by Jo Leigh
She didn’t deserve to find Mr. Right Now, though. Because Bree had brought zero men to the table. Zilch. Nada. She knew some single men at the advertising agency, but she’d never gone out with any of them. Not that she hadn’t been asked. But she was planning on moving up in the company as quickly as possible, and didn’t want to make any alliances until she’d been there at least a year. She might be from Ohio, but she hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck.
Bree had plans. More specifically, she had a five-year plan. End goal: to become a fashion consultant, author and television personality. The plan was her guiding light, her pathway through the Manhattan madness. One cornerstone of the plan was that under no circumstances was she to get involved with a man. Yes, a girl had needs. She’d been on dates since she’d moved to New York, but only a couple of them had included sex. The earth hadn’t moved either time, which meant that the idea of a selection of eligible, vetted, one-night men hadn’t been far from her thoughts since December.
Scary thing, being mostly friendless in a city like Manhattan. Thrilling, too. But the men were different than the ones she’d known back home. The rules here seemed to be more…fluid. The stakes higher.
Thank goodness her friendless status had changed as a result of the lunch exchange. Enough, in fact, for her to have been included in the trading card deal even when she hadn’t contributed.
Shannon entered the room, and chaos ensued. Frozen meals were abandoned without a backward glance as the women huddled around one empty table. Shannon’s penchant for drama made her lift her cardboard box high in the air only to tip it over, covering the table in a cascade of beautiful, practical possibilities, all on 2.5 x 3.5 thick-coated stock, suitable for purse or wallet, as a handy reference, as a focal point for dreams and wishes.
Bree’s gaze swept over the puddle of cards, her eyes wide, adrenaline pumping, hoping for someone nice, but not too nice. Someone easy.
Rebecca came up next to her and bumped into her shoulder. Bree glanced at her friend, but only to scowl. When she looked back down at the cards, her breath stilled and for a moment, her heart did, too. There was a single card away from the pile, directly in front of Bree. On it was a picture that sent Bree’s heart racing.
It couldn’t be. Not possible. The sounds of her friends dimmed behind the whoosh of blood in her ears as she reached with trembling fingers to pick up the card.
Charlie Winslow. The Charlie Winslow. It had to be a joke, a trick. He could have anyone. He’d already had practically everyone. Why would he be on offer in the basement at St. Mark’s Church?
“I thought you might recognize him.”
Bree tore her gaze from the card to look once more at Rebecca. Her friend’s smile was as smug as if she’d gotten past the velvet rope at The Pink Elephant, but Bree couldn’t hold out for long. She stared again at the trading card, double-checked. Still Charlie Winslow. “How?”
“He’s my cousin,” Rebecca said.
“Your cousin,” Bree repeated.
“Yep. God knows he’s single.”
“He can have anyone.”
Rebecca chuckled. “Yeah, but if all you’re eating is lobster and champagne every night, it’s bound to get boring, don’t you think?”
Bree shook her head. “Not even a little bit. Although now I understand why you’re part of the lunch exchange. We’re the tuna fish to your normal caviar, am I right?”
Rebecca dismissed the deduction with a roll of her eyes. “Trust me. He’s bored. And he needs a date for Valentine’s night.”
Bree took a step back, just to keep her balance. “Me? I’m…” She blinked as she stared at the woman she’d thought she knew. They’d gone out for drinks more than a few times, and she and Rebecca had gotten along great. They’d laughed a lot. Rebecca was a couple of years older than Bree, smart as a whip, rich as Croesus, but grounded. Sweet, too. It was one of the mysteries of New York that a woman like her was wanting for dates, but Bree knew that was the truth of it.
“What do you say, Bree? Don’t know where he’ll take you, but it’s bound to be glamorous as all hell.”
“I’m from Ohio,” Bree said. “I make all my own clothes. Taking the subway is glamorous. He’ll get one look at me and fall over laughing.”
