Читать онлайн книгу «Playing Her Cards Right: Choose Me» автора Jo Leigh

Playing Her Cards Right: Choose Me
Jo Leigh
Choose MeCharlie Winslow is wealthy, successful, and usually found mingling with the A-list crowd. So when he goes on a Valentine’s Day blind date with small town girl Bree Kingston, the last thing he expects is to fall head over heels…Have MeHigh-powered executive Rebecca Thorpe isn’t looking for Mr Right. What she does want is Mr Right-Here-Right-Now. So when she spots sexy police officer Jake Donnelly, she knows she’s found the perfect guy…Want MeShannon Fitzgerald created the New York Hot Guys Trading Cards – a private ‘man swap’ for her single friends. But, she has yet to find the ‘perfect card’… until she sees gorgeous Nate Brenner again for the first time in years."


JO LEIGH is from Los Angeles and always thought she’d end up living in Manhattan. So how did she end up in Utah, in a tiny town with a terrible internet connection, being bossed around by a house full of rescued cats and dogs? What the heck, she says, predictability is boring. Jo has written more than forty novels and can be contacted at joleigh@joleigh.com (mailto:joleigh@joleigh.com).
Playing Her Cards Right
Choose Me
Have Me
Want Me
Jo Leigh


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents
Cover (#u0aa291f1-4606-57fe-babf-63d0c289d8d1)
About the Author (#u18cbf460-ecf0-5878-ab1a-0fae5ad238b7)
Title Page (#u1fc1def7-33a9-5913-b415-236aeb585fc1)
Choose Me (#ulink_e3af3fca-f259-5aaf-a542-0b01b1bba584)
Dedication (#u6338e2e1-e57a-5900-85c7-94c75f0e5441)
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Jo Leigh
To Birgit, for her enthusiasm and support. And to Debbi & Jill, who rock. Hard.

1 (#ulink_ddbe66d0-8dae-581c-8099-e8b302525e5e)
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Bree Kingston
Assistant copywriter at BBDA Manhattan
Studied Advertising and Fashion at Case Western University
Lives in Manhattan
Single From Ohio
Born on March 22
BREE KINGSTON HAD BEEN IN Manhattan for five months and twelve days. This was her third visit to the St. Mark’s Church basement kitchen, where she and sixteen women she barely knew were exchanging ten days’ worth of frozen lunches. She’d gotten invited by Lucy Prince, whom Bree had known for four days. Lucy wasn’t part of the exchange. Not anymore. She’d moved to Buffalo with her fiancé, thereby freeing up the foldout ottoman bed that Bree slept on in the one-bedroom apartment she shared with three other girls. Bree’s rent was a steal at seven hundred per month. The stove at the apartment had been nonfunctioning for as long as anyone there could remember.
Technically, this was her sixth visit to the kitchen. She had gotten permission to come to the communal church basement the evenings before the exchanges to prepare her lunches. Sixteen portions of veggie lasagna and medium-heat chili this week packed in small freezer-to-microwave containers, all ready to be handed out during the semimonthly trade.
Although it had sounded odd when she’d first heard about the group, Bree suffered from both of the two major maladies that came with living the Manhattan dream: no decent single men to date and no money.
She’d anticipated both. Since she’d spent most of her twenty-five years planning her escape to The Big Apple, she’d read every article, blog and book about the subject, saved her money like Scrooge as she’d worked her way through college, and even had a decent savings account set aside for emergencies. Bree was in this for the long haul.
Finding the lunch exchange had been a brilliant stroke of luck. Fourteen of the sixteen were also single, worked in the East Village and all of them knew where to find the best happy hours, the cheapest dry cleaning, cell service that actually worked and where not to go on a date, assuming one ever had a date.
Even better, she’d actually made her first real New York friends.
“Attention ladies!” Shannon Fitzgerald, a natural redhead wearing a fantastic knockoff dress Bree had noticed first thing, had needed to shout to get everyone to listen. All of them were standing around a rectangle of tables, their lunches in front of them in neat little stacks. Everyone had brought their own cooler bag with ice packs on the bottom. In a moment, they’d move from pile to pile, an elegant assembly line of working women, all of them under thirty-ish, all of them wearing something dark on this December day. All of them except Bree. She had chosen a yellow-and-black plaid skirt and jacket, emphasis on the yellow, handmade from her own copycat pattern. Which would have looked very nice on Shannon, now that Bree thought about it.
“Hush,” Shannon said, and in a moment, the room fell silent. “Thank you. I have had an idea,” she said.
It wasn’t just a sentence. Not the way it was said. No, all the words were IN CAPS and bold, like a headline. The IDEA was going to be good. Exciting. Way more than just a new frozen lunch recipe.
“For those of you who are new—” Shannon nodded toward Bree “—my family owns a printing press. Fitzgerald & Sons on 10th Avenue and North 50th.”
Bree had seen the place. It was huge.
“We do trading cards. Mostly sports, but now everybody and their uncle wants them. Artists use them as calling cards, Realtors do the same. They’ve got them for Twilight, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, and we just finished a ginormous order of official Hip-Hop trading cards.”
Shannon paused, looking around the room. Then she smiled. “No one, however, is using trading cards the way they should be used—to trade men.”
Bree blinked, shot a look at her closest friend, Rebecca Thorpe, only to find Rebecca staring back. They raised eyebrows at each other and Bree was grateful all over again that she and Rebecca had clicked at that very first lunch exchange, despite their obvious differences. Bree was from a little town in Ohio and had a huge middle-class family. Rebecca was an attorney, the only child of a snooty New York family and she ran a charity foundation, one of the biggest in the world. Still, within five minutes of meeting, they’d made plans, exchanged digits and by that night they’d been friends on Facebook and LinkedIn and had already talked on the phone for over an hour.
“Intriguing,” someone said, and Bree snapped back to the IDEA and the drama.
Someone else said, “Go on.”
Shannon obliged. “Three weeks ago, I went out on a fix up. My cousin knew this guy who worked with this other guy, and you know the drill. He was great. Really. We met at Monterone—I know, risotto to die for—anyway, he was good-looking, his job was legit, he’d been with someone, but they’d broken up months ago. It was a really nice blind date, one of the best I’ve been on in ages. But it wasn’t there.” The redhead sighed. “Zero chemistry. I knew it, he knew it. However,” she said, only it was HOWEVER, “I knew, straightaway, that he and Janice would hit it off like gangbusters.”
Every eye turned to Janice. Bree had met her, of course, but she was one of the few Bree hadn’t had drinks with. She was a cutie, too. Tall, brunette, great touch with makeup.
Janice grinned. “We’ve been out three times, and he’s fantastic. I can’t even believe it.” Janice put her hands on the table in front of her and leaned over her frozen chicken enchiladas. “I’m going to meet his mother on Friday.”
The whole room said, “Ohhh,” in the same key.
“I know,” Janice said, standing up again. Back straight, face glowing. As if she’d won not just the spelling bee but aced the math final, as well.
Shannon spoke. “We’ve all got them, you know. Men who are nice and cute and have steady jobs. Who aren’t gay or taken or married and not telling. Combine that with my family’s printing press and what you get is …”
This was like a Broadway show, Bree thought. Or the Home Shopping Network. She held her breath, waiting for the reveal, the IDEA in all its glory.
Shannon raised her hands. Holding in each one, a card. A beautiful, glossy card. A trading card fit for a Heisman trophy winner, for a Hall of Famer. “On the front,” she said, “the picture. Of course.” Then she flipped her hands around. “On the back are the important details. The stats that matter.”
“Like …” Bree said, surprised she’d spoken aloud.
“First and foremost,” Shannon said, “marry, date or one-night stand.”
The women nodded. Hugely important. How much pain in life could be eliminated by knowing who was whom. Each had their place. Bree would never be interested in a marry. Probably not a date, although that would depend. But a one-night stand? God, yes. Someone prescreened? It would be perfection. A Manhattan girl’s idea of heaven.
“His favorite restaurant,” Shannon added, and again, there was a collective “Uh-huh.” “Because while I’m a gal who likes the pub down the street, some of you might prefer a little Nobu action. Then there’s his passion.”
Silence followed this statement, but Shannon milked it, in no rush to explain, though even she had her limits. “You know as well as I do that all of them want to talk about themselves, and usually they want to talk about their thing. No, not that thing. I mean, their other main preoccupation. You know, the Yankees, or the stock market, or the iPad or foreign films. If you’re into the Mets, you don’t want to get stuck with a day trader. Or maybe you do, but, at least, you’ll know going in. And finally,” she said, taking yet another dramatic pause. “The bottom line. Full disclosure. Snoring might not bother me, but it might bother you. Chemistry is downright fickle. But we all deserve to hear the unmitigated truth. Google can only give you so much, am I right?”
Again, there was silence, but not because anyone was confused. The beauty of the IDEA was sinking in, was gelling, was blooming like a rose in winter. As one, the semimonthly St. Mark’s frozen lunch exchange began to applaud.
Hot Guys New York Trading Cards was born.
WITH A QUICK GLANCE OUT the window at the snowplow spitting down West 72nd Street, Charlie Winslow pushed his chair across his office to computer number three, the Mac. There were six altogether, each running a different operating system, each rotating views of his Naked New York media group. There were setups like this, well not exactly like this, but similar enough, in an apartment in Queens, a bungalow in Los Angeles, a flat in London and an office in Sydney. Then there was the huge old mansion in Delaware where the bulk of his servers were housed.
Naked New York was a gluttonous bitch, needing constant attention. What had begun as a single blog about Manhattan in 2005 had become ten separate blogs generating at last count over two-hundred-million page hits per year, and far more importantly, roughly thirty million per annum in advertising revenue. NNY was just like any other conglomerate, only the products manufactured were ideas and opinions, words and tips, photographs and gossip. Ever changing to remain ever pertinent. The revenue stream was one hundred percent advertising, and while Charlie paid a small team of fulltime employees and a very large team of contributors, each blog was his baby whether it focused on celebrities, finance, sports, technology, gaming or even the female perspective on life. He trusted his editors, but it was his name on every masthead.
Which had made Charlie a celebrity, at least in the important cities. He liked that part. Hadn’t considered it when he wrote up the initial business plan, but there were worse things than getting invited to every major event and having stunning women eager to accompany him to each one. He wasn’t in Clooney’s league, but Charlie’s determination to remain a bachelor had passed from joke to fact to legend in the span of six years.
His phone rang, a call, not a text, and he answered, his Bluetooth gear attached to his ear directly after his morning shower. “Naomi. How are you today, gorgeous?”
“Filled with wonder and delight, as usual,” his assistant said, her voice a nasal Brooklynese, her tone as dry as extra brut champagne.
Charlie grinned. “Any changes?”
“Nope. Just don’t forget that the tailor is coming by at eleven. Don’t make him wait. You did last time, and while you’re precious as diamonds to me, his client list would make you tremble.”
“You’re always so good for my ego.” Charlie glanced at his handset to see who wanted to interrupt his call. It was his cousin Rebecca. Odd, she rarely texted on a workday. “Got to run.”
Naomi hung up even before Charlie pulled out the phone’s keypad.
What’s wrong? Has someone died? CW
A moment later, his phone beeped as his screen refreshed.
Everything’s fine. I have a treat for you, though.
He sailed across his floor again, this time to check the stats on one of his latest clients. Their ads had been on rotation in five markets, and they were doing well in four.
What kind of treat? CW
A date.
He laughed. His thumbs flew.
Come on, Becca. CW
She was his favorite cousin, which was saying something because he had a ton of them. His parents each had five siblings and they’d all bred like rabbits. Charlie had three siblings of his own, but only one had climbed aboard the baby wagon.
Instead of the beep announcing a return text, his phone rang. Charlie switched to voice.
“Seriously,” Rebecca said. “I think you’ll get a kick out of her. She’s … different. She’s new. Brand-new. Still, wears colors, for God’s sake. And she’s bright, tiny, funny and completely starstruck. She’ll swoon over you, and make that head of yours so large you won’t be able to fit through your front door.”
“Ah, Rebecca. I didn’t know you cared. She sounds perfect.”
“I’m betting you’re not booked for Valentine’s day.”
He sighed. “Don’t be silly. I never plan that far in advance.”
“You will this time.”
He looked away from his monitor at the sound of her voice. Teasing, as always, but he hadn’t missed the dare. He liked a challenge, and Rebecca was clever. Really clever. “Fine.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“What’s her name?”
“Does it matter?”
He inhaled as his hands went to his keyboard. “Nope.” Charlie clicked off and two minutes later, he was lost in a conference call, Valentine’s Day and intriguing puzzles forgotten.
BREE HAD MADE CHICKPEA veg curry and mac and cheese for her frozen meals, but like everyone else in the big kitchen, she wasn’t here for the food.
Today was CARD DAY.
The past few lunch exchange meetings had been more focused on the trading cards than food. Everyone, with one notable exception, had offered up at least two men to the trading card list. They’d brought in pictures, supplied the back copy, agreed that all first dates were to be held in very public venues, with the submitter knowing the details and phone numbers involved. Then, Shannon had done mock-ups of the cards, changed them twice until they had a design that worked. The actual printing of the cards hadn’t taken that long, but time had stretched like putty since that day in December. Finally, a month and a half later, here it was. There was actually a chance, remote as it might be, that Bree would find a card that had her dream man on the cover, and all he’d want was a night that would blow the lid off this town.
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 (#ulink_5928594e-75b7-55df-979b-c252265a699c)
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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.

