“I can’t believe you’ve never been here!” Drew shouted over the syrupy rendition of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” that was pumping gleefully through the large speakers that hung over the rink. “And you call yourself a New Yorker,” he scoffed playfully with a half-smile, pulling Olivia behind him, her dark hair floating out in the air like a streamer the color of coffee grounds, her creamy cheeks flushed from the combination of the cold air and spinning around the ice. Here, in this place he’d loved ever since he was a kid, and with a pretty girl who wanted nothing from him but this date, this one moment (well, so far, at least), Drew felt himself relaxing for the first time in weeks, the tension ebbing away like ice melting in his limbs, defrosting the tight muscle of his heart. He’d always loved New York, and the city was never more magical than during the holiday season, when the whole place glittered like a sprawling, gaily wrapped package just waiting to be torn open and savored. Drew felt a twinge around his heart as he thought momentarily of Casey. When they were still seeing each other, he’d planned on taking her down Fifth Avenue just as soon as the lavish window displays were unveiled, knowing that she would find them as magical as he always did . . .
“Why stop here—why don’t you take me to the Chrysler Building next?” Olivia joked, letting go of his hand briefly to adjust her matching red cashmere hat atop her head, giving him a wide smile that exposed rows of teeth that glowed with the serene luster of whitened ivory. “I mean, I haven’t been there either.”
“It’s a date,” Drew said lightly, turning around so that he was skating backward, with Olivia facing him, taking her hands again in his own and holding on firmly. “Or we could get really touristy and check out the windows on Fifth before they take them down,” Drew said with a chuckle.
Olivia laughed warmly, slipping a bit and grasping wildly in the air, then regaining her balance at the last moment, a look of palpable relief moving over her face. It was weird. Now that he thought about it, Olivia kind of looked a little like Phoebe . . . if Phoebe was inexplicably cloned in a pod along with a young Elizabeth Taylor . . . And speaking of Phoebe, Drew wasn’t sure what kind of sparks had been flying between them last night at the coffee shop, but he did know that, whatever they were, it was a decidedly bad idea to even consider fanning them into a steady flame. But Drew also couldn’t help noticing that, where girls were concerned, he seemed drawn to sticking his hand in the fire every chance he got.
When Drew had called Olivia after school and suggested night skating at the infamous rink just off Columbus Circle, Olivia had groaned forebodingly, her voice both sarcastic and self-effacing. “I’m hopeless,” she’d warned. “You’ll probably regret it after five minutes on the ice with me—I haven’t skated since I was ten, and I pretty much sucked back then, too.” She laughed, the sound reminding him of bells, of a crystal chandelier tinkling in the breeze. And even before he hung up, he knew that he was in all kinds of trouble. First of all, there was the whole high school issue—namely, that he attended one. He wasn’t exactly sure why he’d even lied in the first place. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that he’d much rather be Drew Van Allen, college student, home from Princeton for a family emergency than Drew Van Allen, high school junior with two completely screwed-up parents and an avalanche of confusion stampeding through his brain on an hourly basis. It wasn’t like he couldn’t man up and tell her the truth at any time, but somehow, now that the lie was out there, he felt powerless to dispel it.
Olivia leaned forward reflexively, her center of gravity off, then collapsed onto the ice, her ass hitting the cold, wet surface with a smack. “Owww!” she whined, looking up at Drew and giggling, reaching one hand underneath her to rub the back of her jeans-covered legs where they’d made contact with the ice. “That really hurt!” she said mournfully as Drew pulled her up, watching as she brushed the back of her jeans off with her red-mittened hands. So far anyway, college girls didn’t seem all that different from the high school girls he was used to. The only differences he had noted thus far were that college girls wore less makeup—and definitely seemed to complain less, too. They’d been on the ice for a better part of an hour, and not once had Olivia pointed out how cold it was outside, or made him stop every ten minutes so that she could check her reflection in her compact and apply more lip gloss—a move that basically defined the lip liner-wielding presence of one Madison Macallister.
