Page 1 of Strut

PROLOGUE

One year earlier in Auckland, New Zealand.

Alec

I roundedthe curtain from the catwalk to the backstage area, pretty damn sure my grin was visible from the space station. I’d just opened in Auckland Fashion Week for Rhys’s new label, Flare, and to an audience that included some of the biggest names in international fashion, celebrities, and a glut of media.

What a fucking rush.

Whisper-shouts fired like shotgun pellets across the open space, the atmosphere humming with adrenaline that fed my jangling nerves. Antsy models waited in line while hair and makeup stylists busied themselves with last-minute titivating. Wardrobe assistants pinned seams and tweaked clothes. Managers, publicists, photographers, and fashion media chatted, scrawled notes, and caught candid shots while the designer bit his nails and paced the line-up with a critical eye before they hit the runway. And all of it watched by fans and fashion groupies with backstage passes who ogled the organised chaos with wide-eyed excitement.

Including me.

“Alec, that was brilliant.” Rhys caught my eye over the line of models he was stalking, making last-minute adjustments before they hit the catwalk. “You owned my jacket like it was made for you. I’m so fucking proud.”

“Thanks.” A hot flush of pride raced up my throat as I stood half-naked in the throes of a chaotic quick change. How the hell had this become my life? A pipsqueak pretty farm boy from Pukekohe as a male model in fashion week? Go fucking figure.

“Maybe cheat to the right a little more heading down next time,” Rhys suggested. “You too, Daniel. But good work, both of you. Now get your arses ready for the next pass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Daniel flashed Rhys a wry grin. Daniel was a successful model of ten years and had unflappable down to an art form, and he and Rhys were good friends. “I’m gonna have to watch this one.” He winked my way. “It’s damn hard to getanyone’sattention on my clothes when Alec is on the runway, but I’ll work it a bit more next time. I still have some tricks.”

Rhys turned his attention to the next model about to go on and I rolled my eyes at Daniel. “You know damn well I nearly fucked up at the turn,” I hissed. “And I almost caught your shoulder on the way back. Ugh.” I fumbled with the million tiny buttons on the creamy yellow vest. “Goddammit. Who in the hell has fingers small enough to work these fucking things?”

“I do.” Kip appeared from nowhere and slapped my hands out of the way. No one messed with Kip, Rhys’s second-in-charge, Flare’s store manager, and all-around badarse queen of sass.

Daniel caught my eye and gave me a reassuring smile. “Relax. The only reason I clocked it at all was because you angled the following step. You looked cool as a cucumber.” He patted my shoulder, then held his arms wide for the wardrobe assistant to adjust the sleeves on the voluminous white shirt. “You’re a natural, and I’m not just blowing smoke up your arse. I’ve been at this game a long time, ask my husband. You’re killing it out there. The audience love you, but you don’t distract from the clothes. They love youbecauseofhowyou ‘werk’ those clothes. You’re a designer’s wet dream. You could make a career out of this if you have the stomach for it.”

Kip shot me a huge grin. “He’s right. I’ve been asked for your name by one or two agency scouts already.”

My jaw dropped. “Really?”

Daniel grinned. “Told you.”

“Yes, really.” Kip stood back and squinted at my look, then straightened the side seam of the dick-strangling black trousers I wore. “But Daniel’s right.” He shot me a look. “You’ll need skin as thick as the earth’s crust and your trust bar set around about Everest height. It’s a jungle out there.” He patted my chest. “Right, you’re done. Jesus, I hope we can afford a proper stylist next year; my feet are killing me. You’ve got about thirty seconds till you’re on again.” He stepped away so the makeup artist could soft-brush the shine from my face. It was a thousand degrees under the runway lights.

“Okay, go, go, go.” Kip shooed us to the line where Rhys was performing final checks before his models hit the runway.

I took my place in the queue and shook my head.A career as a model?What a fucking mind trip. My parents would flip their shit at the very idea. Not exactly the secure job they’d hoped for their son when they’d funded my business degree, but no one could’ve foreseen Rhys spotting me in his store with my best mate, Tui, and promptly offering me an opportunity to model for his new label Flare.

Me? A guy who didn’t know my Tom Ford from my Ralph Lauren and was far more likely to be found in sweats and an eighties band T-shirt than a pair of label jeans. I’d been part-amused, part-curious, and part-flattered—not gonna lie. Tui, the real fashionista of the two of us, almost came in his pants from excitement. And so mostly for Tui’s sake, I’d said sure. It snowballed from there. And after a crash course photoshoot with Rhys’s best friend and renowned fashion photographer, Hunter Donovan, the verdict was in. Apparently, I had real talent. Go figure.

For a guy who ranked middle order at best in most things I’d ever tried in life, it was a head rush to be actually good atsomething. And it was a heady change from my part-time job at the business consultancy where I was working my way up the ladder in glacial fashion toward something that actually required a brain cell or two.

“Are you ready?” Daniel whispered in my ear, and butterflies soared in my stomach.

I tried to slow my breathing. “How can you be so calm?”

“I’m old as fuck at this, that’s how.” He laughed and elbowed me forward. “Come on. This is us.”

Rhys pulled me over and adjusted the shoulder seams of my jacket before tugging at the tight vest with a frown. “Jesus, can you breathe in that? No—I don’t want to know. Just don’t turn blue. It’ll clash with the butter yellow.”

I snorted. “I’ll do my best.”

He patted my chest. “You look amazing. Just remember to keep their eyes on the clothes, not you.” He leaned in close. “You’re killing it.”

“I heard that.” Daniel grinned and reached around to flick his friend on the forehead. “Teacher has a pet.”

Rhys stuck his tongue out in reply and we all laughed. It did the trick to calm my nerves just before the assistant at the head of the line ushered me through onto the runway.

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