by Jo Leigh
“I like pineapple juice the best,” she said, taking the glass from him with her slender hand, her nails trim and shiny and pale.
“Pineapple it is.” He poured himself a glass then sat back, lifting the flute to hers. “To blind dates.”
Her smile did nice things to her face. Made it clear she hadn’t learned to hold back yet, to equate cynicism with sophistication. He hadn’t seen that in a long while. Not up close.
“To extraordinary things,” she replied, clicking his glass gently.
The champagne was excellent, perfectly cold and just dry enough. “Tell me about yourself, Bree,” he said, leaning back into his corner of the seat. He didn’t want to crowd her or make her uncomfortable. They had a big night ahead of them, and as long as she was his date, he truly wanted to show her a good time. Nothing extravagant, naturally. Experience had taught him it was better to stay low-key with new people of any stripe. Since the success of Naked New York, he’d had to relearn public navigation.
His celebrity could still be an awkward fit, although nothing like it had been when the business had hit critical mass. He’d set out to make a name, but when he’d first put the blog plan together, he envisioned himself more like a Jason Weisberger of BoingBoing than an Arianna Huffington. Someone whose name would be recognized by people who mattered, but who was not easily recognized in person. Instead, he’d become part of a new phenomena. In Manhattan, more people recognized him than recognized the mayor. Financially, it was the best thing that could have happened. Personally, it had been…interesting and not terrifically pleasant.
Bree turned her lovely green eyes to her glass, watching the bubbles pop and fizz. “I’m a copywriter,” she said. “At BBDA. A baby copywriter, which means I’m mostly a gofer and I take a lot of notes, type a lot of memos. But it’s good. The people I work with are quick and creative and they aren’t out for blood. Well, not more than you’d expect.”
“BBDA is a big firm. A number of their clients advertise on my blogs.”
Her eyes widened again. “Seventeen of them, at the moment. Naked New York is a major focus in the eighteen-to-thirty-four demographic.”
The last word had been bitten off, and she pressed her lips together for a second. “Anyway,” she said, her voice lower, slower. “I graduated last year with an MBA from Case Western. I’d always wanted to come to New York, so I did.”
“Is New York what you thought it would be?”
“Much better. I loved it even before tonight.”
He laughed.
“Come on, you have to know how much this evening is blowing the bell curve. You’re Charlie Winslow and we’re going on a mystery date, and even though I have no idea where, I’m sure it’s going to be the most thrilling night of my life.”
He couldn’t help his wince, although he tried not to. “Most thrilling? That’s a tall order.”
She lowered her head, frowned a bit, then looked up at him through her long lashes. “Really? This—” she waved at the lush interior of the car, at, he imagined, the night in general “—is insane. It may be your day-to-day, but it’s certainly not mine.” Bree sat back, sipped the cold champagne. “Rebecca wouldn’t tell me. Every time I asked why you’d want to go out with me on Valentine’s night, for God’s sake, she smiled in that smug way that made me want to pinch her.”
He smiled. “You know, I find myself wanting to pinch Rebecca a lot.”
“Then you’ll understand my frustration when I ask you straight-out, why are we doing this? Why are you doing this with me? I can’t help thinking it might be some awful mean-girl prank. That wherever we’re going, there’ll be a big spotlight on me when I’m covered in green slime or something. Which would be horrible by the way. In case you need to call ahead.”
Okay. She made him laugh. Big point in the plus column. And now that she’d admitted her fear, she seemed more relaxed. Now that he’d noticed, he lingered on the way her simple sleeveless dress showed off the woman more than the garment. He liked that she wore no jewelry. It was a bold choice, but it brought his focus to her neck, which had more appeal than a neck had any right to. There was just something about her skin, the way her chin curved, her elegant clavicle. There was a thought he’d never expected to have.
“Rebecca isn’t like that,” Bree said, softer now, more to herself than him, and Charlie remembered she’d asked him why he’d pursued the date.
