“Oh, darling.” Birgit sat up. “You have to help me. Tomorrow, I have a fitting for an exercise clothing shoot, but there’s an afternoon reception for that new Vogue photographer, and I want to go. Can’t you talk with the wardrobe stylist and get her to move the time? She’s a self-centered putz, but everybody listens to you.”

Frankie smothered a sigh. Despite the fancy “human resources coordinator” title, her job was basically running around and making sure everything went smoothly, even though problems should really be handled by the models’ agents. Even worse, her siblings always came to her, rather than their handlers.

“Let me give Alsace a call and see if we can slide the fitting forward an hour. I’ll arrange a driver, so you won’t have to wait for a taxi.”

“Perfect. Thanks, sis.”

“Sure.”

Birgit sauntered out of the room, her predatory runway strut so much a part of her that she probably couldn’t walk normally at this point. The high heels on her feet brought her height to well over six feet.

Just looking at those shoes hurt. Frankie wiggled her toes. No matter what Mama thought about dressing up and wearing makeup to enhance an image, Frankie stuck to professional, but comfortable. There was a benefit to being in administration rather than on the catwalk.

Before she could start on her lunch, two more models stopped in for advice on dealing with an overly handsy agent.

Then a male model got sent to her office to discuss his temper, which was causing problems with…oh, just about everyone. After a chat, she gave him a card for a therapist who understood the odd stresses of the modeling profession.

He scowled. “This’ll ruin my rep.”

“Hey, this is New York.” Frankie motioned to the skyscrapers outside the window—probably still a great sight to someone from Nebraska. “Everyone’s in therapy.”

His lips curved, and he grinned reluctantly. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Francesca.”

“Sure.”

Before she could snatch a bite, a new model stopped in, an eighteen-year-old who was having problems coping. So young.

Frankie dealt out her usual advice—having friends elsewhere and cultivating hobbies. If a person’s only form of validation came from her career, then any upset in the job world could be devastating. Someone with a variety of interests could shrug off an ugly comment about her appearance by thinking, maybe I messed this up, but I’m a good cook and great with people and can beat anyone at Monopoly.

Once the girl was settled and thinking more clearly, Frankie rearranged schedules and recruited an older model who agreed to serve as mentor.

The office empty again, she glanced at her burger. Cold. Yuck.

Oh, well. Ruined lunch or not, she did enjoy keeping people happy and making things run smoothly. This was what she was good at.

What her family needed from her.