1. Move to New York
2. Get a job in fashion advertising
3. Continue fashion education
4. Find a way into the Inner Circle
5. Become a regular at fashion events
6. ????
7. Publish
8. 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 well. 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.”
“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 snort. 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 (#ulink_c2f3b106-d3b5-5325-b41b-e01602f685fd)
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 ass-hats 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.
To be here with Charlie was … nope. No words came close to what this felt like.
The man himself shifted in the seat so he could watch her, but also have a clear view through her window. “It’s a hell of a culture shock, moving to New York,” he said. “A lot of people find nothing but trouble in Manhattan.”
“I wouldn’t mind finding a little trouble,” she said, a blush stealing up her cheeks. She touched her purse, hyperaware of the thong, the toothbrush, the condom and the rest that made up her one-night stand kit. Rebecca hadn’t said it outright, but she hadn’t needed to. Charlie’s bachelor ways were the stuff of legend.
The theme from Mission Impossible rang from her purse, scaring the crap out of her.
“I bet I know who that is,” he said.
Bree opened her clutch, not wanting him to see her kit, or, heaven forbid, his trading card. She snatched her phone and saw she had a message from Rebecca.
U there yet?
Bree grinned.
!!!!!!!
Knew U 2 wld be gr8
We’ll talk tomrw I
u for this!
You’re welcome. Knock m dead!
Charlie tried to sneak a peek, and she helped him by turning her screen.
He pulled his own phone out of his jacket pocket. Of course it was something amazing looking. Might have been a BlackBerry, she thought, latest gen at the very least, if not some exotic model not available to the public. Unlike her second-hand first-gen iPhone.
He was amazingly fast with his thumbs. Dexterous. But his texting couldn’t hold a candle to how expressive his face was. He grinned in a whole different way than he had a moment ago. None of that sweet, reflective rumination. Now he was the very picture of high amusement, his head tilted to the side, his eyebrows raised in either surprise or delight, possibly both. Or maybe something completely different, but this was the night for believing the best, right?
Before she put her phone back, she turned it so she had his face framed for a quick photo. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going home with some physical mementoes from tonight, and no, blisters from her incredibly high heels didn’t count.
As she reached to put her cell in her bag, it hit her. Why she was here. Why Rebecca had given her Charlie’s card. What the whole deal was.
A favor.
First night out with Rebecca, Bree had spilled her five-year plan all over the conversation. Her dreams, the steps, the obsession. Rebecca hadn’t told her she was related to Charlie. Hadn’t seemed to be aware of Fashion Week at all. That sneaky …
Which meant Bree had better pull her expectations down another fifty notches. She wasn’t really on a date with Charlie. She was on a favor. Those two things ended in completely different ways. Favors didn’t extend to the bedroom.
Charlie put his phone back in his jacket pocket just as her phone beeped again. “It’s going to be crowded in there. I’ve just sent you my number. If we get separated, text me, and I’ll find you.”
She had Charlie Winslow’s cell phone number. She could be excited about that. It might be a one-off, but so what? Just because it was a favor didn’t mean it wasn’t the biggest kick of her life.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Fine. Great. Am I likely to lose you?”
“Not if I can help it—ah, we’re here.”
The door next to Bree opened as Charlie slipped her glass from between her fingers. In yet another spectacular fairy-tale moment, she stepped onto a red carpet. She hadn’t flashed anyone, she hadn’t tripped and she managed not to let her jaw drop even when flashbulbs popped all around, blinding and thrilling in equal measure.
Charlie took hold of her arm above her elbow, and that was good because she really couldn’t see a thing. People around her were shouting, “Over here!” and “Look up!” over and over, and she hadn’t anticipated so much noise. Whenever she watched this part on TV it was silent, a voice-over, then a cut to a commercial, but here it was loud and scary and intrusive.
Charlie’s hand squeezed gently as he escorted her toward a towering white tent, which she knew was the Fashion Week venue in Damrosch Park. The area was huge, with runway shows from morning till night, cocktail parties, dining areas, meeting rooms, press rooms.
She’d been here, to Lincoln Center, but on the other side, with the fountain and the Met and the magic staircase. To be here now, when the whole complex was dressed up in its fancy best, when to get inside the tents should have been impossible for a girl like her, was a lot to process.
Thank goodness for Charlie’s steadying hand. What world was she in that the most comforting thing around her was Charlie Winslow? She honestly couldn’t tell if she was trembling more from the freezing cold or the excitement.
There was so much to look at between flashes of light, she was shocked to step inside. There was a line, and because this was the real world, there were metal detectors to go through. No one seemed to mind, though. Security was tight, and the slower pace as they were herded forward gave her a chance to catch her breath, only to lose it again as she got a load of who she was standing near.
Charlie’s breath warmed her neck as he leaned in close. Goose bumps. Everywhere. Down her spine and up her arms. When his voice followed, low and warm, her own breath hitched and her eyes may have rolled up in her head for just a second. Probably in a minute she’d get with the program. She wouldn’t feel faint from his touch, or by standing one person away from her favorite designer on earth. The problem was, she couldn’t decide what to stare at—the clothes or the designers themselves. Oh, God, there was the model who was on the cover of this month’s issue of Elle, and good God almighty, that was the star of her favorite CSI, and Bree was so grateful for Charlie’s arm.
“You’ll never see more food go to waste than you will at this party,” Charlie said in that same intimate whisper he’d used in the limo. “I don’t think any of these people actually eat. They do chew a lot of gum, though. Ketosis. It’s a breath thing, not that you’ll ever hear about it in Vogue or W. People who don’t eat may look fantastic on camera, but their breath could kill a buffalo. Be warned.”
Bree giggled, and while it was true that everyone in the two long lines snaking into the tent was on the ridiculous side of thin, most of the people she saw were subtly chewing, or standing in such a way as to avoid being breathed upon.
Of course, she thought of her own breath now. She’d barely eaten today, too nervous.
“You’re fine,” he said, with a minty-scented chuckle. “Don’t fret.”
She smiled at him as they inched along. “I guess I’m not hiding my small-town roots very well, huh?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
She gave him a knowing look. “I’ll try harder to appear blasé.”
“Don’t do that for my sake.” Charlie tugged her around even more, until they were facing each other. “I like that this is magical for you.”
“I’m a real novelty, huh?”
“Truthfully, yes. But a good one. I want to hear much, much more about your life before New York. I’m a native, and the way I was raised, you’d think there wasn’t anything between California and New York. I’ve never been to Ohio, although I’m reasonably sure I could point to it on a map. It’s at the bottom of Lake Erie, right?”
“Wow, I’m impressed. Yeah.”
“And where in Ohio did you grow up?”
She waved her hand at him and turned to check on the line’s progress. “You’ve never heard of it.” When she looked back, his smile was a bit crooked. “So that food you mentioned. Passed around on little trays? Buffet? Sit down banquet?”
“The first two,” he said. “There will be places to sit, tables all around, and here’s a secret. You can completely tell the pecking order by who sits, who stands and where those two things happen.”
Her eyes widened at yet another morsel of insider-y goodness. She felt as if he was giving her the ultimate backstage pass, and while she knew a lot of it had to do with manners and even more to do with Rebecca, there was a tiny flare of hope buried deep inside that perhaps he was letting her in because he liked her? A little?
Probably a good idea not to linger on that thought. She needed to be in the moment, enjoying the hell out of what she had. To ask for anything more was tempting fate.

4 (#ulink_e7a58692-cc89-519d-9b8f-1b1e8b8d71fe)
CHARLIE COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off Bree. What had Rebecca seen that had made her believe this absurd blind date could work? That it was working was … bizarre. He never would have guessed he would find Bree enchanting.
Hell, that he found anything enchanting stretched credulity.
And yet, watching her reminded him what it was like when he’d had heroes. Though he’d never been as innocently enthralled by glamour as Bree. Given his background, how could he have been? His family was part of xenophobic wealthy New York, the inbred, insane inner circle that made disdain and dismissal an art form. So his heroes had been those outside the fold: sports stars, indie musicians who would never be mainstream, oddball scientists and computer hackers. The last, thank goodness, had actually set in motion key aspects of his life.
“Oh, God,” Bree whispered, her hand clasping desperately at his lapel. “That’s Mick Jagger.”
Charlie followed her gaze a few feet away to where the old warhorse stood, surrounded by his all-but-invisible-to-him entourage. The Rolling Stone hadn’t been there a few minutes ago, but there wasn’t a person in the tent, hell in the city, that would call him out for cutting in line.
“Huh,” Bree said, still staring curiously at the megastar.
“Better get used to that,” Charlie said, enjoying himself. The past couple of years, the novelty of his lifestyle had dulled. He rarely considered anything outside of the job. Who to interview, who to keep an eye on, who was ready for a career obit. Filling Bree in was fun. She’d been right. No way she could pass for bored. Not even close. “Almost everyone’s shorter than you think,” he continued, stepping closer to her. “The men, especially. Not the models, though, they’re giraffes, but the actors, the musicians? Most of them are even shorter than I am.”
“You’re not,” Bree said. She turned and laid a smile on him that made him feel like a giant. “I’m short. Ridiculously so. It’s awful.”
“Why awful?”
Her smile changed and the tips of her ears turned pink. “I’m twenty-five, not twelve. Everyone thinks I’m cute. And harmless. Like a baby bunny. I’ve had people pat me on the head. I mean, come on. Who does that?”
“Not me,” he said, holding his hands up and away, mostly because now that she’d said it, he wanted to.
“I want to take his picture,” she said, lowering her voice as she stole glances at Jagger.
“So? Take it.”
She shook her head. “And that would advance my agenda of being a bored new designer how? I’m already an outsider. I’d like to at least pretend for a bit.”
Charlie turned to the person in back of him, some guy he didn’t know, but who looked like he might be a reporter. “We’ll be back in a sec, okay?”
The guy nodded, and Charlie kept his grip on Bree’s arm as he crossed over to the other line, right smack in the middle of the rock stars’ party. “Hey, Mick,” he said, holding out his hand. “Charlie Winslow. I’d love to get a photograph with you and my lovely date. Do you mind?”
The man shook Charlie’s hand, but only smiled once he set eyes on Bree. Then he couldn’t have been nicer. In fact, before they’d been there two minutes, Jagger had his arm around Bree’s shoulders and Charlie was taking the photo with her phone.
Bree looked thrilled to her toes even when Jagger copped a surreptitious feel during the photo op. Charlie wasted no time escorting her back to their saved place.
“I have to see,” she whispered, pressing buttons on her cell. “My hands are shaking. I’m such a dork.”
He took over the delicate operation, and she oohed and aahed at her fantastic luck. She was trembling with excitement and he would never have guessed. When she’d stood with one of the biggest celebrities on the planet, she’d appeared completely cool about the whole affair. Now her eyes hid nothing of her excitement. She grinned widely and clapped her hands together like a kid at the circus. Which, he supposed, she was.
Then they were at the security checkpoint, and there were wands and buckets and well-behaved guards. A short walk across a cold path, and they entered the main tent, the vast pavilion filled with music and chatter and laughter and a hundred different perfumes. Dresses that cost more than cars, faces that had been sculpted to the point of madness, lots of skin, lots of white teeth, and Bree looking like she’d arrived in Wonderland.
Charlie tried not to stare at her as they weaved through the crowd, as some chart topper sang her country tunes and photographs were taken. He sent a waiter for pineapple juice, and when he handed it to Bree, she blinked in utter bemusement.
It was too entertaining to last, because while he was on a date, he was also on assignment, and at least fifty percent of the guests at this shindig wanted their names on his blog tomorrow.
Normally this dance was one he could do in his sleep. Tonight, though, he wanted not just to include Bree, but feature her, make sure she met everyone she recognized. He wanted to see what she’d do, how she’d react. Unexpected. Completely out of character for him and puzzling, but nothing he cared to examine.
He felt drawn to Bree, which hadn’t happened in so long he’d almost forgotten it could happen. What was more interesting was that he couldn’t pinpoint why. If he had his way, he’d spend more time figuring out the deal with Bree than getting the dirt on the A-listers at the party.
“What’s wrong?” After a tour of the immediate area, complete with air kisses, handshakes, posturing and pumped-up drama, they found a spot as far away from the speakers as they could get. Yet even next to the side exits to the powder rooms and private paths, Bree had to shout.
“Nothing. You having a good time?”
“Yes,” she said. “Although I’m still in shock. It’s overwhelming.”
“It is. There are a lot of people wanting attention.”
“I see what you mean about the seats,” she said as she scooted closer to him.
He slipped his arm around her waist. Interesting, holding someone who was so small. He felt … protective.
“It’s as if every chair is a throne, exclusively for the most important kings and queens.”
He nodded. “Some of them have a seat for a lifetime, but not many. For most of them, it’s a limited run.”
“You could sit,” she said. “You probably do, don’t you?”
“Nope. I work the room. I may be recognizable to some, but my job here is to shine a light on the real celebrities. I’ll have to blog this in the morning, and if I don’t get it right, I’ll get dozens of calls and texts and emails from furious PR people telling me I’m a disgrace and I’ll never work in this town again.”
A waiter carrying champagne came by, and before Charlie could say anything, Bree touched his hand. “I’d like one, please.”
“Sure?”
She nodded. “It’s a champagne night.”
“You must be starving. I haven’t seen you eat a thing.”
“I’m too excited to eat. I shook hands with Tim Gunn!”
“I know,” he said. “He liked what you were wearing.”
“He did not,” Bree said, almost spilling her drink. “Why, did he say something?” She closed her eyes. “No, don’t answer that. You’re being sweet.”
“Yeah, but if he’d had a minute to notice, he would have liked your dress. You look stunning.”
She sighed. “I didn’t expect you,” she said. “To be honest, I’m not even sure what to make of you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I know I’m not at all what you’re used to. Yesterday, I saw a picture of you with Mia Cavendish. Then I saw her on the new Victoria’s Secret billboard in Times Square. Rebecca went way above and beyond doing me this favor, but you’ve made tonight incredible. A dream come true. I don’t even …”
He hadn’t thought of it in the car, or in line, or after the Jagger incident, but right now, he couldn’t think of anything in the world he wanted more than to pull this tiny person into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her.
So he did.
BREE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN shocked by his lips, but she froze, stunned more completely than she’d been at being bumped by Jean Paul Gaultier. Charlie Winslow was kissing her. Softly. Teasing her with the tip of his tongue, waiting for permission to enter. She obliged.
He turned out to be a gentleman in this respect, as well. No thrusting, no swallowing her whole. Entering slowly, he gave her time to get used to him. To savor. She’d expected champagne but he tasted like mint, although come to think of it, she had no idea what the finish of champagne would taste like.
One flat palm touched her bare shoulder, his other hand pulled her closer, and the tentative portion of the kiss ended, as did all but the most basic of thoughts. He angled his head and settled in for a stay as they explored each other. It didn’t take long for her shoulders to relax, to feel comfortable enough to pull back for a breath and a peek, then return for more.
That hand on her shoulder moved across her back warming her wherever it touched. It wasn’t cold in the room, not with this many people, but Charlie’s touch felt hot, not only his hand, either. The bass from the band made the room vibrate but she was already quivering. Kissing Prince Charming did that to a person.
As if the night wasn’t spectacular enough.
She’d never forget this, the song that was playing, how she felt him moan even though she couldn’t hear him. It was dizzying, every part of it, and her hope that this was more than just a favor went from not daring to think it to letting the idea take a seat.
He pulled back, not very far. “As much as I’d like to stay right here, I have to work. I’ll warn you now, the people we’re going to meet won’t pay you enough attention. They’re working the room, as well.”
“I don’t mind,” she said truthfully. She expected nothing from this crowd. Which couldn’t be said about Charlie. She had to stop herself from touching her mouth like a lovesick tween, but God, he had great lips. No matter how she looked at it, there’d been no reason to kiss her, none at all, except he’d wanted to. There went her breath, and any hope of walking on her wobbly knees.
“A room this size, it’s going to take a couple of hours. Make sure at some point that you get something to eat. I won’t be able to look after you as carefully as I’d like, and we can’t have you keeling over from starvation. Grab things when you can, or duck out to the buffet. I’ll be holding my cell, so I’ll hear if you call, and we’ll find each other.”
She nodded. “Go. Work. Do your magic. I was always excited to read your Fashion Week blogs. You made me feel as if I was there.”
“Really?”
“Well, now that I’m here, not exactly, but more than enough. Don’t tell, but I like your reports better than the ones in W.”
He grinned. “Now you’re just being nice.”
“Nope.” She crossed her heart. “Mean every word.”
“Come on, then. Let’s go meet some famous people.”
Bree was tempted to pull him in for one more kiss, to make sure it had been real, but didn’t dare. Although it was hard not to imagine what it would feel like to walk across the lobby of his building, to go up in that elevator. Before her foolish notions got too carried away, she was reminded, quite spectacularly, of what she was doing now. A boatload of iconic symbols had come to life.
She felt like a Lilliputian in a world of Gullivers with Charlie as her guide. He led her through paths between tables, ice sculptures dripping and corks popping, and always, always the intrusion of cameras. Around the perimeter of the party, the different celebrity gossip shows had staked their territories, and their camera lighting bounced off the white of the tent making the entire arena glow.
They would walk two, maybe three steps, then stop as another celebrity, each one a surprise, approached Charlie. Interestingly, none of the familiar faces looked quite right. They were either better or shorter or skinnier or blonder than they looked in People or on TV.
Bree was good with makeup. Really. She’d made a point of learning the correct techniques at a beauty school near her college, but there was an element of magic to the faces that passed by. And the clothes …
She’d browsed through some of the high-end boutiques in Manhattan. D&G, of course, but a few couture houses, as well, showcasing their elegantly crafted suits and dresses, not daring to touch because each button or zip was worth more than everything she owned or would own for years to come. Now she saw those creations in motion, and it was poetry. No way to call it anything other than art. Each designer’s style was as individual as a Picasso or a Rembrandt. She felt humbled. And grabby.
Instead of touching the fifty-thousand dollar gown, she snagged some hors d’oeuvres. Prawns and sushi and filet mignon, each with a little napkin and dabs of aioli. If she hadn’t been an adult person standing next to famous people she wouldn’t have stopped shoving them into her mouth because they were fantastic. The champagne was chilled, and she should switch back to pineapple juice because even with the food her edges were sliding toward fuzzy.
She turned to Charlie, only Charlie wasn’t there. Not where she’d left him, but that had been before she’d followed the hamachi tray, dammit. She did a complete three-sixty, pausing as she saw clumps of celebrities, and that made her giggle, because certainly clumps wasn’t the proper collective. What was? A cavalcade of celebs? A coterie? An ensemble? No, a superficiality of celebrities. Ha.
Bree pulled out her cell phone, pulled up Charlie’s cell number and typed. You’re not here.
He could be anywhere, so it wouldn’t hurt to meander. Maybe get a small bottle of water. Her cell would vibrate when he texted back, so she could work on her Not From Hicksville Face as she gasped to herself.
Where are you? CW
Standing next to 1 of the Olsen twins. Not sure which
1. Doesn’t matter.
Not able to find you via Olsen twin. Something more stationary please? CW
Ah. Stella McCartney holding court.
Perfect. But can’t leave quite yet. Ten min. CW
Who are you with? Nvr mind. Ur busy.
Bree lowered her phone, but it dinged.
3 people who want in. 2 who’ll get in. 0 fun as U. CW
She flushed with pleasure, even though it was a line, nothing more, and yet she’d never delete that text ever.