Before he could answer, she added, “I haven’t known her for long, so maybe I’m wrong, but my instincts are pretty good, and she stood out right from the start.” Bree used her hand again, not a wave this time, but a flip of the wrist. A tiny wrist, delicate and feminine.
“We went for drinks this one night at Caracas, Rebecca and me and our friend Lilly, who teaches music at this amazingly exclusive prep school, and it started out a little weird, because the three of us only knew each other from the lunch exchange, but then we started talking and we clicked, especially Rebecca and me. When I mentioned how desperately I’d wanted to live in Manhattan, both of them completely got it. How I don’t mind paying a fortune to live in the Black Hole of Calcutta with four girls I barely know, and how I can’t even afford to go to a movie, let alone have popcorn. They grinned and we toasted each other with sidecars, and I felt as if I was home.” Bree blinked and then for some reason her shoulders stiffened again. She cleared her throat. “That may have gotten away from me a little.”
And…he liked her. Just like that. No, she wasn’t his type, not even close, but he liked the cadence of her speech, the way she talked with her hands, how she was clearly nervous but not cowed. The night changed right then, between Columbus Avenue and West 61st.
Charlie touched her arm. She was warm and soft, and she flinched a bit at the contact, catching herself with a breath and a smile.
“No,” he said, “it’s not a prank or a trick. Rebecca thought we’d get along. She and I grew up together, were friends through private schools and first dates and proms and way too many horrific holiday celebrations.” He shuddered thinking about some of the epic Christmases, the ones where half the family wasn’t speaking to the other half, where feuds were conducted across air-kisses and designer wreaths. All that passive- aggressive power brokering over Beluga caviar and shaved truffles. “She knows me as well as anyone. And she’s never wanted to set me up before.”
“So what does that mean?”
He thought for a second. Excellent question. “I don’t know.”
Instead of pressing him for his best guess, Bree’s head tilted fetchingly. “Where are we going?”
“You don’t want to be surprised?”
The way she looked at him made him want to meet her expectations, even though there was no way he could. “I’ve been stunned since you took my hand.”
Stunned? “What were you expecting?”
She shrugged. “Not sure. Something else. I mean, I’m not shocked about the doormen, the limousine or how amazing you smell, because I was secretly hoping for all that. I’ve never been around celebrities much. I’ve seen some since I’ve been here. The obligatory Woody Allen sighting, of course, but there’ve been others. Quite a few of them, now that I think about it, but they’ve all seemed, I don’t know, extraordinary. In the truest sense of the word. As if the air around them was sparkly, or that even if they looked like they’d thrown on a potato sack and bowling shoes, it was on purpose, but I wasn’t cool enough to get it. You’re not like that.”
“Is that a compliment?”
She nodded. “Yes. It would have been okay if you’d turned out to be a major hipster, although I definitely would have bored you to tears.”
Charlie grinned. “Know how many hipsters it takes to screw in a lightbulb?”
She grinned back, leaning in for the punch line. “How many?”
He purposely rolled his eyes. “Some really obscure number you’ve never even heard of.”
Bree laughed. It started out as delicate as her wrist, but ended in an unexpected snor
t. Her eyes widened and she held her hand up in front of her face, but then she did it again. The snort, not the laugh. And she added a blush that was the most honest thing he’d seen in years.
Okay, Rebecca might deserve more than a sparkling wine. The vote was still out if she’d end up with a ’96 Krug Clos D’Ambonnay.
3
BREE KNEW SHE WAS BLUSHING, but there wasn’t a single solitary thing she could do about it. From the way Charlie was smiling at her, the problem wasn’t going to fix itself anytime soon.
She wished they’d get to wherever they were going. She needed some distance, just for a moment. A bathroom stall would work, a private place where she could squeal and jump and act like a fool and get it out of her system. Because whoa. Charlie Winslow plus limo plus champagne plus the fact that his dates always ended with more than a friendly peck on the cheek and she was practically levitating. The whole night, no matter where they ended up, was improbably perfect. Her once in a lifetime.
