“Henri Garcon, from the International Culinary Center,” Maggie said, unoffended by Drew’s assumption that she had nothing to do with the meal preparation. She knew, as he did, that she could burn water. “He swears it will be fantastic.”
“It smells great.”
His simple compliment widened her smile into a grin. “Shall we start with salad?”
“Sure, but first, I have something for you.” He held out a wrapped gift that she had not even noticed in his hand because she had been too caught up playing the perfect hostess.
Her eyes brightened as she reached for the package. It was her first non-birthday and non-Christmas gift from Drew. Chalk it up as another win on a night of memorable firsts. “Can I open it now?”
He shrugged, which she took to mean “yes.” Maggie tore the wrapper off and stared at the print-on-metal of a lovely winter background on the far side of a wood-paneled windowpane framed on either side by dark blue curtains. The silver inscription on the wood panel, in a handwriting-like font, read, “I lost the view when I found you.”
The picture itself seemed familiar, although she could not recall where she had seen it. It was probably a famous photograph in an art museum. The words were poetic but made no sense.
She shrugged it off. It was probably something an artist, high on hallucinogens, had concocted to screw with the minds of normal people. “Thank you, Drew. It’s lovely.” She walked away from him to set the photograph down on the sideboard in the dining room and angled it to catch the gleam of the overhead spotlights. What an odd gift. Pretty, though. Maggie turned back to Drew.
He stood in front of her fridge, his attention on the pencil sketches held in place with magnets. “Did you do these?”
Darn, she had forgotten to put them away. “Yes, I did. I was just messing around with a few ideas.”
“They’re wonderful, Maggie.”
Her eyes brightened. “Really?” She moved to stand beside him. “That’s a sundress. It’ll be gorgeous in white, with a bright cyan trim. The other one’s—” She bit down on her lower lip. She couldn’t admit to Drew that she had been designing her wedding gown while dreaming of him waiting for her at the end of the aisle. “—an evening gown. Lace and satin. Dark blue, I think, with black lace,” she added, proud of that little obfuscation.
“Cream,” Drew said. “With white lace.”
Maggie blinked. He had described the dress exactly as she had envisioned it. To cover her confusion, she looked toward the kitchen island. “Are you ready to eat?”
The food, as Henri had promised, was fantastic, but Drew’s company made the evening exceptional. Maggie could display her sparkling personality on a whim; it was part of her job to be social and lively at all the right times. She knew it was often harder for Drew to feel at ease in public, but that evening, he was relaxed, perhaps because he was not in a crowd.
It was just the two of them, enjoying a quiet meal as she had promised. The conversations on his job, her job, his friends, and her friends flowed easily over appetizers and the entrée until she spoke about Westchester, their hometown, an hour north of New York City. “Do you ever think about going back?” she asked.
“To visit, perhaps. Not to live.”
“I didn’t realize you were so attached to Manhattan.”
He chuckled, the sound low and amused. “I’m not.”
“I thought you were happy in San Francisco. Why did you move to New York?”
Drew shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do at that time.”
“You ever miss living in California?”
He nodded. “Loved the beach and the mountains. I even liked the fog that rolled in from the sea and turned the streets into a lighted fairyland.”
Fairyland. She had never expected to hear that word from his mouth. Maggie smiled. Was there a poet lurking in Drew? “I didn’t peg you for a surfer dude.”
Drew laughed as he set his fork down next to his empty plate and reached for his glass of wine. “Never surfed before. Probably never will.”
“Will you ever move back?” Maggie asked. She ignored the little twinge of panic she suddenly felt at the thought of Drew moving away from her.
“No reason to. Everything I have is here now.”
“Like your job and Felicity?” Damn. She winced internally. Her voice had grated slightly on Felicity’s name.
Drew’s eyes locked on her face. Maggie fought the shiver that raced down her spine at the intensity of his gaze. “Like my job and my friends,” he said simply.
He did not elaborate further, but the omission seemed telling. What was he really trying to say? And why was she behaving like a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl, analyzing every single thing he said for some hidden meaning? Ugh. They were both adults. Couldn’t they communicate like adults?