Rebecca’s hand landed on Bree’s shoulder. “Don’t do that. Come on. That’s not you. I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought you couldn’t hold your own. I’ve known him my whole life. He’s funny. He’s smart. You’ll like each other. And besides, neither one of you wants more than one night. So what have you got to lose?”
“He’s like, the King of Manhattan. What’ll I even say?”
“Call him the King of Manhattan. He’ll love you forever.”
“Don’t want forever. But maybe, if people see me with him, even once, they’ll remember.”
“There’ll be pictures,” Rebecca said, her focus going back to the pile of cards. “There are always pictures with Charlie.”
“What about you?” Bree asked. “See any possibilities in there?”
Rebecca lifted a card. The guy looked yummy, but when she flipped to the back, her expression fell. “One-night stand.” She tossed the card back.
“Maybe not,” Bree said. “Maybe he only thinks he wants a one-night stand.” She kept hold of Charlie’s card, knowing if anyone else wanted it, they’d have to pry it out of her cold, dead hand, but picked up the yummy guy’s card, as well. “He’s a musician. A violinist with the Philharmonic. That’s impressive. And he hasn’t met you.”
Rebecca smiled as she flicked her long tawny hair behind her shoulder. “Are you going to change your mind? Suddenly want marriage and kids from one date with Charlie?”
Bree laughed. “No. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen to someone else.”
“Don’t worry about me, Kingston. I’ll find someone. Let’s get you all squared away first. Valentine’s night. I’ll set it up. Let you know the deets ASAP.”
“Oh, God.” Bree looked at her outfit. Made on the Singer that shared her closet-cum-bedroom. Hunter-green skirt, lined, with a mod patterned silk blouse, transformed from a thrift store bonanza. Black tights, black heels, a ribbon in her short, short hair. The only thing that had cost any real money were the shoes, and they were secondhand. What if he wanted to go to Pegu Club or 24 Ninth Avenue? Everyone would see instantly that she was a no one from nowhere, wearing nothing that mattered.
“You’ve got more style in your pinkie than anyone in this room. Than anyone on Project Runway. Come on, Bree. This is what you came to New York to do. It’s your chance to grab the city by the short hairs. You can do it. I know you can.”
Bree straightened her back. “All right. Worst that could happen, I make a complete idiot of myself. I’ve done that plenty of times. Get Charlie Winslow on the phone. Tell him he’s about to meet someone new.”
Rebecca laughed. Then she leaned forward just a bit. “You should probably take a breath now, Bree. In fact, maybe we should find a chair. Come on, hon. There’s a paper bag right on the counter. That’s a girl.”
2
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Charlie Winslow
Editor in Chief/CEO Naked New York Media Group
Studied Business/Marketing at Harvard University
Lives in Manhattan ♥ Single From Manhattan
BREE BLINKED UP AT THE forty-three-story tower at 15 Central Park West, the newest of the luxury, legendary co-op buildings that lined the street across from the park. Just several blocks up were The Dakota, The Majestic and The San Remo. This was quite like being in the center of a very realistic dream. Except that it was freezing. She’d splurged on a taxi even though she’d spent every spare cent on her outfit, using every moment of the trip to talk herself out of a panic attack. The affirmations hadn’t been very effective evidently, because even though her date with Charlie Winslow was about to start, she couldn’t make her legs move.
She still couldn’t believe it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have
sworn it was all an elaborate practical joke. Why on earth would Charlie Winslow want to go out with her? Of course, she’d asked Rebecca that very question approximately a million times. Bree had gotten a variety of answers, all boiling down to the fact that Rebecca thought the two of them would have a good time.
A good time.
Bree couldn’t move. Except for her now chattering teeth. The forties era shawl she’d found in Park Slope may have been the perfect accessory, but it did nothing to protect her from the cold. She might as well have worn her gargantuan puffy coat, considering the fact that she was rooted to the corner of Central Park West and West 72nd Street.
