6. Who Let the Dogs Out?
EVA
After selecting the perfect sundress that shows a touch of the girls and carefully applying my makeup for tonight’s cocktail party, I dart through the hotel’s lobby, my heels clicking an SOS on the marble. After an emergency text from a hotel staffer, I’m running to the doggie photoshoot room, which should be a haven of beautiful chaos, but as I skid to a stop, it’s just... chaos.
“Seriously?” My sharp tone is met with guilty looks from three sets of puppy eyes. There’s Coco Chanel, my sister’s pampered poodle, flanked by her partners in crime, Zach’s pug named Balls, and Dior, a chihuahua who thinks she’s a Doberman.
Why did the groomer bring the dogs here unsupervised? He was supposed to leave them with the special hotel staffer assigned to watch the dogs as an extra service we paid for!
“Where is everyone?” I scan the room for any sign of human life, but it seems everyone’s vanished, possibly fearing for their lives—or jobs—after this.
Balls’s jowls lie deep in the pupcakes or, rather, what’s left of them. Once a tower of frosted perfection, it’s now a crumbled mess on the floor, paw prints and snout marks decorating the frosting like abstract art. Dior’s got her tiny teeth sunk into a pumpkin one that’s as big as her head.
At least Balls’s groomsman suit and Dior’s mustard bridesmaid dress only need a good cleaning. Coco Chanel is gnawing on the hemline of hers like it’s jerky.
“Drop it, Coco!” But she prances around with strips of chiffon like she’s auditioning for Project Run-Away. Her tail wags at Mach speed, clearly proud of her handiwork. Once I finally get a hold of the dress, it’s in tatters. I mutter, “Paige is gonna kill me.”
I take a deep breath, channeling my inner MacGyver. This photoshoot can’t end before it starts—not on my watch. I text West, telling him I’m having a doggie emergency, something he and I have dealt with several times before. We helped Skye’s daughter, Sophie, launch her designer petwear company, the very one that made these bridesmaid’s dresses. Because of that, West and I learned how to perform an emergency stitch job.
While I wait for West, I roll up my sleeves and go elbow-deep into frosting, yanking the pupcakes from determined jaws. “No more buffet, ladies and gents,” I scold. When I pluck the crumb-speckled treat from Dior’s diamond collar, she looks at me with those betrayal-filled eyes. If guilt had a flavor, it’d taste like slobber mixed with dog-safe buttercream. With no time to waste, I snatch the nearest rag and wet it. “Let’s make you presentable.” My hands move on autopilot, swirling over silk and chiffon.
The pups sit patiently, probably going into some post-food coma. Wearing a golf polo, West walks in and says, “Oh, shit.”
“Shit is right.” I glance at him. “Can you stitch up Coco Chanel’s dress? I have to remake the pupcakes.” I point to the mound of crumbs.
“How are you gonna have new ones ready in an hour?”
“Don’t worry. They won’t be real cakes—just Styrofoam.” I saw some in the dumpster that I can grab and cut.
“Good call. You’re so crafty.” He clasps his hands. “All right. I’m on the cleaning and sewing.”
“Thank you, you’re a lifesaver.” With a thought, I say, “Sorry, did you have to leave in the middle of your golf game?”
“We were on the last hole, and I was over it, anyway. It’s really no problem.”
That’s probably true, but he’d say it, regardless. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
With West focused on making the dogs look less like they’ve emerged from a bake sale brawl, I turn my attention to the obliterated cakes.
“Alright, showtime.” I rush to the hotel’s kitchen where the bakers left the prepped doggie-safe frosting bags. Then I hit the dumpsters for the Styrofoam before making my way back to the photoshoot room. When I get there, West has things shaping up.
Like a Food Network star in the final seconds of a baking challenge, I pipe delicate designs onto the fake cakes. Swirls, rosettes, and tiny flowers bloom under my hands. “Who knew my business flop would pay off?” I whisper triumphantly, stepping back to admire the frosted masterpieces. “Paige might not even know the difference.” I place the last rosette, a proud smile tugging at my lips. And with that, I’m ready to face the music—or at least the camera.
West’s eyes land on the frosted fakes. “Damn, Eva.” He drops his last dustpan full of crumbs into the garbage before heading to the table where my confections sit. “These are... shit, they’re incredible.”
“Thanks.” I brush frosting off my arm and study my whimsical, elegant creations. “Just channeling my inner Martha Stewart.”
He leans in, studying a rose. “She has nothing on these babies.”
“Why, thank you.” I can’t help but beam at them.
Hayes, one of the show’s contract photographers, strides in, camera slung over his shoulder like he’s about to shoot wildlife, which actually isn’t that far off. “Looks great.”
“Hey, Hayes.” I introduce him to West and realize the two are very similar. Hayes has the same geeky charm about him—the vintage T-shirts and fit, thin frame.
After I explain what happened, Hayes says, “Let’s get these beauties immortalized before anything else goes wrong.” He’s already framing shots with his fingers.
“You do your thing. I’m sure you got this gig because you’re amazing,” I say.
He shrugs. “Actually, it was because I know Skye.”
