Page 11 of Honkers Under the Holly

“Just trying to help, man.” Tommy settled Sir Honksalot more comfortably in his arms. “But seriously, something will work out. I mean, you’re going to a fancy party with a beautiful woman, meeting Coach Kingman and a bunch of models. That’s got to be a good sign, right?”

I watched as Sir Honksalot nestled contentedly against Tommy’s Bandits jersey, looking like he’d been attending football practices as an emotional support goose his whole life. Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe this party was exactly what we both needed—Sara Jayne’s chance to break into the big leagues of plus-size modeling, and my shot at proving I could handle a star prospect like Chris Kingman.

Or maybe we were about to humiliate ourselves in front of L.A.’s sports and fashion elite while wearing something “Hollywood Holiday festive.”

Either way, at least we’d be doing it together. And right now, that made even the prospect of homelessness seem a little less terrifying. Though I was definitely drawing the line at the goose house. A man had to have some standards, even in a housing crisis.

FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT

The moment our car pulled up to Magda’s Bel Air estate, I knew I was in trouble. Not because of the red carpet entrance, or the champagne-wielding waiters in tuxedos, or even the actual searchlights sweeping across the night sky. No, I was in trouble because Mac Jerry, wearing a vintage-inspired tuxedo and nervously adjusting his bow tie, looked exactly like a 1940s movie star who’d stepped off the silver screen.

“You okay?” he asked, offering his arm as I carefully maneuvered out of the car in my gold lamé gown. “You seem tense.”

“Just channeling my inner Rita Hayworth,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The dress was a miracle find from a vintage plus-size boutique, and I’d spent an hour watching YouTube tutorials to get my hair into these perfect victory rolls. But it wasn’t just the party and the deliciousness of being on Mac’s arm making my stomach flutter.

This morning, my roommate Tiffany had cornered me in the kitchen of our shared West Hollywood flat. “You’re not fooling anyone, SJ,” she’d said, examining her manicure. “We all knowyou’re hiding that weird bird in your room. We told you, either the goose goes, or you do. Last warning.”

Five models sharing a flat had seemed like such a good idea when I moved here six months ago. Now it felt like a shark tank, except with better cheekbone contouring.

“Is that Magda?” Mac squinted at a figure descending the grand staircase.

It was indeed Magda, my career fairy godmother, wearing what had to be vintage Valentino and dripping with old Hollywood glamour. She’d taken a chance on me when every other agency said plus-size girls were trending down. Now I just had to prove her right.

“Sara Jayne,” Magda air-kissed both my cheeks. “That dress is perfection. And this must be the famous Mac. I’ve been watching those viral videos with Sir Honksalot. Brilliant campaign strategy.”

“Oh, that was all Tommy and Sara Jayne’s idea,” Mac said, doing that adorable thing where he deflected praise. “I just try to keep the goose from eating the furniture.”

“Too modest.” Magda linked her arm through mine. “Sara Jayne, darling, April de la Reine has been asking about you. She loved the Oktoberfest rescue story. Come, I’ll introduce you.” She paused, glancing at Mac. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a moment?”

“Of course not,” Mac said, though his smile looked a bit strained. “I’ll just... mingle.”

I watched him head toward a cluster of men in tuxedos, walking like he was trying to remember which fork to use first at a fancy dinner. But the moment he infiltrated the circle of men, he received hand shakes and pats on the back like he was already one of the pack. Good, that meant I didn’t need to rescue him and this was my chance—April de la Reine could changeeverything for me. Maybe enough to afford my own place, one where Sir Honksalot would be welcome.

“Now then,” Magda said as we climbed the stairs, “let me tell you exactly why April asked about you. It seems her new line at Crown of Curves needs some fresh faces...”

I took one last look at Mac over my shoulder. He caught my eye and gave me a tiny wave that made my heart flip. Somehow, in the middle of all this old Hollywood glamour, that awkward little gesture felt more real than all the sparkle and shine combined.

April de la Reine was nothing like I expected. Oh, she looked exactly like her billboards—stunning, confident, curvy in all the right places—but she laughed like a college girl and kept stealing appetizers off her husband’s plate.

“The Sir Honksalot videos are genius,” she said, tucking a bacon-wrapped date into her clutch… for later? “That’s exactly what we need for the Luxe Curve lingerie launch—authentic moments, genuine relationships. Not just posed perfection.”

I tried to focus on her words—this was my big break, after all—but my eyes kept drifting to where Mac stood with a group of football players. I’d expected him to be awkward around all these ultra rich celebrity sports guys, but instead he was gesturing animatedly while the others nodded.

“Your young man played ball, didn’t he?” April followed my gaze.

Coach Kingman - Bridger - nodded. “I recognized him right away. He had this fourth-quarter comeback in Oregon’s last championship bowls game. Was one of the throws I’ve ever seen. Too bad about his arm and knee. He might have been one of the greatest QBs in the League.”

My heart did a little skip. I knew Mac was a football fan, but he’d never mentioned being a player, or a career-ending injury.

Magda’s voice drifted through the nearby French doors, sharp with frustration. “What do you mean Janet and Francois cancelled? They’ve watched the house for the holidays for the last three years.”

I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, because she was having a meltdown twenty feet away in clear view of everyone in the room.

“No. No. It’s six weeks in Europe and the Amalfi coast. Jones already booked the yacht.” Magda paced the terrace, phone pressed to her ear. “The house is fully booked for photo shoots over the holidays. Who am I going to get? Who can we get on such short notice? This is a disaster.”

Jones’s attention turned from the circle of guys and he moved out to the terrace with his wife. He lay a calming hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find someone, honey. What about one of your girls?”

“Are you insane? They’re wonderful models, but... remember what I was like at their age? All parties and drama until I met you. We need someone stable. Boring, even. I want a nice, settled couple who’d rather organize their sock drawer than throw a rager.”

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