For God’s sake, the most amazing Cinderella night of her life was only moments and a few feet away. She had pictures of this very corner in her New York dream book, the one she’d been compiling for eight years. The only reason Charlie Winslow’s photograph hadn’t been clipped and pasted was that even her outlandish imagination hadn’t been that optimistic.
She had to remember not to call him Charlie Winslow, as if he was a movie star or an historical figure. Bree had practiced. She’d said his first name a hundred times, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking shyly away, coy, sassy, demure, outraged. She was very good at saying Charlie, but she couldn’t quite help the Winslow part. She’d read so many articles by him and about him, and none of them referred to him as Charlie, or even Mr. Winslow.
She pushed herself forward. If she waited any longer she’d be late, and he’d probably leave without her, which had its merits as then she wouldn’t have to endure actually meeting him, but that would defeat the purpose, and dammit, she was brave. She was. She’d gotten on a plane all by herself, knowing absolutely no one in New York, let alone in Manhattan. That took guts.
So did tonight. But she could do it. Because, like her relocation, Charlie Winslow fit perfectly in her five-year plan.
Move to New York
Get a job in fashion advertising
Continue fashion education
Find a way into the Inner Circle
Become a regular at fashion events
????
Publish
Success!!!!!!
Look how far she’d come already. She was flying past three directly into four and she’d only been in Manhattan six months! Meeting Charlie Winslow was a piece of cake. The easy part.
Okay, no. That was a total lie. As she headed for the doorman, complete with hat and epaulettes thank you very much, the truth settled like a stone in her stomach. Meeting Charlie Winslow was like meeting the President or Johnny Depp, or Dolce and Gabbana.
She would not throw up.
Somehow, the door was opened by the tall man in the cap and gloves, and he smiled at her as he gave her a tiny bow. Then she was inside where it was warm and unbelievably gorgeous. This building wasn’t as famous as The Dakota, but it was right up there in the stratosphere of luxury. Her entire apartment could fit into the reception area where she had to sign in. Everyone smiled. The security guard, the other security guard, the woman by the elevator wearing a winter-white suit, whose huge honkin’ diamond ring must make it an effort to lift her hand.
No Charlie Winslow in sight.
Bree let out a breath.
“May I announce your arrival?” The security guard sitting behind the beautiful burnished oak desk leaned forward so elegantly it made her think he was desperate to hear who she was going to see. Either that, or he’d almost lost his grip on the automatic weapon hidden above his lap. Just in case she didn’t have the right name or something.
“Bree Kingston for Charlie Winslow,” she said, and she only had to clear her throat once.
The way the uniformed man’s left eyebrow rose meant something. Bree had no idea what. She glanced down to make sure she hadn’t dribbled on her dress, but she appeared fine. If nervous. If very, very nervous.
The guard picked up a phone, but his hand stilled midway to his console. He nodded, looking past Bree’s shoulder.
She turned, holding her breath, praying she wouldn’t make a complete ass of herself. And there he was. Just like his pictures, only better.
Tall, though everyone was tall to her, considering that she barely reached five-one. His hair was as perfectly mussed as it was in his photos—dark, cut with such precision that she imagined he woke up looking camera-ready. He wore a black suit with a simple perfectly tailored white shirt beneath, no tie, slim cut, Yves Saint Laurent? Spencer Hart? Or maybe her beloved D&G?
As gorgeous as the trimmings were, it was his face that snagged and kept her staring. Much, much better than his pictures. Big eyes, brown. Very big. A generous mouth, too, but she kept getting snagged on the eyes, and how he looked as if he’d discovered something wonderful and interesting, except he was looking at her. Smiling big-time. At her.
His gaze let hers go as he took his time across the lobby. Not that it went far: a long slow trip down her body, pausing for a moment on her boobs. Not enough of a pause to make her self-conscious. Any more self-conscious.
