte, with filigree wallpaper and gold accents.

An antique writing desk stood to one side, a harlequin-upholstered desk chair at the ready. Six valet hooks lined the far wall, beneath wooden letters—A, B, C, D, E, and SG—waiting the first wardrobe selection for the cast and the pilot episode contestant, I assumed.

I couldn’t have designed a lovelier office myself.

“Our design guru is responsible for the décor.”

“It’s beautiful,” I assured him.

“It should be. He’s the best.”

An expansive vanity mirror on the right wall caught my eye. Surrounded by dozens of round light bulbs it reminded me of the original Max Factor studio rooms Cassie and I had toured on our spring break trip to Los Angeles. Very old school, Hollywood glamour.

“I can’t wait to meet him and thank him.” And kiss his feet.

“Good.” Trevor looked up as a brown-haired man in a royal blue Miles Davis t-shirt appeared in the doorway. “You’re about to get the chance. Time to meet the cast.”

My heart fluttered.

I hadn’t expected to meet them so quickly. I’d hoped for a little time to adjust to my surroundings. To explore the office and maybe get a peek at some of the clothes on those racks outside.

No such luck.

“Bethany Lange,” Trevor said by way of introduction, “meet Adam Avilla. Our culture expert.”

And with that, Trevor politely excused himself and slipped out of the office, quietly closing the door behind him.

With a deep breath I realized this must be a sort of test, too. Not to get me in the door, but to make sure I could get along with the guys. And maybe make sure I could keep my head above water in a flash flood.

I steeled myself against nervous panic. These Yanks couldn’t find enough water to sink a Lange.

“A pleasure to meet you, Adam.” I extended my hand in greeting and stepped forward.

For a long moment he just looked at me, dark brown eyes scanning me from head to toe in evaluation. When those espresso depths—the rich color calling out for earthy greens and beige-y neutrals—returned to meet my expectant gaze, he smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Beth,” he said as he took my hand on the pretense of a handshake and lifted it for a kiss instead.

I pegged him instantly as the charmer.

Straightening, he held his arms out wide in a gesture of welcome. “Clothe me as you will.”

From Cassie’s brief run-down of the show, I knew that his duties entailed broadening the cultural horizons of the Straight Guy. That could involve anything from giving him a lesson on contemporary art to teaching him how to introduce romance in his life. His role seemed like the least defined, but—to me—the most important. He was responsible for making the Straight Guy a better human being.

What could be more important?

But, while I knew what he did on the show I didn’t know anything else about him—or the rest of the cast for that matter.

“Before we get to that,” I explained, “I’d like to get to know you a little better. Can’t dress the outside until I know what’s inside.”

His brown eyes sparkled.

“Thirty-something Scorpio. Former member of a boy band that shall remain unnamed. Youngest of six children. Favorite color: Blue. Favorite food: Tamales. Favorite Streisand song: Don’t Rain On My Parade.” Adam flopped onto the gold couch next to the desk and folded his arms behind his head. “What else do you need to know?”

Laughing, I leaned one hip against the desk, carefully smoothing the full skirt of my floral sundress. “What else is there?”

“Well, there is a tattoo.” He grinned, the very picture of the devil. Then winked as he added, “But I don’t think you’ll ever be in a position to find it.”

“You’d be surprised,” I returned. “There isn’t much a man can hide from his costumer.”

Adam laughed, seemingly surprised that a daring comment or two didn’t scare me off. Sometimes it was an advantage to cloak the spitfire beneath a veneer Southern charm.

My unease dissipated and I knew this was going to be a wonderful experience. The cast was just a group of regular guys. And dealing with guys—straight or not—had never been a problem for me.

Dating them? That was trickier.

But handling men was a skill every Southern-bred lady possessed.

A sharp double knock sounded at the door an instant before it burst open. A tall blonde man dressed in burgundy velvet jeans and a pale pink polo shirt over a white oxford stood in the doorway, surveying the room.

His studded belt broke up the preppy tone of the outfit.

“Is this her?” he asked Adam.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Cute, isn’t she?”

“She’s adorable.” The blond moved into the room, walking to my side and immediately reaching out to feel the sateen fabric of my dress. “Ooh, high thread count. Anna Tomo?”

“Y-yes, but—”

“Love her new line.” He—I still didn’t know his name—pouted out his lower lip. “Too bad I can’t wear them.”

Adam, apparently realizing I had no idea who the man currently petting my clothing was, said, “Beth, this is Bryce Gibler. The fashion expert, if you hadn’t guessed.”

If Bryce was the fashion expert, then he was the one I would be working with most closely. We would decide together on how to dress the Straight Guy, scout shopping locations for the shoot, and plan how to wardrobe the cast. He would be the on-screen representation of my consulting work, and I could tell he would do it with flare.

