Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) (5 page)

Certainly the worst sex he’d ever given a woman.

But Trudy had brought along extra condoms. All he needed were a few minutes to get back in gear and he’d be good to go for round two. Butterflies and rainbows, huh? As soon as she got back from the bathroom, he’d give her the night of her dreams.

Hell, he’d even give her unicorn glitter—whatever the heck that was.

And yet when Trudy still hadn’t come back to bed a few minutes later, Mac knew something was wrong. He got up and checked the bathroom, but she wasn’t there. He wrenched the door open and peered down the hall, but saw no sign of Trudy.

Holy heck, she’d snuck out of his hotel room. His muse had gone and ditched him.

He’d been
that
bad in bed.

* * *

T
en minutes later
, Mac sat on the bed in his hotel room—still alone—and worked to figure out a plan. While he’d been zoning out, contemplating ways on how to put the remaining two condoms to use and make up for his bad performance, Trudy had been sneaking off. Completely disgusted with him, he assumed. When he called the front desk to see if she’d already headed out, the concierge informed him that the young redheaded lady had already run out the door, destination unknown.

Hell
.
Trudy was gone, and he had no way of finding her. She hadn’t even given him her telephone number. Or her last name.

All he knew was that she was a model. And apparently she was a fan of his father’s. How was he supposed to find her with that little information? Google all the Trudy’s in a hundred mile radius?

He flopped back down on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. Underneath him, something crackled. Paper.

He stood and stumbled in the dark over to the desk, then flipped on the lamp. Low light warmed the room. On the duvet, off to the side, lay a square of paper—a business card? She’d dumped her purse when they stumbled against the bed, right? Could she have left something behind that had her name on it?

Mac swung back down onto the bed, crossing his legs as he stared at the card in the dim light.
Gertrude T. Prendergast.
He flipped it over, but saw no phone number or street address. Must be a name card only, he realized, not a business card. At least he had her name now. That was some kind of progress. Turning the card back to the front, he stared at her name. Gertrude, huh? Pretty, but Trudy was cuter. Trudy, the Warrior Woman, who’d received the world’s worst sex.

Suddenly, he sat straight up as something nagged at his brain. He’d seen the name before, and recently. He tapped the card against his palm, waiting for his memory to kick in.

Holy shit.

A portfolio sent over to him by one the modeling agencies bore the label Gertrude Prendergast.

Trudy had said she’d been networking at the party tonight—she had to be aware her agent had sent in her portfolio for the Warrior Woman series. Had she been at the gallery to meet him? Had she slept with him as a way to get a leg up on the competition?

But no, that didn’t seem like the woman he’d come to know during the night.

Besides, he’d never told her his last name, right? So why had she gone to the gallery?

His mind churned. Wait. He’d had the contract written under his legal name, MacGregor Johansson. His father’s legal name was the same, but publically he and his dad went by different names in order to avoid confusion.

Trudy must have been under the impression his
dad
wanted to hire a model. No wonder she’d been at the event honoring his father—she was trying to meet the man she hoped would be her new boss. It all made sense.

He grinned. How excited she’d be when she learned the contract was with him. At least, he
hoped
she’d be excited. She had to be, though. The contract was big—he’d set it up to be a continual three-year gig, with the idea that he’d work with one model on various art projects, starting with Warrior Woman and moving on to others when inspiration struck.

And inspiration was striking, and hard.

He’d been ambivalent about getting back into art photography, uncertain if he wanted to open up his artistic vein, but no longer. Not now that he’d met his muse.

If Trudy wanted the contract to be Gregor Johansson’s model, that’s exactly what he’d give her. That, and so many fantastic orgasms she’d think she was living in a sea of glitter, unicorn or otherwise.

All he had to do was find her and talk her into a double do-over. And he would do
anything
to make that happen.

