Chapter 6
6
I’m already running on pure adrenaline. The Harvest Festival is in full swing, and my boutique’s grand opening is just hours away. There’s no time for nerves, no time for second-guessing, no time for last-minute changes. It’s happening. My dream is happening.
I haven’t heard from Jack since last night, and the silence is deafening. I keep replaying our fight in my head, wishing I could take back everything I said. Wishing I could just explain in a way that made sense to me and him.
“Focus, Poppy,” I mutter to myself, adjusting the hem of a model’s dress with splashy maple leaves all over it. “You’ve got a show to run.”
The town square vibrates with activity. Vendors finishing up their booths, moms pushing strollers, kids with their faces painted like pumpkins and scarecrows, and dads making sure everyone stays within sight.
The air smells like cinnamon and apples, and somewhere in the distance, a band is warming up to play bluegrass music. It’s everything I imagined the Harvest Festival would be in small- town Virginia, and a glow moves through me that I now live in Blue Ridge.
“Okay, ladies.” I clap my hands to get the models’ attention. “We’re up in fifteen minutes. Let’s do one last run-through.”
The models nod, some of them whispering excitedly to each other, but I barely hear them. Someone’s missing. “Where’s Sarah?” I ask, glancing over to the dress she should already be strapped and secured in.
“She just texted,” Chloe, one of my absolute favorite plus-sized models, says. She looks up with worry in her wide brown eyes. “She’s sick and can’t make it.”
I blink, trying to process the information. Sarah. Sick. Not coming. “What?” I say, my brain still catching up. “She’s not coming?”
Chloe shakes her head, holding up her phone as proof. “Yeah, she’s got the flu and can’t leave the house. She feels awful about it.”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Okay, um…” I glance around at the other models, quickly assessing my options. Sarah was supposed to wear one of my standout pieces, a fall-inspired high-low maxi dress that I’ve been dying to show off.
Maybe I could wear it, but I quickly dismiss that idea. Sarah’s on the small end of my product line, and that dress is at least two sizes too small for me.
“Who can fit into Sarah’s dress?” I ask, my voice rising with the panic that’s starting to creep in. Maybe I can wear one of their dresses, and we can all swap around until all the pieces can be shown.
“Five minutes,” the coordinator calls, and pure panic blitzes through me.
The models exchange glances, but they all look to me to know what to do. And I don’t know what to do.
I’m about to suggest we just scrap the whole look when someone says, “I’ll wear it.”
Jack.
I freeze, my breath lodging somewhere down low in my throat as he walks up to our little group, his eyes locked on mine despite all the pretty models surrounding me. They’re perfectly makeupped and not sweating, and I reach up to wipe my very wet forehead and secure my ponytail.
His face is unreadable, but there’s a determination in his gaze that makes my stomach flip-flop.
“It’s this one?” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent of something else there—something raw. I can feel the apology on my lips, but I can’t say it. Not yet. Not with all these people around us.
He steps over to the portable rack and lifts the stunning piece. “I bet I could fit into it.”
“Your shoulders might not make it,” Chloe says, elbowing me hard.
“Oof.” I glare at her as I take a step forward to maintain my balance.
Jack raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not exactly runway material, but I’ll give it a shot if you need me.”
I blink at him, my brain short-circuiting. All at once, I can see the dress on him. “Let me see the walk again.” I fold my arms and push out my hip. When he stands there, mute, I lift my eyebrows.
He rehangs the dress on the rack. “Fine.” He draws a deep breath, focuses on something on the horizon, and starts his walk. His hips swing from side to side in over-exaggerated moves, which makes him look absolutely ridiculous.
Snickers from the other models meet my ears, and I can’t slow my smile. Then I start laughing right out loud.
Jack reaches the wall, pauses, then spins toward us. The look on his face can only be described as “fashion fierce” and he presses his impressive shoulders back as he peacocks toward all of us.
About halfway there, someone in the group starts to clap, and everyone else quickly joins in. Including me.
He doesn’t crack at all, and he marches right up to me, once again invading my personal space. He blinks and breaks character as he looks dow at me. “Well? Do I have the job or not?”
“Yes,” I say with another laugh. “If you can get this dress on in three minutes or less.”