“Really?” I say. “She unofficially adopted me since my mother passed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
Hayes sighs, tapping his hands together. “I’m Skye’s ex-stepson. I mean, she was only married to my dad for a year when I was five, but yeah. She’s never left my life.”
“Get out!” I smack his arm. “I’m her ex-stepdaughter too! She was married to my dad for a few months when I was a teenager.”
He looks up. “Does that make us… ex-step siblings—twice removed?”
I laugh. “Maybe—but thank God there’s no such thing!”
West shakes his head. “Leave it to Skye to require a new familial relation classification system.”
“Right?” Now I’m laughing even harder.
The three of us work to get the dogs in position. Hayes is a machine, clicking away, directing me to turn Dior this way and get Coco Chanel’s dress to lie right. West is busy holding a treat behind Hayes so that the dogs stare at him lovingly.
“Okay, my furry stars,” Hayes says to the dogs, stepping back to review his shots. “Last chance to shine for your big debut.”
“Paige is going to plotz when she sees these pics.” I sneak a glance at my watch. Crap. The cocktail party started five minutes ago. “Hey, Hayes, we good? I’m supposed to be schmoozing guests by now.” Well, and meeting my potential future fiancé.
“Good?” Hayes grins, lowering the camera. “We’re Pet Gala cover good.”
“Great.”
The dog-sitting hotel staffer finally arrives, gasping when she sees that we’re finished shooting. “I’m so very sorry, Ms. Steinberg!” Her hands are over her mouth. “I got a text message from the manager saying this photoshoot was delayed, and to come at this time.”
My brows furrow. “Who told the manager to tell you that?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I don’t have time to waste worrying about this, so I say, “That’s fine. We worked it out.” Then I ask her to take the bridesmaids’ dresses to the cleaners, deliver the dogs back to Skye’s suite, and dispose of the fake pupcakes. After throwing on some gold long chain earrings, I say, “I’m ready.”
Worry etches across West’s face as he points at me. “You might need a fix up job too.”
I look down to see my frosting-covered dress and limbs. “Shit—I’ve gotta go. I’m already late.”
“They can wait. You’re worth it.” He touches my arm. “And you can only wear frosting for special, private dates, not out in public, so come on—let me help you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“No problem.” He grabs my arm and ushers me into the women’s bathroom.
“Is this your version of romance, West?”
“Relax, Manhattan.” He glances around the deserted room with a roguish grin plastered on his face. “If I’m romancing you, you’ll know it.”
“Noted,” I deadpan, wishing he were doing that as I watch him pull paper towels from the dispenser with the efficiency of a man who’s survived his share of shenanigans, which I know he has.
After dampening the towels under the faucet, he says, “You’ve got some blue icing on your armpit.”
“What? Blue pit stains aren’t all the rage?” There’s fondness in my voice. It’s beyond endearing that he’s here, in the ladies’ room helping me.
“For what it’s worth, I think it’s kinda hot.” West’s touch is delicate as he works on a stubborn blob.
“You would. Let me guess. It makes you think of IceWoman.” While he’s doing that, I reapply makeup from my clutch. I can’t help but notice the careful way he’s tending to me. It’s gentle. Respectful. And dangerously close to making my heart do somersaults.
“Oh, yeah. IceWoman. That’s way hot.” Sparkles dance in his chestnut eyes.
I laugh. “God, West, we’re so odd.”
“Nah. Just unique.”
“Unique,” I whisper, and as he works on my stain, our eyes meet, and for just a moment, I forget all the marching orders that run on a perma-loop through my mind.
After a few more swipes, he says, “Okay, all done.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, catching his reflection behind mine. He’s watching me, not in a creepy way, but like he’s enjoying this.
“Anytime.” His voice is soft, and I swear if my heart had boots, it’d be quaking in them.
I dab on some lipstick, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters as he stands close, the scent of his cologne mingling with the vanilla frosting. There’s no one else I’d rather have in this cramped, fluorescent-lit fortress, cleaning me up and making me laugh.
“You know…” he trails off, touching his cheek. “Here’s my face again. If you want to kiss it.”
God, actually I do. So much.
“Thanks for letting me know.” Without thinking, I lean into him. He’s already so close, and that face is so damn kissable. Not to mention that beautiful mouth and those sexy lips.
I’m pretty sure I could get lost in it all.
But then my traitorous brain reminds me: Foster. I’m supposed to be meeting him right now. And with that thought, I lean away, my shoulders sagging. “What if this Foster guy goes running in the other direction the minute he sees me? Dad would be so disappointed.”
“Are you kidding me? Not a chance.” West studies the side of my face. “But we need to get this blob off your ear.”
“Who knew my knight in shining armor would come armed with wet paper towels and bad jokes?”
“Ah, but you forget, m’lady,” he says, “I also come with an endless supply of trivia and a killer recipe for microwave nachos.”
“Stop.” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “You’re ruining my transformation into badass lawyer mode.”
“Never,” he promises, and the sincerity in his voice is my undoing.
I have to stop thinking this way, especially now, as I’m on my way to woo a billionaire… and speaking of that. “So you’ve met Foster. What did you think of him?”