The second she pressed Send, Bree panicked. It was a heart. She meant he was being sweet. Not—Oh, crap, he’d probably—
Um. I meant thank U.

CW
She exhaled, still freaked out enough to barely glance at the second Olsen twin. She switched contacts, and texted.
Rebecca, I screwed up.
How?
Sent him

???
SENT HIM
!!!!!
No worries. He won’t mind.
But—
Hush. Trust me. & smile
The ding from a different text happened. Charlie.
Stay by Stella ETA 2 min CW
Bree decided to believe Rebecca and smile. Then she dialed the grin down from eleven to a reasonable five. Her heart, however, wasn’t so cooperative. It was a silly mistake, that’s all. Not even a mistake. A
didn’t have to mean anything significant. She used it with her friends all the time, and they didn’t think she was declaring her undying love.
She was nervous, that’s all. The atmosphere, the date itself. The Olsens.
And what came next. What might come next.
As a sneak peek, the kiss held great promise. She liked Charlie more than she’d expected to, and he’d kissed her, so he didn’t find her repulsive or anything, so that was a point in her favor. Truthfully? She was equal parts good-anxious and insanely terrified-anxious about spending time alone with him. But first time—only time—sex with anyone was scary. So much potential for catastrophe. The
was nothing compared to all the things that could go wrong.
She’d had her fair share of errors in the bedroom. The memories of which made her blush. But now was not the time to brood about mistakes made when learning the ins and outs, so to speak, of sex with relative strangers. It was the time to look for Charlie, to appreciate every single moment of being here, in this miraculous room, with a date that made her nipples take note, favor or not.
There were no twins at all around her now, but Ms. McCartney had a very large and enthusiastic crowd around her, and it was easy to see why. Although she couldn’t hear the designer, or even see her face very well, the people within ear and eyeshot were smiling. Not the kind of smile that made a person shiver, the kind that erased years and made it fun to eavesdrop. But there was Charlie, and his smile… .
God.
That was something. If it was fake, she’d take it, hands down over many other genuine things in life. Somehow, though, she didn’t think it was fake. No matter, she grinned back, honest as the day was long. It wasn’t that he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. There were a number here tonight who would look better on a magazine cover. Of course, they were models, so that made sense. Charlie’s charm was in the reality of his face. There were lines, small ones, that would have been airbrushed out on a cover, but she liked them. They gave him character and made him look as suave as he was. They were smile lines, which were always a good sign. Especially on the King of Manhattan.
She liked that he was thirty-one. Men in their twenties could have … issues. Fine, no problem, she was in her twenties and could make lists of all the things she wished were different, so no throwing stones, but guys were boys longer than women were girls, that was a fact. Charlie would be a wonderful lover, she imagined as she met him halfway to the dessert spread. That kiss had been an amuse-bouche. The meal would be like heaven.
“You look relatively unscathed,” Charlie said. “I’m shocked.”
“Why?”
“I’d have thought every straight man in the building would have been all over you.”
“Stop.”
“Not a line,” he said. “I mean it. I’m stunned. I rushed. Although I figured you could take care of yourself.”
“Based on?”
“Everything I’ve seen so far. You and Mick Jagger, for instance.” Charlie slipped his hand across her lower back. “What would you like to see next?”
Bree met his gaze. “The view from here is fine.”
He sighed, and because there was a momentary pause in the music, she heard it. The live music had stopped a while ago, and now there was recorded stuff—the mix excellent. Of course they’d have a great DJ at a party like this.
“Tell you what. Let’s do one more circuit. I promise not to drag it out, no matter who we meet, but you’re allowed to linger as long as you like, anywhere you like.”
“Wow. That’s very generous.”
“I’m feeling magnanimous.” He nodded toward a waiter. “Pineapple juice? Champagne? Pastry?”
She held up her water. “All set.”
He hugged her closer and they began the procession, and she truly did feel like a princess. Her free hand ended up around his back, and somewhere around a very large ice sculpture of Michelangelo’s David that was a bit worse for wear, her head came to rest on his shoulder. There were a number of places she thought about stopping, because the odds of her seeing these people again were nil, but not even Michael Kors himself was enough to pull her out of the spell of being with Charlie, her one-night-only prince.

5 (#ulink_0bb49e86-b4e0-518e-8e0a-9ccefceae18e)
THE LIMO ARRIVED, AND THANK goodness Charlie knew the driver because all of the limos looked identical, except for the radical fringe who liked their Hummers and their Bentleys stretched and bedazzled. Chivalry wasn’t dead, Bree was glad to see, as Charlie stood in the safety position blocking her as she got into the backseat. When he climbed in after, he pulled her close, his arm around her shoulders.
“That was amazing,” she said, rubbing her hands together in an attempt to get warmer.
“It was. Everyone came out to play tonight.”
“I’m still trying to get it in my head that it happened, that it wasn’t a dream.”
“Nope. A hell of a lot of the pictures and videos coming out of tonight are for Naked New York. I’ll make sure you get copies, how’s that?”
Bree looked up at him, astonished. “Really? Of everything?”
“Yep. On disk, so you can Photoshop whomever. Just do me a favor and don’t publish them. That could get tricky.”
“I won’t, I swear it. Not the Photoshop part—I’m totally going to do that, and I’m going to save every last nickel until I can get a color printer, but I swear I won’t publish. I wouldn’t abuse the privilege.” “I’m not worried.”
She couldn’t stop staring at him. “How can you not be? You don’t know me at all. I could be anyone. A competitor. I could work for Perez Hilton or Gawker, and then where would you be?”
“You don’t, though. Because Rebecca likes you.”
“She barely knows me, either.”
“Rebecca has excellent instincts about people. You’ll do well to stick with her. Don’t tell her I said this, but she’s very, very smart. The smartest one in the family, and we’ve got a couple of federal judges running around, in addition to a bunch of politicians.”
“Speaking of, lately I’ve been seeing all these billboards for Andrew Winslow III. I didn’t think of it before, but are you guys related?”
Charlie’s expression turned sour. “And so it begins. He’s a cousin. Not one I’m fond of. Although, I’m not fond of most of them. Rebecca is the exception.”
Interesting, his distaste for his family. So different from her own experience. Sad, too. She didn’t know what she’d do without her family’s support. Best to get back to the relative he liked. “I’m enjoying the hell out of our friendship so far. Rebecca’s ridiculously funny. And she knows the city the way I want to some day. All the little places and the secrets.”
“Why New York?” he asked.
“The Chrysler Building started it,” she said. “I love art deco, although when I first saw pictures of the building I didn’t know what art deco was. Then I discovered fashion, then theater and what was available here, something incredible down every street. I fell for the city long before I stepped foot in it. And yes, thanks to Woody Allen, it came with a score by George Gershwin. I think I must have lived here before in another life. Not that I necessarily believe in reincarnation, but if it’s real, then I was here. This is home.”
“There’s a heartbeat to this place that’s either in sync with your rhythm or not. I notice its absence every time I travel. If you’re one of the chosen, Manhattan becomes home base and every time you come back, it’s as if you can finally breathe again. That’s how it is for me, at least.”
She smiled at him, as if they shared a secret handshake. She supposed they did. Then she leaned over, her head resting gently on his shoulder. “Thank you, Charlie. Tonight’s been one for the books.”
Charlie closed his eyes as he pulled her closer. He agreed about the night. It hadn’t been easy to leave her while he worked, and when had that happened at one of these things? He couldn’t recall.
Not that he didn’t like the women he asked out—he did. He liked women of all sorts, but he had some strong preferences, he wasn’t going to deny it. He wasn’t just dating for his own amusement, after all. His image was part of the Naked New York brand, and so were the women he was seen with. Some were better than others, some he could talk to, some couldn’t string two coherent sentences together, but to a woman they were a type.
Bree wasn’t even close.
So far she’d surprised him in almost every respect, though, and as he’d plowed through the glitter, he’d tried to remember the last time surprise had been in the mix. Scandals were par for the course these days, scripted or not. Hell, scandals were the point, whether they were caused by celebrities or of his own creation. Parties were only excuses to be seen or heard or photographed. Everything was grist, and he was both the wheat and the miller. Surprises? Once in a blue moon.
He wanted to know more about the woman warming his side, which was also rare, at least in this circumstance. He’d always been interested in people. That’s why he started the blog in the first place. Well, that and wanting to shove his parents’ plans for him where the sun didn’t shine. He wanted Bree’s details. The minutiae of the life she’d given up to come here, who she hoped to become. Something to do with fashion, obviously. Was that dress of hers a new design? Meant to stand out? Charlie might be around high fashion far more than a normal person should be, but that didn’t mean he was a member of the inner circle. As far as he could tell, Bree’s dress was nice. It showed her shape, the look of her skin, her curves and the soft skin of her thighs. He liked it. But was it fashion? No idea.
On the other hand, maybe he didn’t want to know more. He’d hardly be seeing her again, even if she and Rebecca were friends. Charlie’s social calendar was a function of necessity, not desire, and however much he liked Bree … what the hell was her last name … she wasn’t on the agenda. Couldn’t be. Whatever had motivated Rebecca to set up this date, it wasn’t to fix him up. He’d known that the moment he’d set eyes on the girl from Ohio. But he wasn’t sorry for the time spent with her. She’d made his night.
She’d fairly sparkled with how the event had dazzled her. He had to give her credit; she’d handled herself beautifully in the face of many challenges, but even so, there was no hiding her excitement. It was likely she didn’t realize how she came off. He had the feeling it might bother her to know that she lit up like a marquee every time she saw someone famous. The ideal fan, in truth. No squealing or flailing or “Oh, my Gods.” Just that inner light, the spark in her eyes, the coy and charming way she bit her lower lip when it got to be too much.
He breathed her in, glad the perfumes of the night hadn’t swallowed her whole. Another surprise came when he noticed he’d been petting her all during the drive home. Running his hand over her arm. By the time the car stopped, Bree was practically purring and from the look in her eyes, exhausted. Adrenaline drop, probably.
She sat up, looked at the building, then back at him. “So, this is good-night?”
Yes sat on the tip of his tongue. What he said was, “Only if you want it to be.”
Her eyebrows lifted, as did the corners of her mouth, but a second later she hesitated and concern took over. “You don’t have to. I mean, this was—”
“Do you have to work tomorrow?”
She nodded sadly.
He paused for a single beat. “Do you want to come up, anyway?”
BREE WONDERED IF SHE WAS reading the situation correctly. She inhaled sharply as she remembered his kiss, the way he’d touched her. If this were Ohio, she’d have known exactly what he wanted. In New York? She’d have to take a risk. “I would,” she said, hoping she sounded far more confident than she felt. She was going up to his apartment. To his bedroom! Maybe!
Charlie helped her out of the limo, and slid his arm around her shoulders as she thanked the driver. They both nodded at the doorman, but nothing was said as she and Charlie crossed the lobby, his arm draping across her back, his touch warm.
They were quiet during the ride up the elevator. She fit at his side, tucked in neatly. It felt amazing having his arm around her, warming her with gentle friction. She studied him in the mirrored cab, but only got as far as his eyes, staring at hers in return.
They got out on eighteen and the doors opened to a small atrium and the entrance to his home. He pushed open the door and stood aside to let Bree walk in first.
Even after reading Architectural Digest for years, watching rich people’s lives on reality television, she wasn’t prepared for the beauty and elegance of the room she entered. “This is …” she said, heading straight to the windows that made up most of the far wall. The view was spectacular, Central Park in its winter glory, the lights of the city sparkling.
Bree wanted to check out his furniture, the gorgeous art deco design work of the black-and-white floor, the magnificent marble fireplace and the sheer novelty of so much space. But she couldn’t stop staring at the city. Eighteen floors up, the breathtaking view covered too much territory to take in, not when there were so many other things to think about. She might or might not have another shot at it, though. What the hell, she could go to any high-rise in Manhattan to see a view, but Charlie was one time only.
Charlie spoke behind her. “Would you like something to drink?”
She turned to him, not sure of much, but she knew she was thirsty. “Tea? If you have any.”
His hesitation made her think her request wasn’t one he got often. “I think so,” he said. “Give me a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”
Charlie dropped his coat on the back of a chair before he disappeared into the kitchen. The tiny glimpse she’d gotten through the swinging door showed a lot of stainless steel and what might have been the edge of a teak cabinet. Strange how when she’d mentioned her love of art deco he hadn’t told her they shared the passion. Or maybe the apartment hadn’t been his design choice?
The weird thing about her mental tangent into decorating wasn’t the coincidence of their taste, but her reaction to Charlie. She was fascinated by him, beyond the obvious. Which begged the question: Would she have agreed to come up if he had been anyone else? Was she honestly as attracted to him as her hormones would have her believe, or was it the idea of Charlie Winslow that had her aching to strip him naked and do every naughty thing she could think of to him?
She opened her clutch and sneaked out Charlie’s trading card. After a quick check to make sure he wouldn’t catch her in the act, she turned the card to the back side.