Drew felt a sharp pain in his chest as he thought about Madison and Casey, and the way things had gone down. He’d wanted so badly to pull Casey aside this afternoon on the steps and apologize, to tell her that it wasn’t her, that it was him, that he was so screwed up that lately all he seemed capable of doing was making a mess of things—including their relationship—or whatever it was that had been happening between them. But she was sitting there with Darin, who was a pretty good guy, a guy, Drew knew, who would treat her right, who would never even consider walking out of a party and leaving her standing there alone. And, if, by some bizarre twist of fate, Darin did happen to hurt her, Drew was almost certain he would’ve called her the next morning to apologize. Hell, Darin Hollingsworth probably would show up at her doorstep with a bouquet of roses. And Drew knew that as much as he hated the idea of it, as much as it hurt his chest to look at her every day and not talk to her, that Casey, as special as she was, deserved a guy like Darin—not someone who was so messed up that he kept hurting anyone who was unfortunate enough to get close to him . . . Somehow, with Olivia it was easier, simply because it wasn’t real.
“So,” Drew said once she righted herself and they began gliding across the ice again, this time side by side, hands entwined, except with those damn mittens she was wearing it felt like holding hands with a stuffed toy instead of a hot girl, which Olivia definitely was. “What’s your major?”
Olivia took a deep breath in and exhaled, sending a cloud of breath into the night air. “English,” she said decisively. “I mean, it’s my mother tongue—I figure I can’t screw it up too badly, you know?” She laughed, pulling a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth with her free hand. “What are you studying at Princeton?”
Drew felt his heart accelerate and a cold sweat begin to break out on his palms. Good thing she was wearing those mittens after all . . . “I’m not sure,” he said nervously. “I’m just . . . taking a lot of different classes, trying to figure out where my interests lie, you know?” Drew panicked a bit in the subsequent silence. Did he sound too high school? Too unfocused? Or basically just like every other majorless moron Olivia had met at college so far? After a moment, Olivia nodded, and Drew exhaled heavily, relieved that he seemed to have said the right thing. “I’m really into film though.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s your favorite director?” Olivia asked, further confirming Drew’s newfound opinion of the awesomeness of college girls. Casey had talked to him about movies, sure, but coming from Olivia it seemed like there was no doubt that he was a film buff, that those were the type of people she was around all of the time. That was the kind of girl that Drew wanted, those were the kind of people he wanted to be around.
“Woody Allen,” Drew said, hoping that his answer would be cool enough, that she didn’t think he was a romantic or passé or stupid for not saying Godard or Bresson.
“La di da, la la,” Olivia replied, doing her best to do Diane Keaton’s little head nod thing while balancing precariously on two very narrow blades of steel. “Annie Hall is probably my favorite film of all time. Can’t say that I’m not a real New Yorker now, can you?” Olivia teased, glancing at him sideways under her lashes, which Drew noticed were preternaturally long and thick.
That was it. Drew was in. This thing with Olivia—whatever it was—was something new and different and totally effortless and, above all, fun. It felt like there was no pretense with Olivia, no rules. And she loved Woody Allen. Part of him considered proposing for that fact alone. I wonder how she feels about Almodóvar, he wondered distractedly. Before he knew it, he was speaking again, not r
eally realizing the exact consequences of what he was asking, but even as his mind caught up with his mouth, he found himself not caring—this was too good to have a lie get in the way.
“So there’s this thing going on next week. It’s like a holiday party. A gala.” He paused, not wanting to seem too excited, trying to maintain a slight bit of nonchalance.
“And?” Olivia asked, her eyebrows raised, an adorable grin spread across her face.
“And, well, I was hoping that you might go with me.” Drew exhaled and gave Olivia a tentative, sideways grin, feeling his heart begin to race wildly, his pulse throbbing in his temples. Why was asking girls out so stressful? Every time he did it, Drew felt like he was having a stroke. “It’s not the Chrysler Building, but I think you’d find it acceptable for a second date . . . or whatever you want to call it.”