Someone had reached into her fantasies, reviewed those that were most outlandish and most frequent, decided they weren’t grand enough then given her this. She wanted to lean over the front seat and ask the driver, a nice-looking guy she’d guess was in his fifties, if he had a video camera, and would he mind filming every second of the rest of the night so she could watch it until her eyes fell out.
She glanced out the window and all her thoughts stuttered to a halt. “This is Lincoln Center,” she said, her voice high and tight.
“It is,” Charlie said, and while she couldn’t take her eyes off the scene in front of her, she could hear the amusement in his voice.
“It’s Lincoln Center,” she repeated, “and this is Fashion Week.”
“Right again.”
“It was in the blog. This morning. I read it. This is the Mercedes-Benz/Vogue party for Fashion Week.”
She wanted to open the window, stick her head out like an overexcited puppy so she could see everything. But she might as well paint a sign on her forehead that said hick. Still, she couldn’t help it if her hands shook, if her breath fogged the window, if she wanted to pinch herself to prove she was really, really here.
“I thought you might have guessed.” His voice sounded smiley. Not smirky, though, and she would have thought…
“No.” She grinned. “No, really. No. It’s too much. Come on. It’s…fashion Nirvana. The single event after which I could die happy.” She turned, briefly, to gape at him, to verify the smile she’d guessed at. “I’ve been sewing since I was twelve.”
Then she was staring again, at the klieg lights, at the people. Glittering, gorgeous, famous, glamorous people. Her heroes and heroines. In one small clump standing near a police barricade there were three, THREE, designers. Designers she adored, well, maybe not her, because she was kind of derivative, but still, Bree was going to be in the same room, at the same party as Tommy Hilfiger, as Vivienne Westwood!
She turned again to Charlie, almost spilling her drink. “We are going to the party, right?”
“Yeah, we’re going to the party.”
“Oh, thank God. That would have been really embarrassing. If we were going to a concert or something.”
He laughed in a way that made her shiver and reminded her again that this wasn’t a dream. The limo was in a long line of limos, and Bree guessed it would be a while until it was their turn. Which meant that she had a window of alone-time with Charlie. She leaned back in the luxurious leather seat so he was the center of her attention. “I remember reading about this last year. It sounded as if you had a good time.”
He nodded. “I did, considering it’s part of the job. I think this year will be better.” He spoke casually, as if they were talking about stopping at the corner market. As if they knew each other. Casually, but not bored or above it all. This was a typical night for him. A night to look forward to but not to panic over.
Speaking of panic. “We’re at Fashion Week, and I’m wearing a homemade dress. My shawl…” It had cost fifty cents at the thrift shop but he didn’t have to know that. “Oh, God.”
He studied her, grinning. She couldn’t tell if it was because he thought she looked adorably out of her league or laughably ridiculous. When he leaned forward, Bree wasn’t sure what to do until he crooked his finger for her to move in closer. Conspiratorially closer. “The whole point of fashion is originality and talent. Everyone will look at you, at your dress, and wonder who the new designer is. I suggest you milk that till the cow’s dry.”
She had to laugh, because well… “That’s a very nice thing to say.” She touched the back of his hand to make sure he knew she wasn’t kidding, only the second her hand was on his, she realized how they were mere inches apart. She could feel his breath on her cheek, the warmth of his body sneaking into her own.
That he could think she was capable of pulling off something so outrageous was…awesome. “I’m not sure I could keep a straight face.”
“Look bored,” he said. “That’s the key. Act as if you’d rather be anywhere else on earth, and they’ll all think you’re the next big thing.”
“Bored. I can do bored.” She had to lean back a bit because being this close to Charlie was making it hard not to hyperventilate. “Actually, no, I can’t, not here. My God, no one’s that good an actress. But I can be observant. Which almost looks like bored.”
He moved back, too, his smile lingering in the way his eyes crinkled. “Observant can work. Remember, though, that there’s no one here you need to be intimidated by. Well, almost. But you probably won’t meet them, anyway.”