“Shame on me,” Bryce chastised. “I didn’t even introduce myself. Just walked right in and started pawing.”

“Sounds like my last date,” I joked.

Bryce turned to Adam, grinning deviously. “Oh, I like her.”

“Me, too.”

“Have I missed the party?”

I turned at the sound of a deep voice. In the doorway stood one of the handsomest men I had even seen—in real life or otherwise. Tall, broad-shouldered, with nearly-black hair that curled around his forehead and temples in deliciously tempting waves. Dressed in a yummy, distressed denim Western shirt, chocolate brown cords, and brown leather loafers.

My heart swelled.

Then he stepped forward, his pant leg lifting to reveal a sliver of crimson between the browns of his pants and shoes.

My heart deflated.

Months of boning up on the telltale signs of a gay man had led to one undisputed truth: Straight men don’t wear colorful socks.

Why were the best looking ones always gay?

Mr. Yummy smiled, the gesture illuminating his crystal blue eyes. My heart threatened to re-inflate. I punctured it with a sharp pin.

“Chris Thompson,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “Food and wine.”

Cast member number three. Gay cast member number three.

Forcing air in and out of my lungs—no call for going all breathless over a man as openly unavailable as that—I pasted on my best steel magnolia smile. “Bethany Lange. Fashion consultant.”

His hand was warm and strong and it took all of my strength not to visibly swoon.

“A pleasure.”

For a brief second, he held my hand, his eyes burning into me. I had to resist the urge to fan myself. Then Chris shook his head and, holding only my fingertips, daintily shook my hand before dropping it like last year’s hemline.

“Can I make one request?” he asked.

Anything, my mind screamed. “Certainly.”

“Make sure everything I wear is stain resistant.” His eyes sparkled like a little boy proud of the havoc was about to cause. “I tend to get a little messy in the kitchen.”

I smiled politely, but my eyes lost focus. I remembered an old wives tale Fiona had once told me about men who made a mess with food. Which led to an image of Chris making a mess in my kitchen. Then gasped as the fantasy progressed to Chris, chocolate sauce, and a can of whipped cream hovering over my body.

No, no, no, no, no. No!

Four gay exes was more than enough for any girl to claim. At least none of them had been openly gay before I dated them. Only after. Not a terribly cheerful thought, but it was something.

Lusting after a man already out of the closet, however, was a new low. Even for me.

I tried to focus on work.

Chris was the food expert. His primary duty included teaching the Straight Guy how to prepare a meal. On any given episode, though, he might recommend a good wine, give the guy a lesson on world cheeses, or share the secrets to a perfect ice cream sundae.

My mind snapped back to the whipped cream image.

What if—

No! Off limits, even to fantasies.

I had just admonished myself with the final word on the subject when Bryce called out, “Danial, get your tight little butt in here.”

“You called, My Queen?”

The brunette in the doorway looked like a cross between a Hell’s Angel and a Calvin Klein model. Black biker boots. Tight black leather pants. Tight white t-shirt that sculpted every inch of muscle on his upper body.

If his meticulously spiked hair was any indication, he was the grooming expert.

He would see to the Straight Guy’s hair and skin—getting him a flattering haircut, addressing specific skin care issues, and teaching the guy how to shave properly. His mission was to eradicate razor burn and spread hair product throughout the world.

“Act like a gentleman and introduce yourself,” Bryce chastised. “This is our fashion consultant.”

“Bethany,” I offered. “Bethany Lange.”

“Danial-with-an-A Malino. Stylist of the stars.”

“Maybe Starr Jones,” Adam teased.

Chris laughed and added, “Or Ringo Starr.”

I fought the urge to melt at the sexy rumble of his laughter.

“Hey,” Danial argued, “Ringo has excellent shaft health.”

Bryce pursed his lips and tsked. “I’ll bet he does.”

Unable to hold it in, I burst out laughing along with the rest of them. Mother always told me ladies didn’t laugh out loud in public, but she’d never met this group of guys.

“Thank God you’ve got a sense of humor.” Bryce walked over to the vanity mirror and pushed a stray lock of blonde into place. “Otherwise we’d be sunk.”

“Might be anyway,” Chris said as he lowered into the desk chair and swung back and forth. “Where’s Evie?”

“She was right behind me,” Danial said.

I saw Bryce’s focus in the mirror shift before he instructed, “Look in the doorway, silly.”

We all turned to the doorway.

I gasped.

Behind me, Chris started to introduce us. “Bethany, this is our interior designer, E—”

But his introduction was unnecessary because we were already acquainted. Well acquainted.

Suddenly my dream job was looking like a nightmare.

Sucking up a breath of courage, I forced a humorless smile. “Hello, Evan.”