* His favorite restaurant: Grand Central Oyster Bar
* Marry, Date or One-Night Stand: One Night is his max, but it’ll be a fabulous night!
* His secret passion: Down deep he’s old-fashioned. I know, surprise, huh?
* Watch out for: The idiot is obsessed with his work. He needs a break.
* The bottom line: Have fun! Just be yourself!
Bree grinned at the personalized responses Rebecca had inserted. This was one card that wasn’t going back into the pile, that was for sure. No, this was Rebecca’s gift to Bree, and Bree wasn’t going to let her insecurity get in the way of the rest of the magical night.
She flipped the card back to his photo. Objectively, he was a good-looking man. It was well documented, how good-looking Charlie was, in magazines, television and online. But she felt completely drawn to him in a way that wasn’t exclusively about looks.
She knew what that felt like. There had been times in college and here in New York that she’d liked a man’s looks and just gone for it. Those times had been okay in a hedonistic way, not something she did often. But she had to consider why she was staying, assuming it wasn’t just for tea. Was the quick beat of her heart a groupie thing or common, everyday lust or … Did it matter?
The answer was as instantaneous as it was physical. She wanted him in a way that was neither common nor everyday. She’d have wanted him even if he wasn’t the King of Manhattan. He’d been a surprise. Nice. Captivating. He’d purposefully shared insider nuggets so she would feel less like an impostor sneaking into the palace. He’d come looking for her, and he’d laughed at her jokes, and he’d kept her warm. That kiss had been …
Well, she’d need to be on her toes tonight, that’s all. If they did end up in bed, which was not a sure thing as there seemed to be a whole different world of signals and innuendos she wasn’t aware of in this rarefied air of his, but if they did, she’d have to be careful.
How Charlie made her feel, that could be dangerous. That was the difference. The other guys, both of them, had been fun in that risky sort of exciting manner when you’ve taken all the safety precautions so you’re not precisely scared, but he was new, and what if he was terrible in bed, or his penis was teeny tiny or he wanted to wear her underpants?
Charlie might have all of those issues, but that wasn’t dangerous. The real fear was that she could like him. The kind of like that meant nothing but trouble. Liking a guy was not part of the five-year plan. In fact, it was the antithesis of the five-year plan, the one thing that could turn even this unbelievable stroke of magnificent luck into a disaster of epic proportions.
After tucking the card back inside her slim wallet, Bree rested her butt on the arm of a gorgeous white leather couch. She continued to wait, wondering what was taking him so long. As her gaze wandered across the cityscape, she reminded herself about Susan. They’d been college roommates their freshmen year, and they’d hit it off from day one. Susan had decided to go into politics. She’d taken prelaw, had already picked out the three schools she would apply to; in fact, it was Susan who’d shown Bree the wisdom and power of the five-year plan. Susan had been brilliant. Formidable memory along with a quick mind and a powerful presence. It was easy to think of her as a potential senator or even president.
And then Nick had come along.
Susan had fallen slowly. Incrementally. But fallen she had, so hard that it had knocked the plan right out of her. She’d gone on to law school, yes, but at UCLA because of Nick. Yale and Harvard had both come calling, but she’d been in love. Bree had been a bridesmaid at her wedding, and the two of them kept in touch on Facebook, but Susan had a baby now, and she was a stay-at-home mom, which was fine. Of course it was fine. But it wasn’t the dream.
If it had only been Susan, Bree wouldn’t have given it too much thought. It wasn’t, though. Almost every friend she’d had in high school and the early years of college, every female friend that is, had somehow, someway subverted their dreams because of love. Her experience might be a statistical anomaly, but it was a damn scary one.
Bree had nothing against relationships, but that was for later. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of marriage before thirty, and quite possibly longer than that. Forget a child in her twenties. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to have a child at all. Not something she had to worry about at the moment, thank goodness, but liking Charlie? That was a distinct possibility.
Of course, his liking her back was highly improbable. On the level of her winning the lottery. Which was worse in some ways, because even though it was one night, and she had a hint of a crush on him, there was every reason to believe there might be sparks in the bedroom. It would be so very Bree to find herself enamored with Charlie, only to crumble in a fit of pining and lovelorn paralysis for however long it would take to get over it. That would also not be good for the plan.
This having-sex decision was more complicated than she’d thought. Thank goodness she hadn’t given in to more champagne.
She wasn’t wearing a watch, but Charlie really had been gone a long time. She pushed off the couch and went toward the kitchen, hoping nothing had gone wrong. Two steps later, the door swung open and Charlie came in carrying a silver tray. On it, he’d put a pot, an actual teapot, made of fine china decorated with flowers and vines. There were matching cups, two, and saucers, also two. A little cream pourer, a bowl of sugar lumps, tongs, TONGS, lemon slices, a strainer, and she had to get closer to see that the tins were actually different varieties of tea. She looked up at Charlie, and he looked back. It was a … moment.
Part of her wanted to laugh, but a bigger part of her wanted to know what the hell?
“Seems I have a tea service,” he said, his voice low and wickedly deadpan. “I never knew that. I don’t do a lot of cooking, and someone else put my kitchen together. But I thought, why not? I may never be asked for tea again.”
“I see—oh, that one isn’t tea. That’s biscuits?”
“English shortbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh, according to the package.” He put the tray on the coffee table after she’d scurried to clear off some magazines. “My guess is that my housekeeper is the tea aficionado. She comes in three times a week, and I don’t pay attention to her snacking habits. Makes sense, though. She stocks the fridge. The tea set looks like something my mother would own, and expect me to own.”
“And here I was thinking a mug and a Lipton’s tea bag. But this will do.”
“It will, huh?”
Bree nodded. “So many different kinds,” she said, busy investigating. There was chamomile, Earl Grey, Darjeeling and one she had never heard of called British Blend. She pointed to it. “Shall I make a pot?”
“Go for it.”
She was very glad she’d used loose tea before as she poured the leaves into the hot water, then left it to steep. In her cup, she used the tongs to put in two lumps of sugar, poured in a hint of milk and waited nervously as she realized how close together they were on the couch.
This wasn’t like having his arm around her at the party or even sitting pressed up to him in the limo. A bedroom was now involved, only steps away.
She could take one of two approaches to the next minute: she could bring up the decor and keep wondering what was going to happen until he did something obvious, or she could put on her big girl panties and ask if they were going to share more than tea. “So,” she said, “you like art deco.”
Charlie glanced up at her, his own sugar lump tonged and hovering above his cup. “Yes. I do.”
She barely heard him over the cursing in her head, which was frankly not very nice. She wasn’t a wimp and hated to think she was a chicken, but the only way to prove she had cajones was to act like it. “Is the whole place art deco?” she asked, trying to be sexily coy, not creepily stiff. “Your bedroom, for example?”
She winced. She couldn’t help it. A fifteen-year-old could have done better.
The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plunk and Charlie smiled. “Perhaps, after tea, you’d like to see it?”
Bree nodded, then busied herself with straining the leaves and pouring. She decided she’d said enough already, but Charlie didn’t pitch in to fill the silence. He might have been watching her or gazing out the window; she didn’t know because she didn’t dare look up. It was enough to will her hands steady and her thoughts calm and composed. Something had happened in the past few seconds; maybe it was how his voice had lowered and how the husky murmur slid over her skin like a warm vibrant promise—she had no idea.
No, he was definitely zeroed in on her, she decided, as the weight of his stare seemed to change the very air around them. She could actually feel him watching, waiting, missing nothing. She set down the pot, picked up her cup and took a sip, barely tasting more than the warmth as the quiet stretched between them. The element of surreality, what with silver tongs and it being two in the morning, made time shimmer and slow. She drank again, the delicate cup insisting she raise her pinkie.
She finally glanced over and saw that Charlie was, in fact, staring. He also lifted his cup to his lips, drank silently, his hand large and his fingers long, his eyes never leaving her, never wavering.
She was acutely aware that he could have glanced down to the tops of her pushed-up breasts, to her barely covered thighs. If he had he would have noticed the intermittent tremors, the pink skin she felt sure was not just on her cheeks but the tips of her ears.
It was unbearably sexy, that stare, his dark eyes so large, unblinking. As if he could see more than she wanted him to.
As every second ticked by, the heat intensified, until she couldn’t take it any longer. She blinked. “The tea’s good,” she said, surprised her voice was steady.
He swiped his bottom lip with the edge of his tongue; barely a swipe really, only enough for the light to catch on the moisture.
“Although I have no idea what makes it a British blend. It tastes like … tea.”
He lowered his cup. “I’ve got a window in my bedroom,” he said, his voice—still low and rumbly—moving through her like distant thunder. “I want to take your dress off slowly. Let it fall down your body. I’ve been wondering for hours what’s underneath. I’m guessing black, maybe lace, maybe silk, but definitely black. You’ll look incredible standing by that window with the lights of the city as your backdrop.”
Bree almost dropped her cup, clumsy and awkward as a surge of wet heat flowed through her. She’d been so together, too. All calm and reasonable and thinking things through. And then he had to go and say that.
She was officially in another plane of existence because there was no one in the world as she knew it who could have said those words in that tone with that look in his eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was someone sitting behind her, some model or actress or virtually anyone who wasn’t Bree Kingston.
“Bree?” His smile was slow, controlled, while she hesitated.
God, why was she hesitating? A few more seconds and maybe she could get her legs in working order.
He stood and held out his hand for her. Heart beating flamenco style, head swirling in a cloud of lust and weirdness, she rose without spilling, tripping or making any unfortunate sounds.
Instead of pulling her closer, Charlie stepped into her personal space, then into her. His body touched her from chest to thigh, and he was warm and big and he smelled as if he’d just walked in a forest. Looking up was nothing new, but meeting his gaze so near, feeling his tea-sweet breath caress her lips, that was stunning. As he bent down, her eyes closed at the last possible second, and then, and then …

