Page 10 of Love on Thin Ice

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 thesight 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.

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