Muriel Jensen - New Year's Wedding

When Ben and Jack’s parents arrived in Querida to spend Christmas, it truly became family time. Then he had answered a knock on the door when everyone else was busy, and a supermodel had begun to introduce herself—then fainted dead away in his arms. Two days later she’d pleaded with him to run away with her. He had a rental vehicle and she didn’t, and her need to get away had seemed desperate.

A supermodel. Cassidy Chapman was asleep upstairs in his loft. Or, based on that wonderful smell, maybe she wasn’t. He got to his feet, pulled on his jeans, yanked a Seahawks sweatshirt out of a pile of things still on the chair from his unpacking and went barefoot down the hall to the kitchen.

He needed a moment to pull himself together. Cassie was working at the stove in a dark blue silky thing that skimmed her bare feet. Over it, she had pulled the sweater he’d lent her last night to get from the car to the house. She held a spatula, but her head was turned toward a television at the end of the counter.

He finally opened his mouth to shout a good morning over the sound of the TV and then closed it again when he realized she was watching the infamous video of her meltdown. It had apparently made the morning news.

On the screen was a sharp image of everyone involved in the shoot gathered on the grounds of a palatial country home with a pillared portico. They all pressed around Cassie, who stood in the middle in a fluttering red dress. Someone adjusted her hair while someone else seemed to be fitting something over her eyes as yet another person leaned in to make an adjustment to the neckline of the dress.

Without warning, a scream was heard, the tableau erupted, the circle around Cassie freezing in place—except for that dedicated makeup artist with her hands at Cassie’s eyes. Cassie screamed again and grabbed the young woman by both wrists.

The woman’s arms hung in Cassie’s grip with what looked like a spider in one hand and a tiny bottle in the other, her mouth an O of astonishment.

“Stop!” Cassie’s voice was high and shrill. “I asked you to stop! Are you deaf?”

For an instant both women stared at each other, then Cassie dropped the woman’s wrists, picked up the long skirts of her dress and ran.

The video over, a female reporter appeared on-screen accompanied by a cohost and a beautiful dark-haired woman Grady thought looked vaguely familiar. They sat at a table in the studio.

“I’m sure you all recognize Fabiana Capri,” the reporter said, “the spokeswoman for the new Tesla smart car, and Cassidy Chapman’s good friend. What do you make of that behavior, Fabiana?”

The model, dressed in yellow, shrugged an elegant shoulder. “I’m not sure what happened,” she replied with a look of concern. “Cassie disappeared right after that and no one’s seen her or talked to her since. It could be that it had been a very long day for her. She works very hard, gives every job her all, in sometimes very uncomfortable circumstances. When we did the Sports Illustrated shoot, the temperature was 57 degrees and the water was freezing. I got to pose on a rock, but Cassie stood in cold water up to her knees for an hour before the photographer felt he’d gotten it right.”

“Stars at Night,” the reporter said, “thought she might have been upset because she’d wanted the SI cover and you got it.”

The model laughed. “I doubt that seriously. Last year she had the cover and I didn’t. But we’re all adults. We’re in competition for the big jobs, but you win some and you lose some. It’s the same in every business, even fashion.” She leaned forward, expression earnest. “What you should be talking about is the trust Cassie set up for poor women needing clothes and transportation so they can look for work.”

The reporter ignored that. “But you’ve never imploded during a shoot.”

“Sure, I have. I was just lucky enough that none of the crew sold me out to the press.”

“Maybe when you grab the young woman doing your makeup and yell at her for not hearing you when she really is deaf, your adoring fans should know that about you.”

Fabiana waited a beat, obviously straining for patience, then said, “In Cassie’s defense, the woman was a last-minute replacement because it was the holidays and the makeup artist who knows about...who Cassie’s used to working with, had already left to be with family in Alaska. Cassie didn’t know the woman was deaf. How many times have we all said that when people don’t respond to us the way we think they should?”

Again the reporter let that go. “You said Cassie disappeared. Do you have any idea where she went?”

Fabiana knew something; Grady could see it in her eyes. “I don’t, but I’m sure she’ll turn up in February to do the fund-raiser for Designers United Against Hunger.”

Apparently a reporter’s instinct was as strong as a cop’s. “You hesitated there. You do have a clue where she is.”

Fabiana smiled and shook her head. It was the smile she used in the Tesla commercial, capable of selling anything to anyone. “No. It’s Cassie’s life. She’ll come back to it when she’s ready.”

The reporter thanked her and announced a station break. Cassie aimed the remote at the television and clicked it off. She groaned as she turned back to the stove.

“Good morning,” Grady said. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. Tomorrow some politician will say something stupid and they’ll forget all about you.”

“Hi, Grady.” She glanced at him with a half smile and flipped a pancake. “I couldn’t find an apron to protect your sweater. Do you have anything?”

Worried about her bare feet on the cold floor, he went to the thermostat first and turned up the gas heat. Then he opened the bottom drawer in the stove that held a barbecue apron his mother had given him that he’d never used. He handed it to her. She slipped her head through the neck hole and tied the strings behind her. Born to Barbecue was printed in rough red lettering above a caricature of a man in front of a barbecue, his chef’s hat on fire.

She looked down at herself and snickered. “Now here’s a look for the catwalk. Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

Two places were set at the breakfast bar. She’d found two placemats he never used along with dark blue cloth napkins stored in the same drawer.

She poured coffee and brought him a cup. “This might be a little girlie for you. It’s Colombian coffee with dulce de leche flavor. I have a pound in my bag whenever I travel.”

He took a sip. “Definitely girlie, but good.” It was wonderful to have coffee ready when he got up. Even girlie coffee. Since she clearly didn’t want to talk about the news, he observed, “You’re making pancakes?”

“Crepes,” she corrected. “Fewer calories. I found frozen blueberries in the freezer, cooked them down with sugar and made a compote for topping. Is that all right?”

He leaned his forearms on the bar and looked into her bright eyes. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail. She looked remarkably fresh, if sad.

“No,” he replied with a straight face. “I want the same old, dry fruity flakes and past-the-pull-date milk I always have in the morning.”

“No!” She pulled a plate out of the oven. “Tell me you don’t really eat fruity flakes.”

“I would, but it would be a lie. I’m sure they have nothing of nutritional value in them, but then, the bad guys don’t really care how trim I am, and I have a maple bar midmorning to keep up my strength.”

If she thought that was a bad idea, she kept it to herself and brought him a plate of crepes and a steaming pitcher of compote. Butter was already on the bar. The aroma made him salivate.

“You can cook, too,” he said in wonder, pouring blueberries on the crepes and passing the pitcher to her as she sat beside him with her own plate.