Free Romance: Catching Helena Handbasket by Lily Flowers

would automatically get shelved in the horror section at Barnes and Noble—or maybe in whatever section they stick the educational texts about unexplained freaks of nature….”
         Helena snorted.
         “Oh I know Trey,” she rolled her eyes heavenward.  “Your flawless body, sculpted cheekbones, cleft chin, dreamy blue eyes and flawless skin are clearly the stuff of nightmares.  You’d probably break at least three top quality cameras before they could snap a decent picture.”
         Trey guffawed.
         “OK OK, so I did do some modeling to work my way through school,” he admitted, adding more seriously, “Now, however, I’m a respectable publisher that can’t go around ripping my shirt off, heaving my man bosom or stuffing my quaint leather pantaloons with old oats canisters or three day old sausages to enhance the effect, so to speak.  I’m so sorry, Helena, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer.”
         Helena nodded.
         “Oh, OK,” she relented, trying to hide her disappointment as she ducked her head behind her contract papers.  “I understand.  Completely and totally.”  Jerk.
         Trey regarded Helena for a long moment, mumbling his apologies as he shifted uncomfortably in his desk chair.
         “I really am sorry to disappoint you, love,” he offered, adding as he pursed his lips apologetically in her direction, “but if it’s any consolation, I would like to offer up one of our close associates here at Elmhurst Publishing as a possible replacement.”
         Helena arched her eyebrows.
         “Are we talking about Irving Birnbaum?” she queried with a cringe, picturing in her mind the short, balding, downright rotund man that shared her workspace.
         Trey laughed.
         “Well I guess we could fit good ol’ Irving for a G-string, slap some Vaseline on the lens and test the earthly limits of our photo shopping capabilities,” he cringed in kind return.  “Or we could just call up Blaine Bennington.”
         Sitting up straight in her chair, Helena’s eyes flew wide as she heard the name of the man she was determined to marry.  Or so she told her college sorority sisters on numerous nights, after a few beers.
         Yet a gal didn’t even need beer goggles to appreciate the beautiful, dashing Blaine Bennington; a tall, blond muscle hunk with reams of flowing golden hair and pure bronze tinted skin.
         Although not a big fan of modern romance novels, Helena had been known to purchase a couple of steamy tomes that featured Blaine Bennington on the cover; quickly explaining to the cashier that the books were gifts for a sister, a cousin, a seriously ill friend who potentially could be saved by the vision of his beauty; she always stopped just short of revealing the truth, which was of course that Blaine was an evil—but wicked hawt—sex demon placed on book covers to tempt and torment mortal women until they broke down and bought his blasted books.
         “Helena?  Helena?  Are you quite all right dear?”
         Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the voice of another disturbingly handsome man; this one leaning across his desk in an evident attempt to assess the state of her current well-being.
         “I’m fine,” she sputtered out, shaking her head to clear it of its aroused, frustrated haze.  “Why would you think otherwise?”
         Trey shrugged.
         “Oh I dunno,” he deadpanned.  “Between the dazed eyes and the excessive drool, I feared you might be suffering a stroke.”
         An abashed Helena looked at the floor, suddenly wishing that it would very conveniently open up and swallow her whole.  Right.  About.  Now.
         “Um, well, that always happens when I’m contemplating the suitability of an associate for any given job position.  That’s just how intense Helena Vance is about her work,” she offered, adding as she pursed her lips