Olivia smiled, and the ice surrounding Drew’s vital organs melted a little more as he gazed at her heart-shaped face, which looked as smooth as vanilla ice cream and twice as sweet, her incredibly blue eyes that bordered on violet. “Just acceptable, huh?” she said jokingly. “What kind of dive is this thing at?”
“Uh, the Guggenheim,” Drew deadpanned.
After a moment’s silence that was rapidly filled with a truly horrific version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” blaring from the speakers, Olivia burst out laughing, squeezing his hand just a little tighter with her own in the process.
“The Guggenheim?” She giggled, feigning wide-eyed na ïveté. “As in the large circular building? The museum with no corners? You’re inviting me to the Holiday Gala at the Guggenheim?”
Drew blushed, trying to wipe his suddenly running nose nonchalantly with his free hand before it got totally out of control. “Well . . . yeah,” he said, hoping to God she didn’t say no, despite the disastrous consequences that might befall him for asking her there.
“I don’t know, Drew . . .” Olivia said teasingly, a singsong note in her voice as her speech trailed off into the air, leaving him hanging. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, letting go of his hand to playfully shove him in the upper arm. “Of course I’ll go with you!” she finished, her dark eyes alive with excitement. “I’d love to. But you’re not off the hook on the Chrysler thing . . . that’ll just have to be pushed back to date number three.”
Drew smiled nervously, and let go of her hand, using it as an excuse to push his hair back. How did they get to date number three all of a sudden? Did he even want a third date—along with the subsequent pressure? Wasn’t having a third date just a hop, skip, and a jump from having an actual relationship ?
As he skated along, trying to figure it all out, a little boy in a bright red jacket and hockey skates whizzed by, knocking into Olivia with his Tonka-truck-wide body with a loud smacking sound. Drew watched as she wobbled precariously on her blades, reaching out his arms to catch her at the last moment before her ass became one with the ice yet again. As she pitched forward in his arms, leaning heavily against his chest in a soft bundle of cashmere that smelled like the fresh, clean snow that hadn’t yet fallen, mixed with some perfume that reminded him, insanely enough, of hot chocolate, Drew couldn’t deny that, third date or not, he was extremely attracted to this girl.
Olivia raised her head, her violet eyes searching his own without words as she leaned in and, with a smile, pressed her lips to his. Drew closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, his arms reaching out to wrap themselves around her body, pulling her even closer. Even though he was doing a pretty good impersonation of someone lost in the throes of passion, Drew couldn’t keep his mind from running nonstop, even with Olivia’s warm breath on his face, her soft lips that opened and closed as she kissed him more deeply. Can I really make this work, Drew wondered as she pulled away, her deeply blue-violet eyes glimmering in the glow from the huge tree hanging above them, when the whole relationship is pretty much based on lies?
“Is there something wrong?” Olivia asked nervously, biting her bottom lip as she took in Drew’s obvious confusion.
“Nothing at all,” Drew said reassuringly as he pulled her close once again, leaning in for another kiss, determined not to worry anymore. Lies, truth—it’s all pretty relative, right? Besides, it’s only a little white lie anyway—the kind that won’t hurt anybody, Drew told himself as he dissolved into their kiss once again, tangling his hands in Olivia’s mass of dark, silky hair. After all, stretching the truth had definitely worked for his parents for all these years. Why should he be any different?
uptown lounge
“Don’t you want to sit a little closer to me?”
Jared smiled, parting his full lips, a playful expression enlivening his face, his dark hair falling forward and obscuring his blue eyes momentarily before he pushed it back with one hand, his expression turning confident as he reached across the table, encircling Phoebe’s wrist gently in his huge hand and pulling softly until she had no choice but to lean across the wooden surface and kiss him, her lips melting into his, the room alive with arcs of golden light dancing behind her closed eyelids. Jared’s other hand rested lightly in the hair that fell down her back like dark water, stroking it lightly. The touch of his fingers on her scalp made Phoebe want to curl up in his arms and purr like a contented kitty. But as attracted as she was to Jared physically, every time she closed her eyes, Drew’s face inevitably rose up from the darkness and implanted itself on her brain, twisting her thoughts like rigatoni, and throwing her heart into traitorous, unchecked mutiny.
