Read Online Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) by Rochelle French - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rochelle French
Tags: Fiction, Romance, Contemporary, Adult, series, small town, one night stand, Bachelor, sensual, Mistaken Identity, Sacrifice, Forever Love, Single Woman, Hearts Desire, conflict, Meadowview Heroes, Art Photographer, Artistic Career, Former Model, Lucrative Contract, Lost Relationship, Jeopardize
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insisting I use the bathroom.”
Trudy helped her sister up, and when Milla headed down the hall, she took Gabbie into the living room where she changed the baby’s cloth diapers, then brought her to the window. She pointed out Griswold, munching hay several yards away. The baby waved and garbled nonsense to the donkey, who ignored the fanfare. Trudy stared off into the distance, clutching Gabbie tighter. The thick tulle fog that covered the Sacramento Valley this time of year was burning off from the morning sunrise. Across the wide expanse of the field next door, a couple of kids struggled with a recalcitrant kite. The wind had dropped and the kids couldn’t get the kite to lift—instead, it simply sat there on the field, stuck.
Like her, she realized. But that was all about to change, because she’d find Gregor Johansson, one way or another. First thing Monday morning, she’d call her agent Lisa and find out if the artist had any other public events. She’d show up. Smile. Be brilliant. Get hired.
And not have to worry about money for the next three years. Oh, yeah!
* * *
M ac yawned widely and squinted into the late morning sun as he steered his Porsche Cayman up the circular gravel drive to his home in Meadowview, too tired to park inside the carriage house and walk the twenty yards to the main house. After a rather sleepless night and an overly long meeting with Ian Ackerley, the two-hour drive home from Sacramento with the spring sun warming his car had made him slow and sleepy. He’d give anything for a nap. But before he could think of sleep, he needed to find the portfolios various modeling agencies had sent over and get the name and contact info for Trudy’s agent. And start the ball rolling with the contract with Trudy.
With the engine idling, he stared at the two-story Victorian home he shared with his father, sister, and his nephew, Aaron. Living with his family hadn’t been anywhere on his list of things to do as an adult, but when his mother died after her protracted battle with cancer, Doe had sunk into nothingness. Then, a few years later, she’d reached out to the wrong person for comfort (a total shit named Buck) and had ended up a defiant and pregnant unwed teenager. His father, quite loving but rather incompetent as parent and often traveling the world, hadn’t known how to handle her.
Mac immediately moved from New York to California, into his father’s house, to provide support for his sister. The last year and a half had been spent with him driving Doe to medical appointments, being there for the birth, babysitting Aaron when Doe needed a break, and bringing in money through commercial photography.
And ignoring the fact that he’d run from his dream of being an artistic photographer.
Until a month ago, that is, when he’d been approached by Ian. The art director had seen Mac’s several art showings in New York five years earlier, and had politely asked Mac to put together a collection of his art photography for a new West Coast show.
Mac had not so politely reminded Ian of the disastrous showing of his last public art display four years ago and how the critics called him a one-hit wonder.
Ian pushed.
And that’s when Mac let slip his conceptualization of the Warrior Woman series. The images had been tangling in his mind for years, but only recently had they coalesced into images he could see as an artistic presentation.
Ian loved the idea, and Mac had agreed to meet.
The meeting had gone well. By the time Mac left Ian’s gallery, he’d agreed to show a series of twelve photographs, all telling the story of a woman facing life’s challenges with a warrior’s will. Now all Mac had to do was produce the photographs to bring the concept to life. To do that, he needed a live artist’s model.
And he’d met the perfect one last night.
Images of Trudy—her wild hair and her alive eyes—filled his mind as he turned off the car and got out. Then he stopped suddenly ,
Trudy helped her sister up, and when Milla headed down the hall, she took Gabbie into the living room where she changed the baby’s cloth diapers, then brought her to the window. She pointed out Griswold, munching hay several yards away. The baby waved and garbled nonsense to the donkey, who ignored the fanfare. Trudy stared off into the distance, clutching Gabbie tighter. The thick tulle fog that covered the Sacramento Valley this time of year was burning off from the morning sunrise. Across the wide expanse of the field next door, a couple of kids struggled with a recalcitrant kite. The wind had dropped and the kids couldn’t get the kite to lift—instead, it simply sat there on the field, stuck.
Like her, she realized. But that was all about to change, because she’d find Gregor Johansson, one way or another. First thing Monday morning, she’d call her agent Lisa and find out if the artist had any other public events. She’d show up. Smile. Be brilliant. Get hired.
And not have to worry about money for the next three years. Oh, yeah!
* * *
M ac yawned widely and squinted into the late morning sun as he steered his Porsche Cayman up the circular gravel drive to his home in Meadowview, too tired to park inside the carriage house and walk the twenty yards to the main house. After a rather sleepless night and an overly long meeting with Ian Ackerley, the two-hour drive home from Sacramento with the spring sun warming his car had made him slow and sleepy. He’d give anything for a nap. But before he could think of sleep, he needed to find the portfolios various modeling agencies had sent over and get the name and contact info for Trudy’s agent. And start the ball rolling with the contract with Trudy.
With the engine idling, he stared at the two-story Victorian home he shared with his father, sister, and his nephew, Aaron. Living with his family hadn’t been anywhere on his list of things to do as an adult, but when his mother died after her protracted battle with cancer, Doe had sunk into nothingness. Then, a few years later, she’d reached out to the wrong person for comfort (a total shit named Buck) and had ended up a defiant and pregnant unwed teenager. His father, quite loving but rather incompetent as parent and often traveling the world, hadn’t known how to handle her.
Mac immediately moved from New York to California, into his father’s house, to provide support for his sister. The last year and a half had been spent with him driving Doe to medical appointments, being there for the birth, babysitting Aaron when Doe needed a break, and bringing in money through commercial photography.
And ignoring the fact that he’d run from his dream of being an artistic photographer.
Until a month ago, that is, when he’d been approached by Ian. The art director had seen Mac’s several art showings in New York five years earlier, and had politely asked Mac to put together a collection of his art photography for a new West Coast show.
Mac had not so politely reminded Ian of the disastrous showing of his last public art display four years ago and how the critics called him a one-hit wonder.
Ian pushed.
And that’s when Mac let slip his conceptualization of the Warrior Woman series. The images had been tangling in his mind for years, but only recently had they coalesced into images he could see as an artistic presentation.
Ian loved the idea, and Mac had agreed to meet.
The meeting had gone well. By the time Mac left Ian’s gallery, he’d agreed to show a series of twelve photographs, all telling the story of a woman facing life’s challenges with a warrior’s will. Now all Mac had to do was produce the photographs to bring the concept to life. To do that, he needed a live artist’s model.
And he’d met the perfect one last night.
Images of Trudy—her wild hair and her alive eyes—filled his mind as he turned off the car and got out. Then he stopped suddenly ,
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