T
rudy awoke
to the loud and incessant braying of a donkey outside her bedroom window. She groaned. Griswold. The obnoxiously loud, albeit ultimately charming local alarm clock. Buying a loft made out of a former brewery on the outskirts of Sacramento meant living in a mix of suburban and rural. Adjacent to her building was a farm animal rescue sanctuary. Griswold was its overly-loud mascot.

Wrapping her soft down comforter around her shoulders, she hunkered lower in her bed, warding off the chill in the air, and willed her bleary mind to come out of its dream state. At least Griswold had waited to wake the neighborhood until the sun broke through the heavy tulle fog covering the valley. She loved her loft, with the exposed metal beams and worn oak floors. Even with Griswold as her next-door neighbor, her loft was totally charming.

And she was one payment away from losing it.

She had to locate Gregor Johansson and convince him to hire her, since she’d failed so miserably to introduce herself to him the night before. Oh, god. She sat up as memories of the night before flooded her mind.

“No…” she groaned, her mind focused on her humiliation even as her body jolted with aroused tingles, obviously focused on the fact she’d had sex.

Although as much as her body seemed to be recounting the events of the night before favorably, that was far from the truth, right?

A one-night-stand should be a much more auspicious event. Girl meets hot sexy guy, guy asks for sex in his conveniently located hotel room, girl and guy get it on and have multiple orgasms until the wee hours of the morning. Isn’t that how it always worked in the movies?

Instead, last night had ended on an “oop” and her sneaking out of Mac’s room.

She flopped heavily back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to forget about last night. About the grape, her dress, and most importantly, she wanted to forget about the complete flub up with Mac. But that was
all
she could think about.

Mac. Gorgeous Mac. Sexy, sensuous, heavenly Mac. Mac of the white teeth, the twelve-pack abs, the warm lips. Mac of the azure blue eyes. Mac of the giving mouth and the—

The doorbell chimed, stopping her mind from going where she decidedly did
not
want it to go. No more thinking of Mac. That ship had sailed.

No, she corrected herself as she padded barefoot down the stairwell—that ship hadn’t sailed. The darned thing had sunk deeper than the Titanic.

She grabbed a sweatshirt from the rack by the door and tugged it on before peering through the peephole to see her sister, who held Trudy’s sleeping eleven-month-old niece Gabbie in her car carrier. Her head throbbed. Milla would want to know details—all of them—and Trudy wasn’t sure she was in shape enough to answer her sister’s persistent questioning. The woman should have been a lawyer instead of an accountant—well, a full-time mom, now.

“I know you’re there, Trudy,” Milla called out. “I hear you breathing.”

No escape. She cranked the lock and flung the door open.

“Sorry for barging in on you, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. Gabbie was up early so I decided to take a drive and come over here to bug you.” Milla pushed past Trudy and lugged the car carrier into the kitchen. “I’ve come bearing bagels. I can’t tell if you’re avoiding my calls because it was so good he blew your mind, rendering talk difficult. Or so bad you don’t want to tell your sis all about it. Either way, you’re dishing.”

Trudy groaned. “The second option. But I will take a bagel.” She followed Milla into the kitchen, then set about making a pot of coffee and toasting the bagels while Milla chatted about parenting and pregnancy stuff, obviously trying to distract Trudy.

“I know these are your favorite, but I don’t know how you can eat stuff like this”—Milla waved a cinnamon-raisin bagel in the air—“and not puff up like one of those porcupine fish, like me.”

Trudy grimaced. “After the whole Tubster Trudy event, I decided life was too short not to enjoy the food I love. My hips aren’t sure they thank me, though.”

Milla swept her gaze over her sister’s form, then frowned. “You look healthy to me. When are you going to get over that whole event? It happened years ago. Move on.”

Right. Easy for her to say. Milla’s entire self esteem hadn’t ruined by nasty online comments, now, had it? “Leave judgment up to God.” Trudy mimicked the stance and tone of their former preachy foster father.

Milla laughed. “What was Foster Dad Number Three’s name, anyway?”

