Blank Space (Swift Mountain Fire & Rescue #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

GIGI

The late afternoon sun streams in through the window of my studio apartment. I shift the sketchpad on my desk to the center of the sunbeam, never lifting my pencil from the paper.

The sketch comes to life. Lines and slashes flow down from the faceless model. Each stroke adds on to the next, creating a long, draping gown with ruching at the bust and a cascading skirt that flows to the ground in cascading waves.

Pausing with pursed lips, I take a look at my work and can’t help but grin with pride.

“Damn, Gigi,” I say to myself. “You’re good.”

I’m suddenly aware of the honking horns and various voices calling out from the bustling street below. Though it’s usually hard to ignore the sights and sounds of Manhattan—especially through my windows’ thin panes—they completely slipped my notice.

When I get in the zone like this, it’s almost as if the design is coming together on its own. Everything around me disappears. I swear, sometimes it feels like blacking out.

That’s one of the mysteries—and beauties—of being a fashion designer. Well, a design assistant. Right now, I’m working on ideas for my boss’s new line.

But someday—someday—I’ll be frantically creating my own designs. Ones made to celebrate women like me. Women with more curves and full-figured bodies. In my years here in New York, I haven’t met many designers who really know how to dress a plus-size woman. Not like I do. One day, I’ll have my own line of designs on a runway, displayed by gorgeous plus-size models—like my best friend Selena.

When that finally happens, all the late nights of study, bowls of ramen on a shoestring budget, and calluses on my fingers will have paid off.

Raising my arms over my head, I stretch to work out the tension forming in my shoulders. Just like the sights and sounds, I forget to move my body when I’m deep into my work. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up with hunched shoulders.

Those won’t look good in the dress I plan to draw next. A dress for my own collection.

Reaching for the pencil, my hand freezes as my phone starts buzzing.

I frown at it. I want to take advantage of the natural light while I can. Living in a cramped third-floor walkup in Chelsea, I don’t get a lot of it. But when I see the name on the display, I release a sigh.

It’s my brother, calling from Alaska. I’ve ignored his last few calls. If I do it again, he’ll probably call in a wellness check on me. My neighbors already think I’m weird enough with all the thrifted high-fashion outfits I wear. I don’t need to add to it by having police show up at my door.

I lift the phone to my ear. “Aaron, hey.”

“You’re alive.” There’s muffling on the other end of the line as he calls out, “Good news. Gigi is alive.”

“Does that mean I can stop looking up the non-emergency number for the NYPD?” Selena’s voice calls back in the background.

I can’t help but chuckle as I grab my pencil. I was right. My brother was seconds away from a wellness check. I’d like to think Selena would have talked him out of it. Now that they’re getting together, she has more influence on him than anyone else.

“It probably wouldn’t hurt to save it to your phone,” Aaron says. “God knows what kind of trouble Gigi might get into in that place.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve lived in New York since I came here for design school. But not even a decade of living in the big city is enough to convince my brother that I can take care of myself.

With a sigh, I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can resume sketching. “Did you need something more than proof of life? Because I can start sending you selfies from the newspaper stand every day if that will put your mind at ease.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” He muffles the receiver again. “Selena, do you think?—”

“I have work to do. I’m hanging up?—”

“No, hold on.” His voice returns more clearly, “I did have something to talk to you about.”

“I’m on pins and needles here.”

He hesitates a moment. “Have you checked your mail lately?”

The pencil freezes on the pad, and my stomach sinks. I have a bad feeling about where this conversation is going. “I have.”

I can practically hear him swallowing on the other end of the line. “Did you get the invitation?”

My stomach finishes its plummet to the floor. “What invitation?”

“You know what invitation.” He sighs. “The invitation to Brad’s wedding.”

Brad. My high school boyfriend. My first love. My first kiss. My first… well, let’s just say he was the first in a lot of things. Including being the first man to break my heart.

“Yes,” I croak, wincing at the sound before clearing my throat. “I got the invitation.”

He mutters expletives under his breath. It’s hard to hear everything he says, but I catch, “selfish prick,” “never leaves a pot unstirred,” and “always has to have the last word.”

“It’s no big deal. His mom probably made him send the invitation.”

“You really think his mom put him up to this?”

“Well… No.”

Even though her son may have been a jerk in the end, Brad’s mom has never been anything but nice to me. She still always sends me a box of cookies every Christmas, and she gives me a big hug every time I bump into her when I’m home for a visit.

“I mean, maybe,” I correct. Even as kind as she’s been to me, she might think it was rude to invite half the town and not include me on the guest list. “She was probably being polite.”

“Trust me, the invitation has nothing to do with being polite.” He sighs again. “Are you going?”

“Seriously?” I drop my pencil and push the design away. I don’t want it tainted by this conversation. “Do you really think I’d put myself through the experience of attending Brad’s wedding?”

He might pretend that the invitation was an olive branch, but I know him. It’s a chance for him to rub my face in the fact that I wasn’t good enough for him. That he found someone better—younger and thinner—than me to marry.

Not that I care what he thinks about me. I know I’m good enough. I know I’m strong enough. That doesn’t mean I want to put myself in that kind of position.

“So that’s a no.”

“It’s a no,” I confirm.

“Okay. Good. I don’t blame you.” He gives a short laugh that’s more tense than humorous. “It’s best for the best. I’m sure the rumors will die down before you come back in the fall for our wedding.”

“Rumors?” My blood freezes. “What rumors?”

“Aw… shit… I’ve really stepped in it.”

“What. Rumors?”

