As she headed for the hotel lobby, Jane Merrifield decided she had never needed a cup of coffee more. She’d lain awake most of the night, anxious and excited. Today was going to be huge, one of the most important days of her life, one she’d look back on when she was an old woman and…what? Would she feel pride or regret? Would this venture be one that she kicked herself over again and again, or would this be a day she would celebrate every year as The Day It All Started?

She spotted Veronica Tyler, her friend and colleague, right away.

“Right on time,” Veronica said. “You ready?”

That was a loaded question.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, but I need coffee like I need my next breath. I’m not doing anything before coffee.”

“You really are my long lost twin,” Veronica said, grabbing Jane’s hand and heading toward the hotel’s Starbucks.

After grabbing big cups of coffee, they hopped into a cab. San Diego Fashion Week was being held at the Port Pavilion on the Broadway Pier. Jane and Veronica were staying at the downtown Marriott, only about a five-minute drive. Still dark out, the streets were virtually empty.

“I think we should have left earlier,” Jane said.

“Two and a half hours is plenty. I already double- and triple-checked the inventory. I have two back-ups for all the stockings. All the looks are in bags with the models’ pictures attached. We both have copies of the walking order…”

“Do you really think we should end with the Virgin, not Catwoman?”

They’d given nicknames to all the looks going down the runway today.

“Trust me, you end with the honeymoon look. The public loves bridal stuff, and because of the hooded cape, we have the drama of the reveal. No, the Virgin is the finale, for sure. Everything’s going to be fine.

“I had a nightmare, you know.”

“Last night?” Veronica asked, her brow crinkling with concern.

“No, the night before I flew here. I dreamt the crowd booed and jeered.”

“Jane, that won’t happen. I’ve never heard booing at any fashion show I’ve ever attended.”

“They also threw cheese quesadillas at us.”

Veronica blinked. “I repeat, that’s never happened at any fashion show I’ve ever attended. Quesadillas? Really?”

Even Jane had to laugh. “It’s not my fault. I had Mexican food that night.”

“Look, relax,” Veronica said. “The collection is beautiful and I’m not just saying that because we designed it.”

On behalf of Aphrodite Lingerie—a brand that sold in department stores across the country—Veronica had approached Jane two years ago with a proposal to create a line for fuller figured women that was as beautiful as any bra or panty for slimmer gals. Jane had built a name for herself via Big Girl Panties, a blog dedicated to fashion and fulfillment for larger women. Her witty posts and sassy but elegant style had earned her tens of thousands of fans, not to mention the attention of Veronica. As Aphrodite’s top designer, Veronica had pushed Jane’s name in front of the higher-ups as her number one choice of bloggers to collaborate with.

Even two years after signing the contract that allowed Jane to quit her retail job, she still had days during which she couldn’t quite believe the good fortune that had fallen upon her.

“You’re the designer. You designed it.”

“Jane, come on. You had input, valuable input. I’m telling you, the designs are solid. Every woman who sees them today will want to buy them. The only thing we have to worry about is if something goes wrong during the show, which it won’t.”

Something did go horribly wrong. Aria, one of their models, called to tell them she’d tripped and sprained her ankle.

“Shit,” Jane said. “Shit, shit, shit. What does this mean?” she asked Veronica. Aria was wearing the Virgin, the finale look. This was a total disaster. Panic bubbled in her stomach.

Veronica was already flipping through their binder, trying to see who else could fit into the Virgin.

“What about Brandi? Can she wear it?” Jane asked. Brandi’s look was Jane’s least favorite and if she was the same size as Aria…

“No. Brandi’s not…” Veronica trailed off and slowly turned her head toward Jane.

“Veronica...I don’t like the look in your eye.”

“We need someone to wear the Virgin.”

Jane took a step back. “Don’t look at me! I’m not a fashion model.”

“You model clothes all the time for Big Girl Panties.”

“That’s still photography. That’s different. I just stand there and hold a pose. Plus those are clothes, not underwear.”

“Jane, we both know you can rock that look. It’s your exact size. And you’ll have the robe on.”

“Until the reveal.”

“And what’s underneath doesn’t even show your belly button.”

“I can’t. I’m a klutz. I’ll fall. I’ll fall and break the stage.”

She got a sharp look from Veronica on that one. “Not funny. David! Ginny!” Veronica gestured frantically to their makeup man and hair stylist. “I need you to fix up Jane. She’s going to be our finale.”

David and Ginny both swung their gazes toward Jane who said in her most assertive voice, “The hell I am.”

