Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) by Rochelle French

“You mean you still don’t know?”
    “Know what?” Trudy asked, growing puzzled.
    “That a certain person is a complete and utter idiot. Never mind. You’ll find out soon enough. Not my job.” A loud squawk, coming from the vicinity of Doe’s hip, filled the air. “Baby monitor,” she explained, then sighed heavily. “Thought he’d sleep longer, he was up all night. Sorry, I only have another minute or two before he begins yodeling my name.”
    “If you need to leave…”
    “Soon,” Doe said. “Just let me know if you can read the idiot’s handwriting.” She thrust the notebook at Trudy, who took it and puzzled through the text.
    “These are all nude poses, that’s clear. Hmm…Warrior in Victory, Warrior in Repose, Warrior in Anguish…there are a few more poses written here, but I can’t read them, either.” Trudy handed the notebook out to Doe, rather incredulous that Doe had referred to her award-winning, world-famous boss as “the idiot.”
    Doe bit the pencil between her teeth and muttered, “That little minx Ms. Livery. Did quite a number on our boy. I didn’t see anything that said he wants to meet with you first, so go ahead and drop the robe, hop up onto the dais, and Madonna the hell out of this thing.”
    “Um… Madonna ?”
    “It appears eighties humor is lost on you.”
    Frowning, Trudy noted, “Doe, you weren’t even born in the eighties. So could you please simply clarify what you mean by ‘Madonna the hell out of this thing?’”
    Doe huffed a gigantic sigh. “What ever . I mean, strike a pose. I’ll tell him you’re ready.” She took off down the pathway, leaving Trudy alone.
    And this was who Trudy would have to work with, day in and day out, for the next three years? She’d better remember to load up on ibuprophen. She glanced around the open space surrounding her, and confident she was alone, she dropped the robe onto a small table near where she and Doe had stood, then stepped up onto the dais, fully in the nude.
    As the sun hit her form, she saw the now-familiar shimmers of silvery-pink that crisscrossed her abdomen, and winced. Four years after the series of surgeries that had fundamentally altered her life, and still her scars were visibly noticeable. Hypertrophic scarring, her doctor had called it. Not life-threatening or even bothersome, the scars were, however, a constant reminder of who she’d once been. The dreams she’d once had. A flashing sign telling her she’d never be a mother.
    But this artistic series Gregor Johansson was creating had been titled Warrior Woman, and the artist’s concepts of the poses all spoke of a strong woman. She could be that woman.
    She was that woman, right?
    Wasn’t that why he’d contracted her instead of the other artist’s models?
    There had been several poses to choose from, and Trudy could have started off with a simpler and less taxing pose, such as Warrior Woman in Repose , but she wanted to hit Gregor with what she could do the minute he showed up. Nervous but determined, she began to prepare for Warrior in Victory—head back, arms upraised into fists, feet spread apart. She flexed her muscles, channeling her inner warrior woman. She elongated her spine, raising the notch in her collarbone up toward the sky and pressed her heels firmly into the whitewashed wood of the dais, already warmed from the sun.
    She was ready.
    She’d channeled her inner Warrior Woman.
    The breeze floated over her, its slight chill invigorating. The creak and slam of a door told her the artist had arrived. Nerves twisted under her skin, but she held the pose. Strong. Firm. A warrior.
    “Oh, wow . That’s absolutely beautiful. Keep it there—we’ll talk after I capture this image.” A man’s voice sounded loud over the drone of the insects.
    She had tilted her chin back even farther, doing the best she could to mimic a woman warrior in victory, when she heard the first click. A second followed, then a series of clicks, like a