After an hour and a half of trading stories about their screwed-up parents, and drinking enough coffee to give a small child caffeine-induced seizures, Drew and Phoebe had stood awkwardly on the sidewalk outside Uncommon Grounds, Phoebe scuffing the toe of her ballet flats obsessively against the pavement, afraid that if she kept standing there for even one more moment she’d become paralyzed by the intensity and uncertainty in Drew’s sleep-deprived, anguished blue eyes. Whatever connection they shared, Phoebe couldn’t help but think it might be more than just physical—way more. Or maybe she was just reading too much into the fact that their parents were currently sharing more than just decorating tips . . . Phoebe frowned, her lips leaving Jared’s in a burst of confusion with a soft smack.
Phoebe stared into Jared’s eyes, watching as they slowly and unabashedly traveled their way down her body from her smooth, pale face to the black Azzedine Alaia dress that hugged her body like an extremely chic wetsuit. Was this all they really had? Phoebe wondered nervously, sitting back against the purple banquette and willing Jared to look up and hold her gaze at eye level, to ask how her day was, how she was holding up—anything but continue the obvious game of Guess the Cup Size he was currently engrossed in. Sure, everything was great now—when everything was all brand-spanking-new—but Phoebe couldn’t help wondering what might happen if and when they got sick of making out with one another, when things weren’t so new anymore . . . or forbidden.
They may have been making out in a dark lounge, but since Sophie had given them her blessing, hiding was hardly a necessity. A cold wave moved up and down Phoebe’s body, the opposite of the heat wave that usually sent her thighs up in flames whenever Jared was anywhere in the immediate vicinity. Until now, her relationship with Jared was the only stable thing she had in her life—the only part of her messed-up existence that actually seemed to be working out, and now that was completely shot to shit . . .
Madonna’s Hard Candy blared from the speakers, drowning out the hope of having any sort of conversation that required actual listening, the room filling with the Material Girl’s nasal, slightly imperious vocal stylings. Can’t get my head around it, I need to think about it . . .
Story of my life, Phoebe thought with a weak smile, sitting back in her chair and looking around at the fashionable crowd of Upper East Siders who were populating The Lounge, touching their full martini glasses together, the musical clinking mixing with the staccato click of Jimmy Choos traipsing across the hardwood floors and the high-pitched, sucking
noise of vigorous air-kissing.
Make that ass-kissing, Phoebe thought with a scowl, resting her elbows on the wooden table and playing with the red plastic stirrer in her vodka martini, pulling it out to pop a salty green olive between her teeth. When she’d agreed to meet Jared for drinks, she’d hoped that this would turn out to be the kind of night where they could find somewhere quiet to sit around and just talk. But The Lounge, with its dark corners and romantic lighting, long cherrywood bar, jewel-toned color scheme in shades of crimson and glossy metallic purple, and small plates of hip bar food that were meant for sharing, was seemingly designed to get couples to do anything but talk.
“Want to come over tonight?” Jared asked with a grin, just as their server dropped a plate of Pan Asian vegetable dumplings with plum sauce in the center of the table, the fragrant steam rising from the white porcelain like secrets being dispersed into the air. Jared snapped his chopsticks in half, rubbing the two sticks against one another to remove any stray splinters of wood, then attacked the plate, chewing rapidly. Phoebe prodded the plump skin of the dumpling with one chopstick, then placed it down on the table again and took a swallow of vodka instead.
“Why?” Phoebe answered absentmindedly, the words spilling from her lips before she could check herself. She smiled to cover up the hastiness of her reply, and popped another olive into her mouth.
Elite 03 Simply Irresistible Page 15