Oh, he was good. This was effortless charm, the true heart of tact and perfect manners. To put her at ease as they inched their way to the Mount Everest of her aspirations? Wonderful, wonderful. But she’d better bring herself down a notch, because at this height, a fall could kill her. “I read an article once,” she said, “by a woman whose passion was movies, and she went and got herself a job in the business. She said that in the end it was kind of sad. That what she’d loved were the illusions, the characters, the fantasy. Once she’d looked behind the curtain it was never the same again.”
Charlie finished off his champagne and put his flute back in the space next to the ice bucket, slowly, as if he were giving deliberate thought to what she’d said. “I can see that. Most terribly brilliant people I’ve known are also terribly troubled. Not all of them, but a lot of them.”
“I don’t think I’ll be disappointed. I know it’s all illusion. And that’s okay with me. I had normal. A whole hell of a lot of normal. It wasn’t for me.”
“Where was that?” he asked. “Your normal.”
“Ohio,” she said. “Little tiny town. Great big family. Happy. Well-adjusted. My folks had lots of siblings, I have lots of siblings, everyone else in my family wants to get married, if they aren’t already, have a bunch of kids, live within driving distance of the family home. We’re a Norman Rockwell relic, with small rebellions and modest dreams. I can’t tell you how much I hated it. Not my family, they’re great, but that life. Knowing what the day would bring. The Sunday dinners and the baby showers, knowing every person at the Cline’s SuperValu and never having to look at the menu at Yoders. I wanted out.”
She took in a deep breath of Manhattan limousine air. “I want unpredictability and crowds of people, all of them in a rush. I want to go to clubs and stay out till 4:00 a.m. when I have to be at work at eight and I want to eat things I can’t pronounce and I want to have my heart broken by callous men who wear gorgeous suits.”
She looked away, feeling foolish. Talk about TMI. It was all nerves, of course, but there was no way not to be nervous given the circumstances. The line of limos, hiding their secret passengers, was still impressive.
“I think you’ll be great here,” Charlie said, and it occurred to her that the timbre of his voice wasn’t the biggest surprise, the kindness was. “They’re all divas, and what do divas do best?”
“Get free swag?”
Charlie laughed as he shook his head. “They think about themselves. They’ll be far too preoccupied to focus much attention on you. The only reason they’ll notice me is because they can use me. So relax. Enjoy it. You’ll have a great time.”
She was already having the time of her life, and they hadn’t left the car, so the possibility of enjoying herself for the rest of the night wasn’t out of the question. She wouldn’t necessarily trip or spill something down her dress. She’d already decided she would eat nothing that could possibly get stuck in her teeth. And she’d make sure she didn’t get drunk.
Charlie leaned forward until he had his driver’s attention. “We’re going to be at least a few hours, Raymond,” he said. “Feel free to leave. I’ll give you some warning when it looks like we’re ready to go.”
“Will do, Mr. Winslow. Thanks.”
Bree shook her head. When she’d first come to the city she’d been prepared for mass rudeness, cynicism and impatience from every corner. Hadn’t happened. Not that there weren’t more than a fair share of asshats in residence, but the proportions had been off. Mostly the people she’d met, whether it was asking for directions or standing on line at Starbucks, had been nice. Pleasant. They could be brusque but they were more than willing to help, even when she hadn’t asked. Those were the regular folks, though, not people like Charlie. If television shows about rich New Yorkers were to be believed, he should have been a complete bastard.
Instead, he’d brought her to Fashion Week. She’d been a slave to fashion since seventh grade. Her walls had been covered with her collages, a perfect pair of shoes from Vogue, with a particular skirt from W and a top from Seventeen. Of course, there’d been photos of accessories included, affixed with Mod Podge and shellacked so they’d be permanent reminders that she had more than a daydream. She had a goal.
Her love of writing had come later, and the combination? That had been a match made in heaven. Her destiny was set—she’d be a style writer, a trendsetter, a goddess of form and function.