“Sweetheart, I can do anything in three minutes or less.” He takes the dress from one of the models and moves over to the portable dressing rooms. He has to duck to get inside, and I fan myself as the models start to line up.
“I’d lock that one up,” Chloe says before she moves into position, and I have to say, I agree with her.
I totally need to lock up Jack. I’m just not sure how.
“And we’re starting in sixty seconds,” the coordinator says. “You’ll introduce your boutique, tell people where they can find you, and we’ll flow right into the fashion show.”
“Yes,” I say, tearing my eyes from the dressing room that still hides Jack.
Five seconds pass. Then ten. Twenty.
Jack emerges from the tent, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing again. He looks absolutely ridiculous in the flowy, floral maxi dress, the higher fabric swishing around his mid-thigh as he walks, and the low not going low enough because of his height.
He runs his hands through his hair and says, “I guess I’m ready.” He wear my dress with pride, his head held high, and the sight of him in one of my designs—no matter how ridiculous—makes my heart swell.
“All right,” the announcer says out on the stage. “Welcome to the show, a brand new addition to Blue Ridge, Poppy Brighton, and her shop, Sweet Curves Boutique!”
I rush past the models and out onto the stage. I manage to make it through my introduction, and then the models begin. I narrate each piece, citing the sizes it comes in, the specialty fabrics, and what body shapes it’s perfect for.
Then there’s only one person left.
“And wearing the final piece in my autumnal collection,” I say, grinning at Jack so hard I think my face will crack. “Is Jack Winters.” He steps out onto stage, one hand planted perfectly on his hip as the other one swings wide. That so wasn’t part of his runway walk, and I’m so bringing it up with him later.
“He’s wearing?—”
The crowd erupts in cheers and laughter as Jack struts down the makeshift runway, pausing dramatically at the end of it, and throwing the skirt out to the side as he turns in a full circle.
I need to narrate the dress, the style, that the maple leaves are individually sewn on, but all I can focus on is Jack.
The way he’s looking at me, even as he hams it up for the crowd. The way he’s putting himself out there, all for me.
He loves me.
And holy cucumber sandwiches, I’m in love with him too.
Jack struts back to stand beside me, and I get ahold of myself. “He’s wearing a high-low maxi that can be accented perfectly with a belt. It’s great for all body types, but especially those of us who carry our weight down in our hips, like me.”
I leave out the part about the fabric and the leaves, and simply add, “I hope you’ll come visit me at Sweet Curves. We’re right across the street from the sporting goods store, and my grand opening is today at one o’clock. I’ve got everything to make you look absolutely fabulous, no matter the occasion.”
I hand the mic back to the announcer, because there’s another shop doing something right after me, and I follow Jack backstage. The models are giggling and twittering, and I should tell them all they did a great job.
“So,” Jack says from where he’s glued himself to my side. “How’d I do?”
I don’t even have words. I just stare at him, my heart in my throat, and before I can stop myself, I throw my arms around his neck and pull him in for a hug.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. “But thank you.”
Jack pulls back slightly, his blue eyes searching mine, and suddenly, the playful grin fades. His expression turns serious, intense, and my pulse quickens.
“Poppy,” he says, his voice low, rough, and rumbly—exactly how I like it. “I know I’ve got a past. But this?” He kneads me closer to him. “This is different. You’re different.”
I swallow hard, my eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Jack, I?—”
“No, listen,” he says, cupping my face in his hands. “I love you. I know it’s fast, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Ever.” His voice cracks, just slightly, and it makes my heart flop around hopefully. “Everything in my life that I’ve done right has happened fast. I’m not afraid of loving you after only a couple of days.”
“It’s been three,” I say.
“Three, then.” He lowers his head oh-so-dangerously-close to mine. “I love you,” he says, but he doesn’t seal it with a kiss.
So I pull him to me and press my lips to his in a kiss that says everything my voice can’t.
Jack kisses me back, his hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. The crowd around us fades away, and it’s just him and me, standing in the middle of the chaos, and the models, and the festival, holding on to each other like we’re the only thing that matters.
I take a gasping breath, say, “I love you too,” and kiss him again.