She’d been scoped out before, sure. But this felt different. Like an audition. Her heart pounded, blood rushed to heat her cheeks, hell, her whole face. Then he was looking in her eyes again, and she exhaled when he seemed even more pleased. Maybe it was an act, probably was, in fact, but it didn’t matter because it was only for one night and she’d imagined dozens of expressions on his face, but none of them had been quite this fantastic.
“Bree,” he said, his voice low, a cello kind of baritone full of resonance and promise.
“Hi,” she said. “Charlie.”
He took her hand in his. The one not holding her clutch, the edge of her shawl. “Rebecca told me you were pretty,” he said. “She’s never in her life made such an understatement.”
Bree’s blush went four-alarm and she knew it was a crock, but a gorgeous crock, and if he wanted to say things like that to her for the rest of the night, she wouldn’t mind in the least. “You’re very kind.”
“Not really,” he said. Still holding on to her hand, he glanced behind her. “George, could you call for the car?”
“It’s in place, Mr. Winslow.”
“Thank you,” he said, then Charlie looked at her again. “Did she tell you where we’re going?”
“She wouldn’t. She said I’d like it, though.”
“I hope so.” He led her out, his hand still holding hers until they got to the exit. When the door was pulled open, Charlie put his arm around her shoulders and picked up the pace. Before she knew it, she was sitting in the backseat of a black limousine driven by an honest- to-God chauffeur and Charlie was scooting in on her left.
How was this her life? Her high school graduating class had under two hundred kids. Seven years later, every one of her friends were married, and most of them had at least one kid. And here she was, being whisked off into a mysterious night with one of the most famous men in New York. On Valentine’s Day. Holy mother of pearl.
CHARLIE NORMALLY DIDN’T have champagne chilling in the limo. It had only happened twice before, in fact. Once, when his guest had been a Queen. Not the kind from Asbury Park in New Jersey, but a real royal Queen. The other time had been for a friend who’d been crushed by a devastating loss in the love department. A night of drunken weeping and aimless driving had helped pass the time and given her the courage to face the sunrise.
In tonight’s case, he’d ordered the Dom Pérignon Rosé Oenothèque for Rebecca’s sake. He knew every detail of the evening would be reported to his cousin, and he was determined to impress Rebecca despite her opinion that he was still the same adolescent terror he’d been at thirteen.
But now that he’d actually met Bree, he wasn’t sure Rebecca deserved such an expensive champagne. Bree was pretty, all right. Petite and sweet-looking with an elfin haircut and a nice little body. But as his date? What was Rebecca thinking?
Clearly there was something more to Bree than his first impression would indicate. Rebecca was bright and she knew him very we
ll. Which meant she knew that the women he went for had mile-long legs, wore nothing but the top labels, were on the cover of Vogue, never Home Sewing Monthly.
Bree was…tiny. She didn’t look terrifically young, just compact. Everything diminutive. There was definitely something appealing in her almond-shaped eyes, heart-shaped face, her pale skin and slight overbite. She was Lula Mae before she became Holly Golightly, and where they were headed? She would be a guppy out of water.
He was almost afraid to speak to her, not having the first clue what to say. He was just a vain enough idiot to have loved the way her eyes had widened at meeting him, how she’d trembled, although that could have been from the cold. But that rush could only last so long. Some champagne would help both of them.
She turned from the window as he popped the cork. “I didn’t know that was a real thing,” she said. “Champagne in a limousine.”
“It’s decadent and foolish, but then this is Valentine’s Day. Besides, we’re not driving, so what the hell.”
“No, we’re not. I should warn you, I’m not much of a drinker.”
“We’ll have to be judicious with our ordering, then. But how about one drink, to christen the adventure ahead?”
She stared at the crystal flute in his hand. “Yes, thank you. I’d like that.”
“There will always be tonic, soda or juice wherever we are, although you’ll be surrounded by booze.” He filled her glass, careful what with the stop-and-go traffic. “If you tell me what you prefer, I’ll make sure you have it.”