6 (#ulink_58dc9479-c98f-5581-b14d-f2ee3f6fa019)
CHARLIE SHIFTED HIS BODY as he kissed her. He’d been getting hard for a while now, since he’d put down that ludicrous tea tray. Bree wasn’t his type; there was no question about that, but she was something—
Something.
So small. Not thin, thin was ubiquitous, a thing to get over, not to enjoy. At least the kind of thin he was used to. Bree was diminutive, delicate. How he wanted to hold her completely in his arms, lift her from the floor and carry her off to his bed. More absurd than the tea service because there wasn’t a romantic bone in his body and also not enough booze to let his imagination get away from him, and yet, his hands moved down her black dress—which had to go—to cup her hips, her bottom.
Instead of giving in to his urge, he walked backward, pulling her with him. He didn’t need to look, not yet. It was a straight line to the hallway, where he would have to make sure to turn them, then another straight shot to his bedroom.
They kissed and walked in their odd shuffling gait. He touched wherever he could, mostly the parts that were bare, and warm, and pebbled with goose bumps. He hoped those were from him, not the temperature. Decided not to ask.
The bedroom was obscenely large for Manhattan, but the building was prewar and the place had been remodeled to make it expansive. He’d put in plush carpet for the pleasure of it, outrageously fine sheets, condoms and water bottles near the California king. Bree broke away from his kiss with a gasp. Not at the luxury of the room, she hadn’t looked at it yet, but for breath. To give him a smile.
He nodded toward the wall, all windows, the electronic shades up and hidden to capture the view. “There,” he said. “I want you there.”
She turned. This gasp wasn’t for air. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
“It pales.” He took her hand and guided her closer to the windows and kissed her again, sneaking his tongue between her lips as his fingers found the zipper pull. He heard nothing but breathing and blood flow, but he followed the zipper with his left hand on her bare back until he reached the end. He touched the strip of elastic that was the line of her thong. The touch was enough to pull him away from the gorgeous heat of her mouth. He needed to see.
The dress fell, puddling at her feet, and it was better than he’d imagined. The thong wasn’t black, but red. Dark red, tiny. Seeing it against her pale flesh made his cock harder, his desire intense.
Odd, so odd, this reaction of his. She was pretty, she really was, but she wasn’t architecturally beautiful. Perfectly proportioned, yet not so slender she didn’t have curves and a little bit of a tummy that made him want to rest his head right there for a week. God, her breasts. They were mouthwatering, with pale pink areolas and firm little nipples, puckered and waiting.
Bree stepped out of her dress, and oh, that was something. Her in nothing but a ruby thong and high heels. Stunning, delicious … for Christ’s sake, the woman was two feet in front him, willing and eager.
He worked his clothes off in a controlled frenzy, flinging things away as he multitasked, toeing off his shoes and socks, moving closer to Bree as he unzipped, hissing as the silk of his boxer briefs brushed against the underside of his aching cock.
He kissed her again, but she was trembling and just chilly enough for him to bow to the nonsensical urge to scoop her up into his arms—she was a featherweight of soft flesh and hitching breaths—and dammit, he should have pulled the bedcovering down. She huffed a laugh as he stood her up, and together they got rid of the extra pillows and pulled down the duvet.
He waited, and when she sat and bent to take off her heels, he made a noise. It wasn’t a squeak or a whimper, but it was close on both counts. Bree grinned, rose from the bed. There was a wicked sparkle in those lust-darkened eyes of hers, and when she turned around and went onto all fours on the mattress, Charlie made another noise, but this was a groan that came straight from his balls. She crawled across the bed, her hips swaying in invitation, giving him flashes of red between her thighs.
When she got to the second pillow, she made a show of lying down, grinning at him, flushed and breathing hard as she posed for him. Hands behind her, clutching the teak headboard slats, hair dark against the white pillowcase. Her legs came up, one canted over the other, like a pinup from the forties, like a siren, like a dream.
Miraculously, he didn’t come right there and then. He made it onto the bed, took his time but he had to close his eyes before he touched her. Because, God.
When he licked a trail up the inside of her thigh, she trembled on his tongue.
BREE STOPPED BREATHING as Charlie’s mouth inched up her thigh. The sexy pose wasn’t like her, but then, she wasn’t the same Bree tonight. Thank goodness her hands gripped the slats or she’d have floated straight up to the ceiling. She wanted to hurry him, his hot breath teasing her so near the creases where thigh met thong but not quite there.
He’d caught her left ankle in his hand, holding her leg aloft as his other hand smoothed up the front of her right thigh. She watched him, her excitement mounting, but the angle of her head was tricky to maintain with the firm pillow smooshed awkwardly under the top of her back. As much as she wanted to let her head loll back, her eyes close, let out the cry trapped in her throat, she couldn’t do anything but stare at him, naked, crouched low on the bed between her knees. So she kept watching, urging him to move up, let that hot breath of his sneak under the silk, let his tongue follow.
Every inhale expanded her chest so her breasts, too small for her long erect nipples, came into her line of sight. When he looked up, he smiled at the same broken view, but from below. Okay, so maybe her breasts weren’t too small. From how he groaned, never letting his tongue lift from her flesh, he seemed to like them. A lot.
Despite the groan, the stubborn man refused to move. “Charlie,” she whined as she lifted her hips. What did he need, an engraved invitation?
His low chuckle dialed up her frustration.
“Patience,” he whispered, his mouth moving closer to where she needed it. But instead of his tongue, he slipped his nose in that crease, nudging the thong over. He inhaled as if she were a bouquet of roses, and oh, God, he lowered her ankle as his teeth gripped silk. The tug was forceful, but not enough to snap the G-string panties, only to push things to the side, to let her feel a brush of cool air on her naked flesh.
When she let go of the slats, her hands ached. She was sure they were dented from the pressure, but she didn’t care. It was necessary to touch him. She was shorter than any one of her friends, but the distance between the top of the bed and Charlie’s body seemed to stretch on for miles. Yet she reached him with no strain, touched his dark, soft hair, her fingers tracing his temples.
He moaned, inches away from a different crease. Then that artful tongue of his started exploring and Bree’s body arched with the shock of it.
The battle with the awkward pillow was lost in an instant. Her head lolled back, her eyes shut as he licked and sucked and flicked until she had one leg pressing down on his shoulder and a grip on his hair that had to hurt like a mother.
He didn’t let up, not when she whimpered, not even when she turned his name into a pitiful plea.
She came with a jolt, another full-body arch and a cry that started low and ended so high only bats could hear it.
Charlie held her through the tremors, kissing his way up to her belly button, to her chest. Soft kisses, hard kisses, some wet and filthy, then chaste and sweet. His teeth scraped her skin, making her gasp, but the licks afterward soothed her into a sigh. When he reached her breasts, he settled in for a while. Bree quivered beneath him, every nibble and suck on her sensitive nipples sparking aftershocks.
She ran her hands across his shoulders as she whispered his name over and over, tugging him up, closer. But the obstinate bastard had other plans. He abandoned her nipple with a long swipe of his tongue and met her gaze, his eyes darker than ever. His lips were wet with her moisture, his smile three steps past sinful.
“You need to reach over there,” he said, nodding at his bedside table. “Open that drawer.”
“I do, huh?”
His smile widened and she felt his hand sneaking down her tummy. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, and she could have sworn his voice had lowered a full octave.
“Charlie, what are you doing?”
“I’m not finished being in you,” he said. “So I’ll just amuse myself until you think you might like more than fingers.”
“Maybe I’ve got a thing for fingers.”
“That’s okay,” he said. But he was pushing himself up to kneeling until she could see him. See his very hard, very ready cock.
The hand that wasn’t petting her pussy, toying at the very edge of her lips, encircled his erection. It was a handful and he looked like he knew how to use it.
She swallowed and clenched her muscles as he squeezed up his length until just his glans peeked out, a drop of precome beading obscenely.
Bree hated to look away, but it couldn’t be helped. She found the condom quickly, opened it with shaky fingers. He did the honors of putting on the rubber— making a damn show of it—and then he laid himself over her, leaning on his elbow so she wouldn’t be squished.
The kiss was salt and sex, his tongue giving her a preview of what was to come. Spreading her open, he rubbed up and down between her labia getting his bearings by feel. All the while, he watched her with dark, hooded eyes.
When he thrust, the cry she’d been holding in caromed off the walls, stole all her air.
Everything from then on was white heat and being filled. Raw and hard, every slap of flesh was followed by a desperate gasp from him, from her.
She came again. Squeezing him, pulling him closer, tighter. Then he froze, his face a mask of intense pleasure.
When he came back from the edge, he kissed her. More than the date, more than the tea, more than anything, the kiss turned everything sideways. Long, slow and deep, it wasn’t a thank-you or showing off or like any other après-sex kiss she’d ever had. It was as real as the night sky, and it made her as dizzy as if she’d downed a magnum of champagne.
After, as she gathered in her stolen breath, he fell into a graceless heap beside her.
She still had her heels on.
When he forced himself out of the bed and into the bathroom, she closed her eyes, still dazed and confused. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Bree,” she said softly so he wouldn’t hear. “Whoa.”
IT WAS SIX-FORTY. CHARLIE had looked at his alarm clock at six thirty-eight, then at Bree, still sleeping, still with him. All he’d been able to see was part of her bare shoulder and the back of her head. Now he was staring at the ceiling and having a panic attack.
He’d never had one before, but the way his heart was hammering in his chest had to be a sign. As a test, he turned his head to catch a glimpse of her. Fuck. What the hell had he done?
The last time he’d felt like this, not quite like this but the closest thing he could remember that had a similar vibe, was at fifteen. His first time. It was at Amy Johnson’s house, in her twin canopy bed with her parents two doors down the hall. He’d been crazy about Amy, madly in whatever passes for love at fifteen. The sex had been horrible but he’d gotten off. He couldn’t imagine how bad it had been for Amy. He’d felt like the stud king of the world, and even when he fell flat on his face escaping out her bedroom window, he’d considered the night a raging success.
He’d made sure his parents found one of the condoms from the box of Trojans. Their apoplectic fit at the inappropriateness of sex with a girl from that kind of family—she went to public school and her father was a dentist at a clinic—had been the most satisfying development in his life until age sixteen and a half, when he’d discovered the joys of older women and realized how much he had to learn.
Those lessons had been a downright pleasure.
But no one and nothing since Amy had recaptured the out-of-his-mind exhilaration of that maiden voyage. Until last night.
No matter what they’d done, Bree was definitely an innocent. Ah. Okay. Bree reminded him of Amy. Nothing to panic about. His breathing should return to normal soon. Last night had been a rerun of a great night. That’s all. His reaction had nothing to do with the nice woman in his bed. He would give her coffee and cab fare, and that would be the end of it.
The sooner the better. She had to get to work, and so did he.
He stilled as she turned over and they touched. His hand, her thigh. It was warm, the place where they came together, and all the progress he’d made in the breathing department went to hell.
Why was he getting hard again? Shit.
He pictured her in that pose, her hands gripping the headboard, her nipples hard as little rocks and those heels. Jesus. She’d smelled like honey and tasted like the ocean, and he hadn’t been that hard in years. He bit back a moan as he pictured her face when she’d come. And there was the problem in a nutshell. Or should he say in his nuts.
Forcing his mind to focus, he refused to acknowledge anything below the waist. If he’d been thinking with anything but his dick he would’ve sent her home last night. As soon as she’d asked for tea. Tea? Seriously? Then he’d made everything worse by getting down the goddamn silver. What was that about?
Screw his hard-on. This was ridiculous. He had work. Last night had been a favor for Rebecca, a nice surprise for him. No denying Bree was fantastic in bed, but that wasn’t important. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need a great lay, he needed A-listers, women who would draw readers to the blogs, gossip fodder. He needed Mia Cavendish and her counterparts, the more photogenic and controversial, the better. He wanted to trend on Twitter, make the headlines on the New York Post’s Page Six. He needed ad revenue and infamy.
Bree could get him exactly none of that.
GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, she was in so much trouble.
How was it possible that the best thing about her night as Cinderella had been a one-night stand with the King of Manhattan?
Not the limo, not Charlie’s fame, not the stars or the dresses or meeting her design heroes. No. The best thing, the thing that would cripple her if she didn’t get a grip right this minute was making … sex with Charlie.
She was no blushing virgin and she knew what happened between the sheets. She’d had bad sex and she’d had amazing sex and what had happened with Charlie wasn’t even on the same scale.
Falling for Charlie was not acceptable.
She really needed to get out of bed because if he moved the hand against her thigh even a little bit, she couldn’t be held accountable for her actions.
Where was her dress? By the window. Somehow, the room wasn’t filled with light, which it should have been because the last time she’d looked, there’d been nothing but glass between them and Central Park. Yet, it wasn’t dark, either. She hadn’t opened her eyes, but there was some kind of pale gold thing happening behind her lids, so …
The lamp that had been on while they’d been …
She inhaled quietly, regrouping. It didn’t matter what Charlie was doing. She was in control of her actions and her thoughts. She’d throw back the covers, get out of bed, pull up her dress, slip on her heels and go to the bathroom. She wouldn’t have to look at him at all.
Crap. The back of his fingers brushed against her thigh. Just that quickly, her resolve vanished and her body tensed. Things were happening against her will. Nipples hardened. Kegel muscles contracted. Not to mention the thunder of her heart.
It was one time, Kingston. One night. You had champagne. It was like being in a fairy tale. It’s not real. Things like this don’t happen in the real world. It’s over. Stop being a moron and get out.
After a silent count to three, she did it. Tossed covers, pulled up dress, screw the zipper, picked up shoes, darted to the bathroom, slammed the door, breathed.
Cursed herself from here to Sunday because while she was in the nice, safe bathroom, her purse with all her stuff was in the living room.
She sighed and leaned on the door, barely restraining herself from banging her head against the wood until she passed out. Her makeup was already a disaster so crying wasn’t out of the question.
What were the odds he had a spare toothbrush in this humongous room? The shower alone was bigger than what she laughingly called a bedroom.
She could wash her face with whatever soap he had, and rinse her mouth with something that would at least hide the morning breath for a while. All she had to do was be somewhat presentable for a cab ride home, then she could start forgetting about Charlie as she hustled to get ready for work.
Coffee. Coffee would help everything. No, aspirin and coffee. That’s what she needed, and her world would fit neatly back into place.
A knock on the bathroom door made her jump so hard her dress nearly slipped all the way down to the floor. “Um, busy,” she said, yanking it up again.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, and God, his voice rippled through her like a slow fire. “I thought you might want your pocketbook.”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. Yes.” She turned, holding up her dress with one arm as she opened the door an inch. It wasn’t quite enough. Another inch, then another, and finally her purse was inside. She snatched it as if it were connected to a mousetrap. “Thanks. Be out in a minute. Don’t mind me.”
Silence followed. Bree didn’t know if he was there or not, but she didn’t move. She pressed her ear against the door.
“Okay,” he said, making her jump again. “I’ll go make coffee.”
“Great. Thanks. Sounds great.” She winced at her stupid mouth, and reconsidered the whole banging her head against the door thing.
Finally, she turned around, resigned that there wasn’t enough aspirin and coffee in the world.
“WHAT’S THIS?” BREE ASKED.
Charlie looked down at the hundred-dollar bill he was holding out to Bree. “Cab fare.”
“A hundred? You think I live in Connecticut?”
“Wasn’t sure. Look, I’m sorry I can’t take you myself, but the blog …”
“It’s fine. Really. I’ve got it,” she said as she held up her to-go cup. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re not going to be late for work?”
“Nope. Not if I get a move on.”
She hadn’t looked at him. Not once. At least, he didn’t think so. He’d been avoiding looking at her, so there was no certainty, but it felt like she hadn’t.
If nothing else had told him the night had been a colossal mistake, this morning’s awkwardness would have. It was epic. Both of them stumbling, mumbling, embarrassed and basically acting like idiots. The problem was he couldn’t tell why she was behaving like he had the plague. He’d thought the night had been great, and the sex had been fantastic. Too good.
Maybe that was just him, though.
Naw. It had been spectacular, and he knew what he was talking about. She was being weird for another reason. He’d like to blame the excessive cab fare move, but the weird dance had started when she’d first gotten out of bed.
She was making her way to the front door, although she didn’t simply turn around and walk. She took a few steps back, checked behind her, then moved another couple of steps, and it made him want to kiss her.
Shit.
She had to go. Now.
He surged ahead of her to the door and opened it. “I’m sorry I can’t see you—” He stopped before he repeated the whole sentence.
“Of course. And I have …” She was right in front of him now, looking up at him with those green eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “It was the best night ever. I’ll never forget you. It. The party. Doing … stuff.”
Her cheeks had turned a really dark shade of pink, and yep, so did the tips of her ears. The urge to move a few inches, lower his lips to hers once more was stronger than he was prepared to admit.
“I had a great time, too,” he said, his voice cracking on the end. “We should …” He stopped himself by biting his tongue. It hurt quite a bit. But he’d almost said they should do it again.
“Well, I’ll be off. Down the elevator. To get a taxi.” She stepped through the doorway sideways. Almost hiding behind her coffee, only spilling a little.
“Right. Bye.”
“Bye.”
He went to shut the door as she called for the elevator. Then stopped. It would be rude to shut the door. On the other hand, she looked desperate.
He split it down the middle. Left the door ajar, but walked away. To the kitchen. He didn’t breathe until he heard the ding.
Holy crap.