Perhaps he was communicating like an adult—with adult needs and desires. Confusion flooded her. She shot to her feet and turned to conceal her sudden blush. “I’ll get the dessert.” She retreated into the kitchen. Oh, God, she thought with disgust. I can flirt my way into dates with Hollywood’s top actors, but my financial advisor hints that he’s staying in New York to be with me, and my brain goes blank.
No wonder Drew hadn’t been interested in her ten years ago. She had been an awkward, tongue-tied, starstruck teenager. Since then, she had gained a little weight and a whole lot of curves, but apparently not much else had changed.
She prepared the dessert according to Henri’s written instructions, carefully pouring the chilled crème anglaise over the crémeux, and then garnishing with black sesame seeds, lime zest, and fleur de sel. Her presentation looked professional, if she dared say so herself—the perfect conclusion to a flawless evening. She carried the dessert glasses out on a tray and offered one to Drew. She took her seat and looked up, startled, as something buzzed. “What’s that?”
“My phone.” Drew pulled his smartphone out of his pocket. He stared at the screen and frowned.
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know yet.” He hesitated.
Maggie stared at him. Alarm pricked her. “Drew…”
“You’re trending on Twitter.”
“Why?” was her first question. Her next question, the one she did not voice, was, “And how do you know?” She peeked over his shoulder as he clicked on the linked article. Her eyebrows drew together. He’s got a Google search on me? Isn’t that like stalking?
The hyperlink launched a YouTube video. As Elvis Costello crooned the words to “She,” a montage of Maggie’s modeling photographs flashed across the screen in time to the music. Ever so often, the image cut to a good-looking young man in a tuxedo, lip-synching, his arms extended. The expression in his eyes alternated between a lost puppy and a mischievous marmoset. As Costello’s voice rose in the final words of the song, the man spoke. “Help me score five million ‘Likes’ in five hours, and Marguerite Ferrara won’t be able to say no when I invite her to my ten-year high school reunion.” He grinned, flashing white, straight teeth. “Help a guy score the girl of his dreams.”
Maggie snorted, amused yet unmoved. “Who does he think he is?”
Drew glanced at the name on the account. “His name is Tyler Lamarck.” His shoulders stiffened. “And he already has more than four and a half million likes on that video.”
“What?” Maggie searched for the timestamp. The video had been posted two hours earlier. Five million likes within five hours was a foregone conclusion. She snorted. “I’m not going to get blackmailed into going out with a random stranger.”
“He’s a stranger?”
“I don’t know him,” Maggie responded truthfully and rather absentmindedly as she crafted a polite refusal in her mind.
Drew’s steady silence was like a slap in the face.
Maggie blinked hard, her gaze refocusing on him. “You think I had him set it up? Why would I do that?”
“For five million pairs of eyes on you in under five hours? That’s publicity
money can’t buy.”
“It’s publicity I don’t want.” Did he even realize how much time she spent each day trying to evade the paparazzi?
“You’re a model.”
Maggie flinched. Drew’s matter-of-fact statement, delivered in that tone—he might as well have called her a slut. How was he any different from Leon Kinrath and all the other men she dated?
He wasn’t.
Something in her, in the vicinity of her heart, cracked, but pride kept her chin up. As soon as she was done with this ridiculous farce of a date with Drew, she would contact Tyler and ensure he scored an evening with the girl of his dreams.
Chapter 4
A month later, Marguerite Ferrara—elegant and sophisticated in the $4,499 turquoise dress that Drew had scarcely noticed—opened the door to admit a handsome man in a tuxedo. Her lips tugged into a practiced smile. “Mr. Lamarck.”
“Tyler, please. I certainly intend to call you Marguerite. May I say, you look absolutely splendid.” He gestured vaguely with his hands. “You have so much more presence in person than I expected.”
Maggie kept her smile in place as he reached for her hand and fastened a corsage around her wrist. Periwinkle-colored babies breath, pearls, and a chiffon ribbon accented a spray of white mini roses. “I hope it brings back happy prom memories,” he said.