“Don’t remember, don’t care. He was just one of many faces that passed through our lives.”

The smile on Milla’s face faded. “Not having parents sucked.”

The mood had grown dark, and regret swept over Trudy. She shouldn’t have mentioned their orphaned status. “Sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Maybe not having a family is why Jarrod and I keep popping babies out right and left. To fill that void.”

Emotion filled her at the mention of her sister and brother-in-law’s multiple pregnancies. A metallic taste filled her mouth. She’d bitten the inside of her lip. She’d known for years she needed to confess to her sister that the surgeries she’d had weren’t for an appendectomy, the way Milla thought. But she’d never be able to say the word,
hysterectomy
. To tell Milla the truth. And now wasn’t the time.

“Nah,” she said, injecting levity into her tone, “you and Jarrod are super horny for each other.
That’s
the reason why you end up pregnant all the time.”

“Speaking of horny…” The light had come back into Milla’s eyes. “I want to know all about last night. It couldn’t have been
that
bad.” She motioned to the baby, asleep in the car seat. “Gabbie fell asleep in the car. She’ll nap for a while. It’ll give us time to talk.”

Trudy smiled warmly down at Gabbie, taking in the baby’s deep dimples and rosebud mouth. At mention of her name, the baby opened her eyes, bestowing an angelic grin upon Trudy, who smiled back and blew a kiss. Gabbie’s eyelids fluttered, then eased downward until her lashes lay on her cheeks.

A dull ache formed in Trudy’s chest. Longing. Yearning. Pining. And to be truthful, envy. How easy it was for her sister to create life. How impossible it was for her to do the same.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Milla asked softly.

Trudy nodded. She sucked in a breath, then spoke. “Where are the twins and Betsy?”

“Lana and Laura are with Jarrod. They keep him running, and usually in opposite directions. Betsy’s at a play date.” Milla peeked at her daughter, who had settled back into a world of dreams. “Now tell me all. Did you boink last night, or what?”

Heat flushed Trudy’s face.

“You did! Oh god, you totally did him!” Milla squealed and jiggled in her seat. “Why aren’t you more excited? He was hot! Details, details, details.”

Shaking her head, Trudy said, “It’s too depressing to talk about.”

“Don’t you dare keep a secret from me, Trudy. I always tell you stuff, good or bad. Now dish.” Milla propped both elbows on the gleaming kitchen table and leaned her chin on her hands, staring with intent eyes at her sister.

Trudy bit the inside of her lip, tonguing the already-created bite mark. She didn’t want to be reminded of the sex fiasco, but she knew Milla—refusing to talk about Mac would be easier if she were being interrogated by the FBI. Besides, her sister was her best friend. Who else would she tell?

Milla prodded, saying, “I’m the married mother of what’s about to be five kids. Jarrod’s amazing in the sack—”

“TMI, Milla!”

“—but the excitement of hooking up with a hot guy no longer exists for me. So indulge me and speak. Start with the good parts.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

Trudy shoved herself up from the kitchen table and pretended to be busy tidying up the bagel crumbs. “No amazing sex, that’s why.”

Milla blinked. “But I thought you boinked him.”

Her back stiffened. “I boinked him, yeah. It just…it wasn’t amazing, that’s all.”

“Good?”

Trudy shook her head.

“Mediocre?”

She couldn’t bring herself to even respond, and instead plopped heavily back into her chair and propped her elbows in the table, hands shoved in her hair.

“Oh God, Trudy, did it totally suck?” Milla’s last question came out on a whisper.

Trudy raised her head and looked at her sister with what she was sure was an expression of abject dejection. “He said, and I
quote
, that it was the worst sex ever known in the history of mankind.”

Milla sucked in an audible breath. “Oh, wow. I’m so sorry, sweetie. What happened, did he need a little blue pill? Was he less than endowed?”

“It just ended up being really bad sex, that’s all. We banged heads. I broke a lamp. Poor guy was lucky he made it through the night alive.”