7 (#ulink_96dde019-2def-58cc-a06a-685a759d1f62)
BREE SAT IN HER CUBICLE, shuffling papers from one stack to the next. She’d been at the office for two hours and she hadn’t accomplished a damn thing. Most of the morning had been spent rehashing last night, analyzing to death every single thing Charlie had done or said. Sneaking peeks at the picture she’d taken, of his trading card.
In the harsh fluorescent lights of BBDA, the events featuring Charlie seemed more like a dream than something that could have happened to her. But there was an ache in her body that wasn’t a result of working out at the gym. She’d tensed her arms so hard gripping the headboard that her muscles had burned as she’d showered this morning, and there was that thumbprint bruise on her hip. Plus her memories, of course.
She had no business thinking about him. The night. Him. Really now. It was over. Done. A recollection that should bring her pleasure instead of this sense of loss. How could she have lost something she’d never had? Never could have?
God, the whole morning sucked. Her thoughts had been wild enough before she’d seen that he hadn’t posted his blog yet. He should have. His routine was like Old Faithful, like atomic time. Instead, three other people had posted—one fashionista, one celeb tracker and one foodie.
So in addition to obsessing over the fact that sex had been no more than a part of the overall standard package rather than a romantically wonderful moment between the two of them, now she was pretty convinced that she had somehow jinxed Charlie. And she had a headache.
Surprisingly, Rebecca hadn’t called yet, which was fine because Bree hadn’t figured out how much she wanted to tell her and she wanted to be careful about that conversation, not dead on her feet. In fact, she seriously thought about sneaking in a nap today in place of lunch. She needed sleep more than food.
Her cell dinged and when she saw the name flash, she nearly choked. She clicked on the icon.
How are you feeling? CW
Bree stared at his initials, completely stunned. Why was he texting her? Good manners? Had she accidentally taken something from his apartment? She hit Reply then forced herself to think, not text, not yet.
This was silly. She shook her head as she used her thumbs.
Fine. Thanks.
You get to work okay? CW
On time and everything.
I’m glad. Also lunch? CW
What? Lunch? Was he asking her to lunch? Nope, no, that couldn’t be right. Not after this morning. She stared at the gray panel of her cubicle for a moment, then looked once again at her message. She hadn’t read it wrong. It simply made no sense.
Now her gaze lifted over the cubicle wall, but all she could see was the top of the heads passing by. There wasn’t a single person at BBDA she could pull aside for advice. None of them knew about her date with Charlie. Or really anything about her except that she tended to keep to herself.
She quickly typed BRB letting him know she was away from her keyboard, and grabbed the landline. Screw not telling Rebecca about what happened. Bree needed help. Fast. She dialed, praying her friend would answer.
The second Bree heard “hello,” she launched. “Last night was the most fabulous night in the history of earth, but this morning was completely weird and now he’s …”
“Bree—”
“Oh, God, you’re busy. Please don’t be busy because I don’t even—Wait. He’s texting me now, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Texting you what?”
“He wants me to have lunch with him. Today.”
Rebecca laughed. “Then go!”
“We both freaked out this morning. He offered me a hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“For a taxi.”
“Oh. Then I repeat. Go.”
“But—”
“Trust me on this. I know him. Really well. Lunch is huge.”
“Huge? Huge isn’t good at all. It’s over now, right? He doesn’t do repeats, and I’ve got a plan, and it doesn’t include liking anyone. Huge can’t be the thing that comes next.”
“Listen to me,” Rebecca said, her tone one she surely must use when she was negotiating with billionaires or friends having panic attacks. “Go to lunch with Charlie. Eat food. Listen to what he has to say. You might be surprised. Then call me after.”
Bree touched her hair and her face as her stomach flipped from excitement to dread and back again. Damn, she’d done almost nothing with her hair, and her makeup consisted of mascara. Period. She’d had barely enough time to shower and change, and then she’d had to scramble to make it to the office. “You’d better be right, Rebecca.”
“I am. Good luck.”
Bree hung up, then got her thumbs in position.
Where? When?
Bistro truck? CW
Um …
Mediterranean CW
Okay.
Sending map. U say when. CW
1?
C U there. CW
Her cell let her know the map had arrived, and the Bistro truck was only a block from her office. She typed the name into her search engine to check out the menu, wanting to be prepared and avoid anything messy. Figured she’d go with the phyllo-wrap veg and the Belgium fries, assuming she could eat anything. Even if meeting him turned out to be a horrible mistake, fries would soothe the wound.
After closing her phone, she stared at the paperwork she had to finish before noon, her vision blurring on the words. He wanted to see her again. Why? Why? And why was Rebecca so sure she should go?
New York was confusing.
CHARLIE STOOD ON A CEMENT bench on East 14th Street, searching the lunchtime crowds for Bree. Despite her little black dress last night, he remembered Rebecca’s comment about Bree’s affection for colors, so he zeroed in on anything that wasn’t black clothes, which eliminated around seventy percent of the women. It helped that today was unseasonably warm, so that most of the coats were open.
He turned, not minding the stares he earned. This was Union Square at one in the afternoon. He did what worked. And work it did, because there she was. Her clothes hadn’t caught his eye; her hair had, though. It was the same short pixie cut, but today she’d worn a slim pink ribbon complete with bow. It was ridiculous, and it made him grin like an idiot.
As she got closer, he forced his gaze down, not stopping on her face, not yet. No coat. Surprising, but not, because they were only a block from her office and she’d already proven she would rather freeze to death than ruin the ensemble. She’d need another winter in New York until she woke up and smelled the frostbite.
Today she had on a pink-and-green-checked long-sleeved button-down, which should have been ugly as sin, but wasn’t. And a skirt, a little bitty one in a completely different shade of green. None of it had any business being on a single person at the same time. Even the flat matte gold shoes were wrong. And fantastic.
Her step faltered as he caught her eye. She smiled, one of those full-on middle American smiles that showed a whole lot of teeth. But as she started walking again that faltered, too. By the time he’d jumped down and met her on the sidewalk, she seemed worried. Or hungry. No. Worried.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Fine, thanks.”
He wouldn’t press now. First they needed to order. “Hungry?”
“Sure.”
He grabbed her hand, and before they took a step toward the line at the big white truck, he kissed her cheek. He’d debated that move all the way over here. It seemed rude not to acknowledge their night together, yet he didn’t want to emphasize that aspect of their acquaintance, despite the fact that the memory of her in his bed had been a constant low-grade fever since he’d opened his eyes this morning. It didn’t surprise him that she stopped short and looked at him as if he were crazy. It didn’t matter. He stood by the kiss decision. Come on, how could he have resisted? One look at her with her pink bow and that small skirt …
Okay, shit, wrong turn. He breathed deeply the scent of fried foods and city buses, getting his bearings once more. They wouldn’t be able to order for at least ten minutes, considering the length of the line, then there would be the food to deal with. Might as well dive in. He kept hold of her as he maneuvered himself close enough to talk without being overheard. “I have a proposition for you.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Last night, at the party, you were great.”
“Thanks,” she said, with just enough of a lift at the end to make it vaguely a question.
“I spent all morning trying to write the blog. So much time I ended up posting fillers from freelancers so people wouldn’t get antsy.”
“I know. I saw.”
“Ah. Of course.” He moved them up a half step in line. “Anyway, the thing was, you kept popping up in my first draft.”
“I popped up?” She said it slowly, her forehead now furrowed in confusion.
He didn’t normally confuse people. Piss them off, all the time, but clarity wasn’t an issue. “I realized that I’d felt as if last night was my first time at Fashion Week. That didn’t happen even when I did go for the first time. Seeing through your eyes was … different.” He’d almost said exhilarating. True, but too much information. “That’s what I wrote about. This morning.”
“O … kay,” she said.
He was not making his point. “I’m posting my blog late because I wanted to talk to you about it. I want to use your vision, for want of a better word, as the hook for the column. An innocent at Fashion Week. A new perspective.”
“I’m not that innocent,” she said, her tone brusque and bruised, as if he’d insulted her.
“You’re new to the city. You’re not jaded yet. Since Naked New York excels at jaded, I like the idea of approaching this series from another angle. I won’t mock you. In fact, I won’t use your name or image if you don’t want me to. It’ll be my impressions of your impressions. Which I’ve never done before, so you may or may not be fine with it.”
“You already wrote the blog?”
He nodded. “Three different versions. One with you specifically, one with you obliquely, and one that focuses only on my impressions. I can send them to your phone now, if you want to read them.”
“I would,” she said. “Does it say that I … we …” She flinched briefly, then carried on. “You know, got together … at your place?”
“No. No, that’s … no. This isn’t about personal stuff. It’s about the event. The party.”
“Oh,” she said, and this time it wasn’t equivocal. “Send them, then.”
He clicked the necessary buttons as a group of five in front of them suddenly dashed off, which moved him and Bree up to the food truck window. “What’ll you have? I’ll order while you read.”
“Fries. Large.”
“Nothing else?”
She thought for a moment, but couldn’t imagine eating a whole sandwich. Not while her stomach was in knots. “Tea, two sugars.”
He grinned. Couldn’t help it. He still couldn’t believe he’d actually served her tea on a silver platter. With tongs. Bizarre. But then, everything about last night had been.
He heard the sound of her receiving the documents on her phone, then he turned his attention to the guy behind the counter. He ordered, glanced at Bree, paid, looked again, then moved them to the waiting line where he out-and-out stared. He ignored everything but her body language, her expressions, the speed with which she read the screen. He learned absolutely nothing.
Turning so he could only see her in his peripheral vision, he reminded himself that whatever her response, it would be fine. Even if she went along with his whole scheme, it didn’t mean anything. Not personally. This was a work thing. That’s it. Maybe they’d have the opportunity to get together again, but that wasn’t the point.
Even though the pink ribbon killed him. In fact, the pink ribbon was the point. None of the people he hung out with would have put that outfit on, not on a bet. It was an anti-Manhattan look. Those who attended Fashion Week were more afraid of not being cool than they were of being hit by a car. Bree’s kind of unabashed adoration was straight from the heart with nothing expected in return.
Her point of view would ring true for the majority of his readers, many far more like her, young people who would never have a chance to go to a gala, never stand next to icons of fashion and film, never be able to afford a scarf from any of the designers, let alone a couture gown. The trick in this approach was the balance. There was a hint of sarcasm, because he was a sarcastic son of a bitch, but he didn’t make fun of Bree. It was a fine line, a welcome challenge.
The whole concept could bomb, but he didn’t think it would. He had good instincts about his readers, and this felt right.
She’d gripped an edge of her lower lip with a barely visible tooth, white and perfect. The urge to kiss her hit him again, only he didn’t want her cheek, but her mouth. Ah, Christ, what was his problem? This was business.
“Hey, you. Blog guy. You gonna move up or what?”
The question had come from a beefy man with a pencil thin mustache. Charlie moved closer to the truck, gentling Bree along with a light touch to her forearm.
She looked at him as she closed her cell phone. Her cheeks blushed a pink that almost matched her ribbon. “Oh,” she said.
That wasn’t enough information. Out of an overabundance of the need to appear cool at all times, he didn’t push for more. He schooled his expression into one of disinterest, which was the only acceptable stance during a strictly business meeting.
Her head tilted a tad to the right. No blinks now, only a piercing gaze and “Why?”
“Why?” he repeated.
She nodded. “Your blog works perfectly as it is. Obviously. Your numbers are incredible. Why would you want to mess with the format?”
“Mixing things up isn’t messing with the format. If it doesn’t work, I’ll find out quickly and drop the idea. It’s not the first time I’ve tried something new, and it won’t be the last.”
BREE STARED AT CHARLIE. This lunch was even stranger than she’d expected. And not for any of the reasons she’d anticipated. It most definitely wasn’t about the sex. Of course. Because that would have been crazy.
“Whatever your decision,” he said. “I need to know quickly.”
“Sure. Right. I understand.” How could she have forgotten even for a second? From the moment Rebecca had shown her Charlie’s trading card, she’d wondered what in the world a man like him would want with a girl like her. It had almost been a relief when she’d finally gotten last night that Rebecca had done her a favor, and in turn, he had done one for Rebecca. Why else would he have taken her out on Valentine’s Day? Even so, it had not been a date. He’d been very clear about the fact that it was work. She doubted he was ever truly distracted from his business. That’s how he’d become Charlie Winslow in the first place.
So he’d used her. Not maliciously, not at all. He’d found a way to parlay the favor, so good for him. He’d grabbed an opportunity, and by sheer luck, it might give her a spot on his blog. Other people would want to know who she was, how she’d scored a “date” with Charlie. She couldn’t have asked for a better shot at her dreams. But she had to be smart about it. Especially smart, given that the girlie part of her brain seemed to want to turn this into a romance. Nothing wrong with romance, but there was a time and a place.
Now that she had leapfrogged into the big time, she had to be more clear than ever about what was in her best interest for the long term, and not be dazzled.
“Look—” he said.
“If you need to have an answer right this minute,” she said, “it will have to be no.”
Charlie stilled and that air of boredom he’d been wearing like a comfy jacket vanished. He seemed disappointed, but that undoubtedly had more to do with his plans being thwarted than not being able to work with her.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I liked it.”
It occurred to her that she should have ordered more for lunch. She needed to appear as unaffected by Charlie as possible. “The approach is fresh for NNY. A good take on something done to death, and you managed to make me sound as if I’m not totally precious. Although …” She clicked on the most personal section of the blog he’d written and scrolled down a bit.
Here’s what Bree said, but not in words:

1. Everyone is tall and beautiful and has better clothes than me. Anyone who looked in any way normal wasn’t anyone. Example: Me.
2. People can be really rude, but at the same time, very lovely. Being with Charlie got me the last part. The first part was on the house.
3. Everyone has an iPhone/BlackBerry. And cameras are intrusive even if the whole point is getting your picture taken. Also? I’m really not in Ohio anymore.
“I’m really not in Ohio anymore?” Bree sighed. “Still. You did a nice job.”
The way his lips parted, it was clear he hadn’t expected her response, especially the way she’d said nice. Now if she could just keep it up. She’d imagined being the kind of woman who could go toe-to-toe with the biggest names in Manhattan, and now was her chance.
She’d been in Wonderland last night, and she wouldn’t apologize for feeling like Alice. Charlie had captured that perfectly in his blog. But she was back on terra firma now. She knew the score, business was business, and if he was going to use her, then she wanted something in return.
Yes, he was Charlie Winslow, and her heart had been beating double time since his first text, but there was a larger picture here, and she’d be an idiot to let it slip through her fingers. Being linked to Charlie was cachet she couldn’t ignore. “The blog would be better if you used my pictures. Used me.”
“Would it?” A hint of a smile came and went. Good. They were both playing the same game. It was important for her to remember he had years of experience, whereas she had … She had chutzpah. It would have to be enough.
Charlie handed her a plate of fries and a cardboard cup of tea. He’d paid, which was appropriate. He’d called this meeting.
At the thought, she had a twinge of sadness, real regret, and dammit, she had to stop that. The sex had been sex. The two of them were about to talk turkey, and she couldn’t afford to be sentimental, not for a moment. It had been great sex. The end. Her imagination could be a wonderful place, but it could hurt her, too.
Luckily, they scored most of a bench. The first Belgian fry was so good it made her moan, which made her blush, but only until she saw the spot of mayo on Charlie’s chin. If she were the nice girl her parents had raised her to be, she’d tell him about it. But this was business, and him looking so very human helped.
“What’s your concern?” Charlie asked.
“I’m really not as innocent as you’ve painted me. I understand that’s the gimmick, which is fine, but I’d like to have some input. My bosses read NNY, our clients, too. It may only be one blog, but it’ll have an impact on my career.”
He took another bite of his burger, and instead of looking at his mouth, remembering what it had felt like against her own, she concentrated on the mayonnaise dotting his chin.
“I want more than one blog out of this,” he said, after he’d swallowed.
Her gaze jumped to his eyes and for a sec she thought that maybe this wasn’t all about business, but then she remembered.