Veronica pointed at her. “Jane Merrifield, you need to literally put on your big girl panties and do this. If you don’t, all your blog fans will weep in bitter disappointment. Their fearless leader will have proven that she can talk the talk but not walk the walk.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were putting the finishing touches on Jane’s hair.

Veronica smiled at her. “Jane, you look beautiful, honey.”

“This is insane,” Jane said as Veronica fussed with the belt on the robe. “I want to throw-up.”

“Then do it now so David has time to fix your lipstick.”

Jane laughed in spite of herself.

Veronica took her by the shoulders. “You’re going to rock this, girlfriend, but here’s some last minute instruction. Don’t smile. Look straight ahead. Walk as if you’re on a balance beam. When you get halfway down, throw back the hood and unbelt the cloak. Let it fall of your shoulders, but hold on to it before it falls all the way off. Remember how Aria dragged it before?”

Jane nodded. Her hands were shaking. She’d felt like she didn’t have full control over her muscles. “I can’t do this,” she said in a squeaky voice.

“Jane, you can do this. I know you can. I’m going to buy you the best dinner you ever had after this is over.”

“With champagne.”

“You bet.”

“Expensive champagne.”

“Absolutely.”

Jane joined the queue with their other models. Jacqueline, the girl ahead of her, gave Jane a reassuring smile.

“Just pretend everyone is naked,” Jacqueline said, giggling.

“That doesn’t work,” McKenna said, a little further up the line. “Just fucking own it. Walk out there like you own the place and you don’t give a shit what they think.”

As their first model walked forward, Jane decided Veronica was right. It sucked, but she was right. Like it or not, she had a fan base and a reputation to uphold. If she chickened out today, she’d never be able to face them. How could she continue espousing self-confidence on her blog if she backed down from challenges like this? Because how long would she be out there anyway? Two minutes? Shit. If she could sit in the dentist’s chair for an hour getting a tooth filled, she could totally do this.

Yes, it was underwear, but it was the sexiest most beautiful underwear she’d ever worn. And if she pretended there weren’t five hundred people on the other side of the curtain, she could acknowledge the fact that she did look great. She’d always had an affinity for a garter belt and stockings and thought the world became a less sexy place when pantyhose were invented.

Jane concentrated on breathing deeply as the models went out, one by one. You can do this. You can do this, she told herself. Two minutes and you’re done.

When the director gave her the signal, she felt a brief dizzying moment of panic, and then she lifted her chin and started walking.

Bright lights shone on her and instead of fast, electronic music with lots of bass and a heavy beat, they’d opted for smoky jazz, the kind that evoked hot nights in New Orleans.

Look straight ahead.

Don’t smile.

Fat chance of that. Her lips were so stiff, she didn’t feel like they’d loosen up before Christmas, but at least she hadn’t fallen on her face yet. If she got through this without tripping, she’d consider it a big win.

She was approaching the halfway point and, praying she didn’t screw it up, she pretended she was Heidi Klum as she reached up and pushed the hood off her head, untied the sash and shrugged her shoulders. A collective gasp reached her as the crowd feasted their eyes on the boned corset covered with white satin, lace and pearls, the wide bow at her waist, the thigh-high stockings and garter belt.

That’s right, people, I’m the effing virgin, ready for my wedding night and the best sex of my life.

At the end of the runway, she paused and posed, as if for one of her blog posts but with more attitude. Just outside the bright lights, a bevy of people were photographing and filming her. She pretended they weren’t there. The audience, too. After a count of five, she turned abruptly, swinging the edge of the robe in an almost angry swirl. Before she knew it she was backstage, but the director was queuing them up again for the encore walk.

Veronica squealed and clapped her hands. “You did it, Jane! You were fabulous! Do you hear that applause? That’s for us! Oh my gosh, they loved it.”

Jane and Veronica walked out together, hands linked. Veronica was beaming and Jane felt the beginnings of a smile curving her own lips too.

She’d freaking done it.

She, a friendly neighborhood fashion blogger, had just strutted down the catwalk wearing underwear—underwear she’d helped design. And they were applauding and whistling. How crazy was that?

Backstage was a flurry of congratulations and hugs. Veronica assured her everything looked outstanding and that she looked like she’d been a supermodel all her life.

“I just pretended to be Heidi Klum,” Jane confessed.

“Heidi Klum doesn’t have anything on you,” said a male voice.

Jane turned to see someone she didn’t think she’d ever see again. Booth MacDonald, in the flesh, all six feet plus of him. The man had broken her heart so hard eleven years ago back in high school, if she were to be truthful with herself, it still hadn’t quite recovered. Technically, she’d been the one to break up with him, but there was no way she could keep dating him after what he’d done.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.

“I live here,” he said with a sheepish smile.