“Thank you for the flowers.” She raised the arrangement to her wrist. The delicate scent of roses filled her nostrils. “They’re lovely. And I never went to prom.”
Tyler’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I was homeschooled in Milan. We didn’t have proms there.”
“So I’m going down in history as your prom date? Even better. It’s more than I bargained for, but I’m certainly up to the challenge.” His eyes wide and curious, Tyler spared a quick glance over her shoulder at her condominium, and then offered her his arm. “Your carriage is waiting, my lady.”
The black stretch limousine whisked them toward the Algonquin Hotel on Times Square. The soft purr of the car engine faded into a white noise beneath the light blues music flowing through the speakers. Maggie relaxed against the butter-soft leather seat and extended her legs in front of her. “What can I expect at your reunion, Tyler?”
He grinned. “The craziest class ever to graduate from Stuyvesant High School.” His eyes lingered on the length of her thighs exposed by the hem of her dress. “The organizers told me that there was a host of last-minute registrations, no doubt inspired by you.”
Maggie laughed. “I’m happy to help get the party going.”
“You’re going to love this one. No expense spared. Fabulous band, and the food is catered from one of my classmate’s restaurants. Reed Dupriest owns a French bistro in Greenwich Village. You may have heard of it. Le Crêperie.”
Maggie perked up. “I have, actually. It’s close to Parsons. Their Crêpe Suzette with Grand Marnier is fabulous.”
“Is it? I’ll have to give it a try sometime. I’ve never been there; I always thought it a bit pretentious the way they talked down to you in French.”
Oh, really? A pity Tyler’s experience differed from her own. Maggie had enjoyed Le Crêperie, in part because it was an unapologetic American twist on the European experience. The attractive dark-haired hostess, Marie Antoinette—an alias, no doubt—greeted every customer with the most horrendously American-accented bonjour and a sheepish grin. Bonjour was the extent of the French spoken at Le Crêperie.
Tyler prattled on. “I’ll introduce you to Reed. He’s going to be so stoked that you’ve actually been to his restaurant. I hope you’re not opposed to photographs or autographs. I suspect a ton of my friends will want to be seen with you this evening.”
Yes, I mind. “No, I’d be happy to.”
“Wonderful. My best friend, Will, married his high school sweetheart, Michelle, and they’ll both be at the reunion. He fancies himself a photographer. No one has the heart to tell him he doesn’t have an eye for picture composition, but he’s appointed himself the official photographer for the evening. He’ll probably follow us around all evening.” Tyler placed his hand over hers. “It’s just the price of fame, isn’t it?”
“I’d rather share the spotlight.” Or give it away entirely.
Tyler thumped his chest with a fist. “I’m happy to share the spotlight with you, Marguerite. Wow, even your name is beautiful. It just rolls off the tongue. There’s a girl in my class; her name is Constanza, and she’s part-Catalan Spanish, part-Indian. Feather, not dot. Cheyenne or Cherokee, I don’t remember which. We dated our senior year; she was my prom date. Prettiest girl in the school back then. She got a bit chubby after that though.”
Maggie arched an eyebrow. She did not appreciate Tyler’s critical assessment of a woman’s body. Women, including her, wrestled enough with self-image issues. Male opinions were not welcome, unless they were both complimentary and sincere.
“I wonder if she’ll be there tonight,” Tyler continued without missing a beat or allowing Maggie to get a word in edgewise. “Last I heard, she was in hiding after her fiancé left her at the altar.”
Maggie immediately felt a twinge of sympathy for the other woman. Tyler’s nonchalance grated on her, not in a good way. “I’m surprised you didn’t choose to attend with her,” Maggie said. “She was your senior prom date, wasn’t she?”
Tyler winked at her. “I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.” He stroked a stray lock of hair away from her cheek. “And tonight, all eyes are going to be on us.”
“I’m surprised you managed to get so many likes so quickly.”