8 (#ulink_ebc0e958-f15d-5a52-8c06-3a77bb74d56e)
“I’D LIKE TO MAKE THIS part one of a series,” Charlie said, as if he was asking her for a fry. “Some of which would feature Fashion Week, but not all. Tonight there’s a party at Chelsea Piers. I was hoping you would join me.”
Bree didn’t choke, but she did cough. Mostly to hide her astonishment, and get herself in check. “What do you mean by series?”
“Wednesday’s open, but Thursday night is another Fashion Week party. Friday, there’s a premiere. Have you heard about Courtesan?”
Had she heard about Courtesan? It was a major motion picture from a major studio starring major movie stars, and she’d wanted to see it since she’d caught the first ad. Inside, she jumped about five feet off the ground. For him, she nodded and took a sip of tea. “I have.”
“I’ve got something else Saturday night but I’m not sure what. Either a perfume party or a book thing. Anyway, I’d need you, tentatively, through Saturday night. Maybe more, possibly less. It all depends on the number of hits, the comment activity. Could that work for you?”
To even pretend she had to think about it was useless. He’d know she was bluffing. “Scheduling wouldn’t be the issue. I’d make it work, even if I have to get Rebecca to make my frozen lunches.
“That’s the thing Rebecca does at St. Marks, right?”
“How we met.”
“She’s gonna love this.” Now he didn’t even try to hide his smile. It was the other Charlie, the charming cousin of her friend, the man who’d kissed her silly.
Bree cleared her throat before meeting his gaze. “What do you mean?”
“She’s going to think the series was her idea. She’ll be insufferable.”
“Ah.” Bree popped a fry as she fought against another pang. This one was even more foolish. She’d thought for a second there that Rebecca would love the fact that she and Charlie would continue seeing each other. Ridiculous.
But come on, this was better than dating. Sex for someone like Charlie lasted one night. He couldn’t even fake interest the next morning. In the long run, what he was offering was more than her paltry dreams had imagined. He’d just shortened her five-year plan by half. “I still want input.”
“It’s my blog, Bree. People read it for my take.”
“I don’t want to come off looking like a fool.”
“Is that how you read any of those articles?”
“No.”
“We can draw something up, something we can both agree to. If the series works, it will be because people like my take on seeing my world through your eyes. It’s in my best interest to make you relatable and sympathetic.”
“Okay. But I think I would be even more relatable if I write some of the blogs myself.”
He winced. “I don’t know. My name brings the party to the yard. Sorry.”
“Granted. Doesn’t mean there can’t be a sidebar. You’ve done that before.”
Charlie used his napkin, wiping off the mayo by chance. After a longish pause, he nodded. “No guarantees. I’ll read what you write, see how it works. I’ll have my attorney draw up something to cover the rest of the week, but I’d like to post the blog I wrote today. What do you say?”
She knew she was taking a risk, not signing on the dotted line, but what the hell. Rebecca would have something to say if Charlie messed with her, but even more than that, Bree’s gut told her to go for it. She held out her hand.
The shiver that ran through her body when they shook was strictly in response to the opportunity. Nothing more.
CHARLIE WALKED BREE TO HER office building, a giant among giants, blocking out most of the sky. It was windy in the street, and he put his arm around Bree’s shoulders, pulling her close. He liked keeping her warm, liked the way her hair tickled his chin.
“Charlie?” She had to raise her voice as they walked, so he bent his head a little.
“Yes?”
“Assuming the paperwork is fine and we end up going to … things. What are we going as?”
“Uh, oh. Like last night. Together, but not a couple. If someone asks, say we’re friends. They’ll all assume it’s more, but that’s not a bad thing. People like trying to figure things out, make connections, even if they’re false. And gossip pays the bills.”
She didn’t speak, but she did slow her step.
“Bree?”
She stopped. Charlie turned to face her, not liking the troubled look she wore. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s fine. I want to make sure we understand each other. If we do this, it’s a business arrangement.”
“Yeah.” The way she stared at him didn’t make sense. He was handing her a gift here. Sure, he was going to make money from the deal, but she would win, too. He should have asked her what she wanted. From her love of fashion, her work at the advertising agency, it wasn’t hard to figure her area of interest, but it was sloppy of him not to get specific.
“I keep my business life and my personal life separate,” she said.
It took him a beat too long to make the connection. Not because she was being unreasonable. On the contrary, she was being smart. He wasn’t used to it, though. The women who came home with him didn’t think of the sex as anything outside of the job. Neither had he, not since he’d started the blog, for God’s sake. Bree was not from his world. That was the point.
In fact, she was a romantic. Not simply around the issue of sex, but about designers, New York, glamour, beauty, all of it. Too bad it wouldn’t last.
Oddly, he didn’t rush to agree with her. He’d assumed they’d sleep together. He’d wanted to. If the series got results, they were looking at a week, maybe two. That would be a long stretch to go without. Especially when she would be with him most every night. In the car, at his place.
“Charlie?”
“Right. No, you’re right. Strictly professional. Good thinking.”
Her smile wasn’t very victorious. In fact, he was tempted to follow her as she backed away from him, just to see her better.
“I’m really late,” she said, calling out now, against the wind. “Send me the contract, and I’ll take a look at it. And the details about tonight. And, thanks,” she said, but the word was carried away as she got swallowed by dozens of people all heading for the same entrance.
He lost her before she went inside. He knew BBDA took up four floors of the skyscraper, could picture where the copywriters sat. But he didn’t go after her. He’d see her tonight. He pulled out his cell as he went to the corner to hail a cab. He needed to get the blog update done, call the attorney, make arrangements with the stylist.
After he told the cabbie his address, he looked back at Bree’s building. No more nights like last night. Well, damn.
BETWEEN THE PHOTOGRAPHERS blinding her and the constant tweets, Bree barely had time to enjoy the party. It would have been overwhelming regardless. This event was much smaller. Maybe five hundred people?
Put on by one of the most sought-after design celebrities, it was being held at The Lighthouse in Chelsea Piers. The huge room had been decked out in Asian-themed splendor with floating lanterns, Zen gardens artfully placed between tables and paper dragons so large and beautifully decorated they were works of art. Even the view of the Hudson River from the floor-to-ceiling windows stole her breath, and that was before she met a mind-boggling parade of fashion idols and A, B and C-list stars.
The good and bad news was that Charlie had been even more extraordinary, which she hadn’t thought possible. He hadn’t left her side, which was wonderful, but what got to her even more was how he’d introduced her to his people. And God, they really were his people. He made her sound as if she were the brightest new thing to hit the scene since Lady Gaga. It was totally over-the-top, but, and this went directly into the bad news category, it was totally to support the blog series. She wasn’t important; the image was important, the mystique, the hip-by-association coupled with her “innocence” to make her a mini celebrity.
The plan was working though because after dinner—which was to die for, and God, how she’d wanted a doggie bag—she’d been approached, over and over.
Not that she hadn’t realized before that celebrities were never what they appeared to be. They might feel as if they’re old friends, having been on her favorite TV series, or in so many movies she knew. But who they were had no relationship to the person she’d created in her head.
She knew that, and she was fine with it. People had always had icons. It made them feel connected. Twitter, Facebook, Naked New York, Perez Hilton, E!, People. They were watercoolers, the center of invisible towns where neighbors gathered.
Being one of the chosen, knowing everyone she met, whether they were famous or seeking fame, had already made up a story about who she was, what Charlie saw in her, what would happen next, was bizarre in a way she couldn’t have predicted. There was no preparation for this kind of exposure, and the strangeness of it was messing with her sense of time. One minute she was reeling from too many gazes centered on her, the next, she was standing beside a window staring out at the water without having any idea how she’d gotten there.
Charlie had helped. His hand on her arm was a steadying force, his presence, his introductions easing the way. But he was acclimated, and she was still gasping for oxygen.
It didn’t help that each time, every time, his touch gave her a frisson of excitement that made her breathless once again. It was ridiculous. She should be over it by now. Knowing this was a business arrangement and nothing more didn’t help. The disconnect between her brain and her desire worried her. It was as if she’d been given electric shocks all evening, each one immediately followed by a stab of regret.
“You ready?” he asked, his mouth so close to her ear she could feel his heat. It must have been a shout because the music was blaring all around them, but it felt like a caress.
She nodded, and he slipped his arm around her shoulders as they went from the steamy inside to the icy outdoors. Again, there were enough limos to fill a football field, but there were also dozens of valets, running off to find drivers in what must have been an underground madhouse.
“What did you think?” Charlie asked. “Better?
Worse?”
“You tell me,” she answered. “You were watching me like a hawk.”
He studied her expression, and she was struck yet again by how much she liked his face. It really was absurd how outsize his eyes were. They weren’t comicbook large or even unsettlingly out of proportion. They were definitely the first thing one noticed about him.
He raised one dramatic eyebrow. “You liked this one more, despite having to work. I think partly because you knew more about what to expect, and partly because you got to speak to some of your favorite designers.”
She smiled even though his conclusion wasn’t quite accurate. “You’re dead-on. Is that a problem?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m incrementally not as innocent. By Friday night, I’ll be a stone-cold cynic.”
Charlie laughed, and there were the lines on his face that made it impossible for her not to touch his jacket, touch him. Why lines? It’s not as if they were deep grooves or anything close to it. He was in his early thirties, and they didn’t make him look a minute older. Perhaps it was because lines of any kind, even laugh lines, were practically forbidden in this glamorous, youth-obsessed culture. She’d hate it if Charlie had Botoxed his out of existence. His lines made him seem genuine, made him seem attainable. Seem being the operative word.
“Trust me on this,” he said. “While you’re very savvy and not to be underestimated, you’re nowhere close to jaded. It won’t be as unbelievable to meet famous people in a week or two, but the thrill will still be there.”
“Good.” She wanted the thrill, at least as it pertained to celebrities. She could do with fewer thrills when it came to Charlie. “Sorry I’m making you leave so early. I imagine you close down these kinds of parties.”
“Not at all. I stay until I have enough material, then head home. I have to get up early to get the blog in on time.”
“So the photographers send their pictures before they crash for the night?”
“Yep. I go through them in the morning. I also get the freelance pieces and gossip tidbits. I put together the blog, send everything to my assistant Naomi, and she does her thing until it’s online by 10:00 a.m. If you’ve got a sidebar about tonight, I’ll need it by nine.”
She nodded, not wanting him to see how his mention of that aspect of the job terrified her. The words would be hers. Not an illusion, not a gimmick. She’d sink or swim based on talent. God, she needed to sit down.
“You okay?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask. The stylist? What are we aiming for here?” She looked down at the dress she’d worn, one she’d made back in college. It was a pretty green, a shade lighter than her eyes, and it was sleeveless with a purple-and-green bolero jacket. It would have been perfect for a night on the town with Rebecca and friends, but she was outclassed here by ten miles. She figured that was the point. Make her look like the hick she was.
“Ah. You’re going to like this part. Glam to the max. Everything from shoes to gowns. The whole shebang, complete with makeup, hair, body airbrushing, everything.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, unsure whether he was joking with her or not.
“Those sidebars? They should be about the entire experience. What it feels like to become a princess, to go to the ball. To be plucked out of obscurity and shot to the stars.”
She blinked at him as people pushed forward to get to their cars. Watched a smile bloom on his face. Wished like hell she could jump into his arms and hug him for yet another incredible surprise.
“And you get to keep all the swag.”
She shoved him. Kind of hard. “Do not mess with me, Winslow. I will hurt you if you’re lying.”
“Not lying. Yours to keep.”
Flashbulbs had been popping all night, but suddenly they were in her face, blinding her. Only for a moment, though, then they were gone, like a swarm of locusts with cameras. They’d done their job, however, and kept her from leaping into Charlie’s arms.
It was the most diabolical torture. Give her all her dreams with one hand, steal her desire with the other. Rinse. Repeat.
“So, we discussed that you’ll be meeting Sveta on Thursday, right? That you’re off the hook for tomorrow?”
“Yep,” she said, switching gears.
“You should sleep. You’ll need it.”
“I have to go make frozen lunches tomorrow night. Rebecca’s going to be there.”
“If I know her, she’ll keep you up later than I have. The woman is a slave to details.”
Before she hit the sack, she’d go through the pictures she’d taken. Those images were what she needed to focus on, not Charlie. Not his scent, not the resonance of his voice, not this wanting to be close to him.
By the time the series was finished, she’d be over her silly crush. Dammit, she would be.