Feeling a little flustered—but not too much, thank goodness—she chose to take the high road. Her thirst for revenge had petered out a long time ago. The main emotion she felt now was surprise and, annoyingly, a flicker of attraction because he looked a lot different than he used to. He was taller, broader in the shoulder and he had a beard. A sexy, well-groomed beard that looked good on him. His suit looked good too—obviously custom tailored because, as a goalie, the man had thighs that indicated he could hold a squat for days. More than those physical details, he had a…presence, a masculine confidence that hadn’t been there in high school. Or if it had, it had masqueraded as cockiness, a sort of fake it ’til you make it bravado that had evolved into sexy self-assurance.

“Well, long time no see,” she said, shaking hands with him. There. That was perfectly polite. She eyed the press pass hanging around his neck. “Did you retire from the NHL and join the press corps?”

He glanced down and shook his head. “Nah. I know a guy who knows a guy who has connections.” He nodded toward the runway where the show was still going strong. “So, wow, that was some nice stuff.”

“You probably didn’t like it,” she said, stiffly.

“No, I…I did like it. I didn’t know you were a model now. You looked really beautiful.” He looked uncomfortable.

“But it would have looked better on thinner girls.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“I was not.”

“Hi,” Veronica said, inserting herself between them and shaking his hand. “I’m Jane’s business partner, Veronica Tyler.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said with only a cursory smile. “Janie, we need to talk.”

“So talk.”

Okay, she was being childish, but her mouth didn’t seem to get the message that she was trying to be mature.

“Not here.”

Veronica cleared her throat. “You know, why don’t you guys go catch up. I’ll wrap stuff up here and meet you back at the hotel for dinner in an hour.”

“I saw a Starbucks down the street. We can walk,” Booth suggested.

“I’m not dressed,” Jane said.

“I’ll wait.”

She stared at him defiantly until his brows drew together and he said in a soft voice, “Please, Janie.”

Shit.

No one called her Janie. After the break-up, she wouldn’t let anyone call her Janie, but hearing Booth murmur it just now…it brought back so many feelings—feelings she’d kept buried for so long and for good reason.

She and Booth had met at a pool party at the end of the school year and really hit it off. They’d talked non-stop for hours. When the party finally wrapped up, he’d shyly asked her out and she’d accepted. He was so much fun and so easy to be with. They’d spent as much time together as they could that summer. She fell in love with him and he with her. She even gave him her virginity. But then, when school resumed in the fall, he’d shown his true colors.

She could still remember the Day of the Betrayal. Sure, it was melodramatic to call it that, but he had betrayed her. He’d cheapened everything they’d done together that summer. No. Worse than cheapened it. He’d made it all worthless.

It had been like a scene from a movie. He was standing with his hockey buddies, talking before school. Someone asked if he was dating her and he said yes and his friends had been all mocking laughter. They’d needled him, called him a chubby-chaser and, instead of standing up to them and defending her, he’d turned into a guy she didn’t know—a guy who smirked, who equated sex with a game in which every score was a tally in the win column, who said he’d was only dating her because she was putting out.

Until that day, she’d always thought a heart couldn’t really shrivel when it was still beating inside someone’s chest, but it could and did.

It had taken every bit of courage she had to approach him that day. She’d wanted to run away and hide in a gym locker and never come out, but she hadn’t. She’d walked up to him and when he turned and saw her, realized she’d heard every word he’d said and paled, she’d hit him in the head as hard as she could with her purse and told him to fuck himself.

That had been the last time she’d spoken to him.

The weeks and months after that were fuzzy. She’d gone through the motions in a blur, managed to keep her grades from plummeting past the point of no return, but had her parents so worried, they’d threatened to send her to a therapist. Eventually, she’d graduated from high school, gotten accepted to the state university and even went on a few dates, but nothing seemed worth the effort. Until she discovered blogging. She’d done it as part of an assignment for her sociology class but ended up really loving it. It had become the vehicle through which she finally managed to put Booth behind her. Every post that went live gave her a little bit of herself back. It was as if when she put something up on her blog she was somehow saying to him, See that? You didn’t break me. I’m still here, you two-faced bastard.

And now, here he was in the flesh so she could tell him to his face.

“You know what? You relinquished your right to talk to me when you mocked me in front of your cronies.”

To his credit, he didn’t glance around to see who might be listening. She’d been talking in a low voice, but still.

“Janie, please. I’ve changed. I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Leopards don’t change their spots.”

“This one does. I swear.”

She scoffed. “How can you possibly expect me to trust anything you say? You lied to me. You told me you loved me and that was so far from the truth it isn’t even funny.”