The tone in his voice makes me uneasy. “Forget I said anything.”

Right. Like that’s going to happen. “Aaron… What’s going on?”

There’s a scuffle on the other end of the line, as if someone is trying to steal the phone from his hand. When Selena’s voice says my name clearly, I know who has come out the winner.

“So, don’t freak out… But there are a few rumors going around town.” She sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “About you.”

Oh, man. “What kind of rumors?”

“Nothing major. Rumors about why you haven’t sent your RSVP or why you won’t come. They’re mostly ridiculous. Especially to people who know you.”

I can only imagine. Like most small towns, my hometown thrives on its rumor mill. And most rumors are so ridiculous that they’re virtually impossible to believe.

That doesn’t keep people from spreading them. It also doesn’t keep the victims safe from the fallout.

“What kind of rumors?” I repeat.

Selena takes a deep breath. “Okay, just keep in mind they’re completely ridiculous.”

“I’m a big girl. I can take it.” I hope.

“So, most of the rumors seem to be based around why you wouldn’t come back from the wedding.”

“I’m with you so far.”

“There’s one that says you’re pregnant.”

I snort. “You’d have to have sex—or a sperm donor—to get pregnant.”

“And… it’s been a while since you’ve had sex, right?” On the other end of the line, she asks, “What?”

I have to laugh. “You can assure my big brother that it has been a long, long time since I’ve had sex. Actually, he’d probably be happier thinking I’m a virgin.”

“Which is ridiculous, because we’re both women in our late twenties. He can’t think—” There’s yet another scuffle for custody of the phone. Once again, Selena comes out on top. “Anyway, another rumor says you’ve had radical plastic surgery.”

“Oh my God. That’s hilarious.” I burst into laughter, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “Radical plastic surgery? What do they think I had done? Boobs? Ass? Nose?”

“Rumor has it all of the above and then some.”

“That’s so crazy.” I shake my head, more than a little amused by my former townspeople’s imaginations. “So I’m pregnant—either from being a loose woman or one capable of immaculate conception—and a plastic surgery addict. What other rumors are flying?”

“Well, there has been a lot of traction with the whole ‘loose woman’ narrative,” Selena says, the humor slipping from her tone. “Others are, well, they’re too mean to mention.”

I swallow hard. “Let me guess. They’re saying I’ve gained even more weight.”

“Well… yeah.”

My heart sinks. There was a time when that kind of rumor would have torn me apart. I’ve always been on the curvier side. I spent my early twenties trying crash diets and workouts to make myself smaller. It’s only been in the last few years that I’ve come to love my full-figured body and celebrate my curves.

But it still hurts to have my body weaponized against me.

“So this is all coming from Brad?” I shake my head. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s the worst,” Selena says. “He’s a jealous jerk.”

“It’s only because—” Aaron tells Selena to put him on speaker. His voice comes in more loudly, “It’s only because he’s jealous that you’re doing something with your life. You’re doing what you always said you’d do, while his hockey career fizzled out.”

“So what should I do?”

“Ignore him,” Aaron says at the same time Selena shouts, “Shut him down.”

While the two of them argue about the merits of each point, I consider them for myself. Aaron’s path is probably the most mature, not to mention the easiest. I literally wouldn’t have to do a thing.

But I’ve never been the sort of person to make a choice just because it’s easy.

“What do you have in mind, Selena?”

“Come to the wedding,” she says. “Bring your best New York fashion and look your fabulous self at every. Possible. Moment. It also wouldn’t hurt if you came with a date who made Brad look like even more of a dud than usual.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I muse. Unfortunately, the wedding is in only a couple of weeks. “I’m not sure how easy it will be for me to come up with a date on such short notice.”

Selena and I each throw out names of mutual acquaintances.

There’s the tattooed photographer with biceps that could cut glass. But he’s doing a swimsuit shoot in Bali.

There’s Selena’s model buddy who has a chin like a rock. Only, he posts about his dating conquests all over social media. Our fake relationship would be easily debunked.

On and on we go, exhausting our list.

Desperate, I weakly ask Aaron if he has any ideas. There’s a pause before he speaks up.

“You could always ask Justin.”

“Justin?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to place the name.

“Justin!” Selena exclaims excitedly. “Oh, Gigi, he is gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous?” Aaron huffs.

“He really is,” Selena says, ignoring Aaron’s indignation. “Full—but groomed beard. Brawny shoulders. Broody but teasing. He’s definitely got the whole lumberjack meets volunteer firefighter thing going on. And he plays hockey.”

A moment later, my phone pings, and I open the image Selena has sent me. My jaw drops slightly.

“Oh, that Justin.” I perk up. I’ll be the first to say that looks aren’t everything, but Selena is right. He is everything a woman could want in a fake date. Piercing green eyes. Thick, brown hair that my fingers practically itch to run through. A devil-may-care smirk. “Brad’s sworn enemy.”

I can’t remember exactly who started it, but Brad and Justin had a competition that crossed the lines of friendly back in high school. Their feud played out on and off the ice. Rumor had it, one of their fights was the reason neither of them got any scholarships to play in college.

Whatever happened, Brad never forgave him. And he would be nothing short of supremely pissed if I showed up to his wedding with Justin on my arm.

“Justin,” I say again, a slow grin spreading across my lips. “Do you think he’d be up for playing along?”

Aaron sighs. “Yeah. He would.”

“Then, I think I have myself a date. I’d better send in my RSVP to the wedding after all.”

I’ll be there with bells—and a full game of the best revenge of living well—on.

As long as Justin agrees to this plan.