“Broken lamp? Sounds hot to me. No?” Milla sighed when Trudy shook her head. “So you had bad sex. Maybe you two just need practice. When are you seeing him again?”

Trudy swallowed. “Never.”

“Why not?”

She pulled herself back up but remained slumped in her chair. “He never even asked my last name. As soon as it was over, I took off. I couldn’t wait around to hear more about how I’m such a blasted failure.”

“You’re
not
a failure.” Milla frowned, then leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. At least, she tried. The pregnant belly got a bit in the way. “Trudy, you’re wonderful. Intelligent, beautiful, compassionate—”

Gabbie started fussing, her soft cries thankfully drawing Milla’s attention. She undid the fastenings of the car seat and pulled the baby out, then held Gabbie up high and gave a sniff. “She needs changing, but I desperately need to pee first. The watermelon is sitting right on my bladder.” She handed the infant to Trudy. “Here, hold her for me until I get back.”

The scent of baby powder wafted over Trudy. Longing to hold her own baby suddenly overwhelmed her and froze her in place. Gabbie’s soft face had crinkled itself up in preparation for an oncoming squall. Trudy knew she should reach her arms out to her niece but couldn’t seem make her appendages obey.

“Trudy?”

She moved then, but apparently too slowly for Milla, who pulled the baby back to her.

“You know,” Milla said, her voice tight and constrained, “when we were young, you were the one who couldn’t get enough of babies. All you ever wanted to play with were the dollies. Those baby dolls were the only items you’d bring with you each time we left a foster family’s house to move in with another. But now…now it’s as though you do anything to avoid being with kids. Especially mine.”

Guilt suffused her, tightening her chest. She owed Milla an explanation. Needed her sister to know why she reacted the way she did when an infant was put in her arms. “Milla, I—” She reached out but was cut off by a wave of Milla’s hand.

“You rarely come visit your nieces, and you never even offer to babysit even when you know how desperate I am to get out of the house with my husband.”

Her sister was right—she never offered to babysit. Sure, she’d watched the kids on occasion, but usually because she was already at the house and Milla needed to run an errand.

“I mean,” Milla rushed on, balancing the baby on her knee while she pulled out a diaper, wipes, and a changing pad from the diaper bag, “I understand how difficult it is to manage my brood, but I wish you wouldn’t reject us.”

“Milla—”

“It’s like you let the fact that we were orphans chase you away from forming a family of your own. Or loving the one you have.”

The pain in her chest intensified. Squeezed tight. Made her go all breathless, and not in a good way. She fought against the tension, willing herself to breathe through the pain. Milla had it all wrong, but for years she hadn’t been able to tell her sister the truth. How holding her sister’s babies and knowing she could never have one of her own ate at her soul.

Yes, she’d tell Milla, and soon. She’d finally come out of the closet and tell her sister about the endometriosis and the multiple surgeries to end the condition, none of which worked, until the only option was to remove her reproductive organs. But for now, she’d fake it. With the contract for Gregor Johansson on the line and her creditors down her throat, she didn’t think she had the emotional energy to deal with the pity she knew she’d see on her sister’s face when she confessed her infertility.

She waved her hands in front of Milla, finally catching her frustrated sister’s gaze. “Saturday.”

“What?”

“I’ll babysit Saturday night. All four of them. Wild Child Betsy included. I’ll be there at five-thirty. You and Jarrod stay out as late as you want. Go out to dinner, take in a movie, make out in the back seat of Jarrod’s El Camino—all fine by me. I’ll watch the kids.”

“Really?” Milla asked, her eyes wide but still a little soft around the edges from the tears she’d held at bay. “I mean, I hate to sound like a kid who can’t quite believe she’s been promised a double-decker ice cream cone, but really,
truly
?”

Trudy smiled, nodded, and reached for the baby. She held Gabbie tight and kissed the top of the baby’s sweet smelling head. More of the tension left, and her body slipped into relaxation.