“The power of social media. Did you know I have 1.7 million followers on my YouTube channel and 2.3 million on Twitter? I can mobilize them with a snap of my finger. Within a half hour of posting, your video was shared tens of thousands of times on Facebook. It went viral from there. I guess a normal guy asking a model out to his high school reunion hit a chord with folks.”
“I suppose so,” Maggie said. If Tyler pegged himself as a normal guy, perhaps he was exactly what she needed to prove to Drew that she was not a celebrity-dating snob.
The limousine pulled up in front of the Algonquin Hotel. Maggie pasted a smile on her face and braced for a migraine under the flashing lights. The food smelled great, though she only sipped on a white wine spritzer. The music was loud; the ponderous beat of the bass guitar kept time with the beat of her heart. Every way she turned, someone stopped her for a photograph or an autograph.
For every person who told her she looked better in person, two others made snide comments behind her back. Neither situation fazed her. She had been a professional model since the age of fourteen; she had developed a thick skin except where it mattered most—Drew alone could wreck her with a frown.
Damn it. She had to get her mind off him. She did not need a disapproving “big” brother spoiling her fun.
Tyler stayed by her side all evening and amused her with a rapid commentary of his high school classmates. His remarks were biting, but she did not sense real malice. To him, it was entertainment, and apparently, everyone around him understood it and accepted it as such. Tyler held his smartphone through the evening—it might as well have been grafted to his hand—and he checked it frequently, though Maggie could not imagine why.
The highlight of the evening, surprisingly, was meeting Constanza. The other woman was petite, scarcely over five two, and she was slightly plump, though not enough so to be worth notice, let alone deserving of Tyler’s critical comments. Her smile, however, was brilliant, and her green eyes were arresting. She was not conventionally pretty, though Maggie was certain she would photograph well.
“Hello.” Constanza extended her hand. “I’m Constanza Principe.”
“Marguerite Ferrara. It’s good to meet you. Tyler told me that you were his senior prom date.”
“Ah, yes. Things have changed since then, haven’t they, Tyler?” Constanza looked at Tyler. Something raw and painful flashed through her eyes, but va
nished so quickly that Maggie wasn’t certain what to make of it.
“Yeah, of course,” Tyler said. He gestured dismissively, but his tone was defensive. “There’s someone else I want you to meet, Marguerite.” He slipped an arm into the crook of her elbow and guided her away.
“What was that about?” Maggie asked.
“She’s got it into her head that I had something to do with her wedding fiasco.”
“When her fiancé left her at the altar?”
“Yeah, but I’m as clueless as the next person.” Tyler’s brow furrowed. After a moment, his troubled expression passed, and he shrugged. “Whatever it is, it’s between Connie and me. No need to bother you with it.” His smile brightened, and he raised his voice. “And here, this is Reed Dupriest. Reed, the prettiest girl in the room, Marguerite Ferrara.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of names and blinding camera flashes. It was past midnight when Tyler finally escorted her from the hotel. As the limousine drew up in front of Maggie’s condominium complex, she pushed away from the leather seat and turned to Tyler with a smile. “Thank you, Tyler. I had a good time.”
“Did you really?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, if I asked you out again, just the two of us, you’d say yes?”
No. Wait. He’s a normal guy…
Tyler’s face was shadowed in the darkness of the car. In that moment, he looked much younger than twenty-eight.
In Maggie’s mind, she could see Drew standing over Tyler’s shoulder, his face set in unsmiling lines. Oh, God. That watchful expression on Drew’s face was enough to turn her off every other man. “I don’t know, Tyler.”
“At least you’ll give me a chance to say goodnight?” Tyler leaned forward, his hand set gently against her cheek to steady her. His lips brushed against hers, as light as a whisper. Ah, what the heck. She banished Drew’s image, closed her eyes, and sank into the kiss.
Her body went through the motions as her mind continued its unemotional assessment of Tyler. As a kisser, he was not too bad. A seven, maybe even a seven and a half on a ten-point scale. What would Drew’s lips feel like, she wondered? Would his hand on her waist grip harder and draw her closer? Would the heat start in the pit of her stomach and turn into those long, liquid pulls she read about in all those romance novels?
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