9 (#ulink_4717fb7c-7132-54ce-a4ee-a96ba959d4f1)
“TASTE THIS AND TELL ME if you think it needs more salt.” Rebecca stood back so that Lilly could try the soup.
She obliged and faked a cough.
“Funny.” After elbowing her aside, Rebecca saw her cousin standing at the door of the St. Mark’s basement kitchen. He wasn’t looking at her, or, she imagined, for her. His gaze was on Bree.
Laughter still clung to the steam that swirled over the industrial stove. Rebecca was making a giant pot of split pea soup, Lilly was cooking a Texas chili and even with those pots and the 350° oven, the basement remained chilly. It wouldn’t be for long, though, not if what she thought was going to happen happened.
It was difficult to look away from Charlie. He was as unguarded as she’d ever seen him. As an adult, at least. There was a keen awareness in his eyes, a concentration that spoke of a hunger that had nothing to do with pea soup.
One of his hands braced against the door frame, the other held papers. He looked elegant in his bespoke coat: dark navy, midcalf, styled perfectly. How Charlie it was.
The man knew what looked good on him, what he could get away with, and what would cause eyebrows to raise. Nothing was unintentional. Not online, in person, in a walk to the corner grocer. Seeing him blatantly wanting Bree was seeing him naked. Not that she had any personal experience with that, but she’d been with Charlie in family situations, private moments of grief, in trouble, in failure, in success, and this was new.
Rebecca grinned at her own brilliance. She was awesome. She’d known he would like Bree. And Bree would like him, but even Rebecca at her most conniving hadn’t guessed they would have come so far so fast.
She’d have high-fived herself if she could have, for being just that clever. No one in the family believed Charlie would ever fall. He’d always have women, but never one woman. Not Charlie. His merry-go-round hadn’t stopped spinning since puberty, and he got bored so quickly. Nothing could have suited her cousin quite as perfectly as this age of instant gratification. Charlie was born for it, breathed it, worked it. Everything lightning fast, and rest was for the weak and dull.
Bree wasn’t dull in the least.
Rebecca turned to her friend. They’d played phone tag all day, then arrived at the kitchen as Lilly had come in, so all Rebecca knew was that Bree had gone with Charlie to a big fancy party last night, a heck of a second date, and she’d written a firsthand account of the party that had been in this morning’s blog.
If that wasn’t testimony to Rebecca’s genius, she didn’t know what was.
Things got really interesting when Bree shifted and sighted the man standing in the doorway.
If only the door had been closer to the prep area. It was difficult to know where to look. Bree now was a living demonstration of Modern Woman In Full Lust Mode. Her back straightened, her breath caught, showing off her chest in the most positive light possible. The thrift-store cashmere sweater she wore cupped her boobs perfectly, and Rebecca knew Charlie was having a little heart attack at the view.
Then there was the flush that swept across Bree’s cheeks. Good lord, it couldn’t have been more artfully painted by Renoir. Her eyes got wide and her lips parted and her pheromones were positively dripping.
The only sounds were the slow gurgle of thick simmering from the stove, the hiss of the radiator. Even Lilly, who’d come tonight for the company and the after-cooking drinks, had caught on that Something Was Happening.
Rebecca turned to Charlie again, and he’d dropped his hand, taking a single step inside the kitchen. He seemed to be fighting a smile. It would start to form at the corners of his lips, then flatten, but a second later the grin would start again.
Back to Bree, and it was like the slowest tennis match ever, the invisible ball staying well within the boundaries, the lobs back and forth languid and electric at the same time.
Rebecca’s soup would burn in a minute if she didn’t stir the pot. “Charlie,” she said. “What’s up?”
Rebecca almost laughed at how he jerked at her voice. And when she glanced at Bree, the blush had spread over her cheeks and down her neck, and there was a great deal of blinking.
“I came to show Bree her blog.” He held up the papers as if proof had been required.
“Kind of hard for her to see it across the room.”
Charlie’s grin finally broke free as did his legs. He came inside, crossed the basement to Bree.
“That’s Charlie Winslow,” Lilly whispered, and Rebecca hadn’t heard her approach. Luckily, no one saw Rebecca jump because everybody’s gaze was on center stage. Even Lilly’s.
“Yes, it is.”
“Why is Charlie Winslow in the kitchen? With Bree?”
“Because she’s seeing him.”
“What?”
The word came out loud. Very loud. Loud enough that it halted the action.
Lilly smiled, gave a little wave. “Lilly Denton. Hey.”
“Charlie Winslow,” Charlie said. “Hey.”
The moment passed. Rebecca dragged Lilly to the stove, Charlie went back to mooning at Bree.
“She’s seeing him?” Lilly asked, her voice back down to a stage whisper. “Since when?”
“Not long.”
“How do you know this?”
“Obviously you don’t read his blog.”
“I do, but I’ve been too busy the past few days.” Lilly sneaked another peek. “That’ll teach me for putting work first.”
“Okay, it’s not because of his blog, I know because Charlie’s my cousin, and your chili is burning.”
Both of them took up spoons, the industrial-size ones, and stirred like the witches in Macbeth. “Seriously, what the hell?” Lilly said.
“I set them up.”
Lilly, who was something of a mystery to Rebecca, a friend in the making, but guarded, so very guarded, opened her mouth, then must have reconsidered. She did, however, step closer to Rebecca. “Explain. In detail, please. And remember, I have a large spoon in my hand, and I swear to God I’ll use it if you keep being cryptic.”
“I don’t usually set people up,” Rebecca replied. “Especially not Charlie because he’s got hot-and-cold running women in his life, but he and Bree … they fit.”
“Before the trading cards? During? Because if Charlie Winslow was a trading card then I want my money back.”
“You didn’t pay for anything.”
“Rebecca.”
“Right. He wasn’t a card. Technically.”
“I’ve been out with two trading cards. The first one was a wonderful guy, as long as you were willing to put up with his ardent love for his mother. The second guy’s card said he wanted a relationship, but his actions were completely one-night stand.”
“I know. My dates haven’t been life shattering, either, although I hear Paulie met someone fantastic, and that Tess’s one-night stand has turned into three.”
“Which still doesn’t explain Charlie Winslow,” Lilly said, frowning.
“It’s complicated, and we’ll discuss it more when we go for drinks, but if I’m talking to you, my eavesdropping sucks, so let’s keep stirring and shut the hell up.”
CHARLIE SWALLOWED, WONDERING for the fiftieth time what he was doing in the basement of a church kitchen fumbling around like a teenager on his first date. Bree was reading the blog pages he’d printed out, and she was kind enough not to mention that he hadn’t needed to come see her or print out the pages as the blog would be online first thing in the morning.
He’d asked her to do a little bio piece and tomorrow morning it would run. She’d already given a tease—her first sidebar about the Chelsea Piers party—and it could have ended right there. But blog hits had been up, and she’d gotten more than seven hundred comments on her column. Very encouraging.
So he’d moved forward. Tomorrow morning there would be more pictures of Bree, some from college days, one from here in New York in casual wear. He hoped it would start a dialogue.
His gaze went to Rebecca, whom he caught in mid-smirk, and he touched Bree’s arm, interrupting her reading. “I’ll be back in a few.”
She nodded, and he went over to Rebecca. He smiled at her friend, then turned to his cousin. “A minute? Outside?”
Her eyes narrowed, but she put down her spoon and walked with him to the door. Once they were outside, she shivered at the cold, but didn’t go back for her coat. “You can thank me now,” she said. “And later. I accept gifts, too. The more expensive the better.”
“We’re not dating.”
“I read NNY, you dope,” she said.
“You read what I write on NNY. And evidently you haven’t spoken to your friend since yesterday before lunch.”
“That’s true. We’re going out after the meals are in the freezer.”
As Charlie stuck his hands in his pockets, she grimaced. The bastard should have given her his coat. “Why did you set me up with her?” he asked.
“Why did you bring me out here to freeze to death?”
He rolled his eyes dramatically and took off his coat with a sigh that would have done a Broadway diva proud.
She curled herself into the heavy wool coat, the lining as luxurious as the tailoring. “Because she’s your type.”
“No, she’s not. She’s not vaguely my type. Do you even know me?”
“Yeah. I do. And those skeletons you go out with every night are a joke. I imagine you can count the ones you actually like on one hand.”
“It doesn’t matter if I like them.”
“You happen to be one of the only relatives I can stomach,” she said, “but Charlie, it’s time for you to move on. You’re what, thirty-two?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Over thirty. You’ve spent your entire working life giving your parents and our family the finger. It’s enough. You need to start living for you, and stop giving them all the power.”
He stared at her with his great big eyes, mouth open, as if the cold itself couldn’t penetrate his shock. “What the fuck are you talking about, Rebecca?”
“Naked New York. Your blog. Not the others, not the legit blogs. Yours. The one that runs every aspect of your life. If you want to call it a life.”
“I’m raking in millions.”
“You already had millions. Look, I have to get back to the cooking. Do what you have to do, but think about it, okay? What it would be like if your evenings were full of things you actually wanted to do? If you went out with people you actually liked?”
“You’re insane. The Winslow foundation has driven you around the bend.”
“Yeah, well, maybe. Oh, and remember. Don’t screw with Bree, Charlie. She may want to play in the fashion big league, but she’s a really decent person. She’s not used to people like us. Tread lightly.”
“I told you. We’re not dating.”
“The way you two look at each other? I give it three days. Four at the most.”
“It’s freezing, and I’m not listening to you anymore.” He brushed past her, and she followed, wondering how such a smart, smart man could be such an idiot.
BREE LOOKED UP FROM the blog page as Charlie came toward her. He looked cold, and she saw why as Rebecca followed him. He’d offered his cousin his coat. Another nice thing, but not in the same league as what she had been reading. “You hardly changed anything,” Bree said, when he stood in front of her.
“I didn’t need to. You wrote a great piece.”
“Wow.” She flipped through the few pages, stopped at her New York picture. “Why didn’t you say anything about my hair?”
“What?”
“It’s all … wrong.”
“You look gorgeous,” he said. “It was difficult to choose which picture to use. Each one was great.”
Okay, there was nice, and too nice.
Her suspicion must have shown because he touched her arm, making her look into his eyes. “I’m telling the truth.”
She didn’t speak for a while. Not that she didn’t have a lot to say, but it sounded mushy in her head, inappropriate for what they were now. There were questions, too, about why he’d come in person, what it meant, and why on earth did she keep imagining longing in his gaze when longing couldn’t be possible? “I have food in the oven,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, staring at her, waiting for …?
“After we put everything in containers and in the freezer, we’re going for drinks.”
“We?”
“Rebecca, Lilly, me. You?”
“That’s a big crowd. Maybe we could whittle it down?”
It was tempting; of course she wanted to be alone with him, but that he’d even suggested it made her thoughts even more confused. “We’ve been missing each other, what with parties and appointments and things. I can understand if you’d rather not join us.”
“No. I’d like to.”
Well, damn. Why would he want to join them for drinks? Rebecca! That had to be the reason. “Good. You can help us put up the food. It’ll go faster.”
“Swell,” he said, and she smiled at his put-upon tone. “Now that you know I make such great tea, you’ll want me in the kitchen forever.”
Bree’s laugh stuttered, and a flush hit Charlie’s face. She walked faster, so fast she had to look over her shoulder to say, “It won’t kill you. I promise.”
He’d come to a full stop. “I’m taking your word for it,” he said, going for humorous, but not succeeding.
She made herself focus on food prep, and not the jumble in her head.
THE BAR WASN’T FLASHY. Most of the patrons were in business wear like Bree and her friends. She’d be willing to wager every last one of them was asking themselves what the hell Charlie Winslow was doing in a less-than-swanky pickup bar on a Wednesday night.
If she read him correctly, he didn’t seem to mind. He had hailed their cab, insisted on paying for the short trip, then walked them inside as if this was the next stop on the Fashion Week tour.
The women in the place eyed him with undisguised hunger, the kind of looks that would make a statue blush, and all she could think was I was with him the other night. Naked.
She had to stop that right now.
They scored a booth in the back, and Charlie scooted in next to her, pressing against her from knee to shoulder. It would have been easier if he’d kept his coat on, but no, it was just him in his close-fitting white shirt, narrow black pants, and his hot body, clenching the muscles in his thighs and his biceps—
“Bree?”
“Hmm?”
“Drink?”
“Ah. Yes. Tequila Sunrise, please. Heavy on the sunrise.”
“Got it.” Charlie scooted out, and she instantly felt more relaxed. Jeez, didn’t the man understand personal space?
Lilly leaned across the table the moment he walked away. The music wasn’t deafening but it still made her have to shout. “Oh, my God, Bree, why didn’t you tell me you were dating Charlie Winslow?”
“I’m not. Not really.”
Lilly gave Rebecca a sharp look before she turned back to Bree. “I don’t understand.”
“The whole setup is a blog gimmick to get new readers. No big deal.”
“Yeah,” Lilly said slowly. “Tell it to someone who hasn’t seen him look at you.”
“Seriously, Lil? Come on. Would a guy like him honestly want to date a girl like me?”
“Yes!”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Bree blinked at her friends. Of course they would say that. What was the alternative? “Yeah, you’re right. He could do so much better?” “Anyway,” she said, waving off the both of them, “it’s great. I get to go to Fashion Week parties, and he’s publishing some of my pieces, which will make my bosses sit up and notice. I take a giant step up the ladder to success. Everybody wins, especially me.”
Rebecca cleared her throat, and Bree reluctantly met her gaze. She did not seem pleased. “Why is Charlie here tonight?” she asked.
“Blog stuff.”
“Since it’s written for the internet, wouldn’t it have been easier for him to, I don’t know, send that stuff to you over the internet?”
Bree opened her mouth, but she had no answer.
EXCEPT FOR THAT WHOLE Psych 101 speech from Rebecca outside the church, Charlie had a great night. The food prep part he could have lived without, although no, that had been great, too. Rebecca was right about one thing—he hardly ever did normal stuff anymore. No grocery stores, no shopping in general, not when it was so easy to get everything delivered or picked up by his housekeeper.
He went to screenings or premieres, not movies. He was sent advance copies of books and films, invitations to parties from New York to Milan, Paris, London, Dubai, L.A. He didn’t barhop, and tonight had been the first time in ages he’d had drinks with real people in a regular bar instead of with celebrities behind some form of velvet rope.
He’d liked everything from the music on the jukebox to the raucous laughter from the après-work crowd. He’d been reminded of the old days when he was just starting out with his first blog. The only part that wasn’t great tonight had been at the end. Putting Bree in a taxi. Alone. And then hailing a cab for himself.
He consoled himself with the fact that tomorrow would be killer busy for his latest blog contributor. After a full eight hours at her day job, she’d be on the run with the stylist, then they had an art exhibit party to go to, which didn’t begin until ten. She’d be lucky to get four hours sleep, and because he was a selfish bastard, he’d kept her out too late tonight.
He hadn’t wanted it to end. But end it had, as all things did, and in a week, give or take, his time with Bree would be a memory. If it worked out, he’d use her for the odd column, and they’d run into each other at cocktail parties and openings. But he’d move on. That’s what he did. What was for the best.
He thought again about what Rebecca had said. That his family felt slapped by what he did for a living was their problem, not his. He’d told them all the way back in high school that he wasn’t going to fall into line. The idea of him going into politics had been ridiculous. They should have known that without him having to smear it in their faces. But they’d only seen what they wanted to see.
His answer might have appeared radical to anyone outside the family. Getting arrested in a public scandal his senior year in college was, he’d admit, a dramatic move. But Rebecca, of all people, should have understood. He’d done what was necessary. His success had been a matter of skill, planning and yes, luck. Why wouldn’t he want to continue to thrive? It would have been nice to be with Bree. He couldn’t deny the attraction. But she didn’t fit. Not as anything except a temporary gimmick, a sidebar, a tweak on the blog.
And his bed. Good Christ, she’d fit there.
He stared at the window as the cab pulled up to his building. Life was about choices. Some tougher than others. Hell, she was just a girl. He’d learned long ago not to romanticize sex.

10 (#ulink_e28b5a17-d6bb-5101-bc95-60a51aa671cd)
THE STYLIST, SVETA BREVDA, was tall and manic and thin as a whippet, and she wielded her opinions with an iron fist. The first stop—at Dior!—taught Bree to strip quickly, stand straight and keep her mouth shut.
She’d stopped being self-conscious about being naked by store seven. Didn’t matter who was in the dressing room. Salespeople. Friends of salespeople, men, women.
For all she knew the pizza delivery guy was standing by the exit, nodding as he studied her slipping into a skintight dress with absolutely nothing beneath it as if he were picking out curtains. But the clothes were …
Bree had lost her adjectives. That’s how fantastic the clothes were. And the accessories? Good Lord, she’d died and gone to heaven. Even though the shoes tortured her feet, she couldn’t breathe in the two dresses that were honestly a size too small, and she was turned and bent and paraded around like a show pony, but the torture was totally worth it because she got to keep everything.
Even the bit where the silver-haired dresser from Prada stuck his hand down her bodice and lifted her bare breasts. Now there was a blog entry.
All this done at the speed of a montage: cabs were hailed seconds before they stepped out doors, clothing selections were made preternaturally and perfectly, and she finally understood the worth of a good stylist.
The only thing missing was Charlie. She kept wanting to tell him things, to see his reaction, to feel his hand on the small of her back, but he was working, and she was, as well. Only this work made her feel like a model—despite the fact that every article of clothing had to be shortened—and like a prom queen. But mostly like someone had made a mistake that would be corrected momentarily.
Charlie wasn’t the kind to make mistakes of this magnitude. Yet it would have been better if she could have talked to him. She’d texted in cabs—the only time she’d been able to—but he was in a meeting, so his response would have to wait.
CHARLIE HAD TO WORK TO KEEP his expression mild, to speak as if his parents dropping by wasn’t something unwelcome and entirely too coincidental given his talk with Rebecca last night. He’d always liked Rebecca so much. She’d been his ally, his cover, his friend. Her betrayal hit hard and low. Shit.
“We’re not here to take up much of your time, Charles,” his father said, his gaze scrutinizing the living room. He—both his parents—were busy cataloging every change, the new lamps, the slate that had replaced the bricks around the fireplace. They’d only been to his place a few times over the years. He preferred meeting in neutral territory, although he went to family gatherings, typically one per year, wherever it was being held. He didn’t shut his parents out completely.
“You’ve undoubtedly seen that Andrew is starting his campaign in earnest,” his father said, his voice modulated and soft. That had been one of the earliest Winslow lessons. Speak softly. Make them listen. “We’re very pleased with the endorsements he has now, but the committee is budgeting media advertising, and naturally, your blog group has come up.”
So it hadn’t been Rebecca. Charlie didn’t acknowledge his father’s remarks. Another lesson he’d learned at his father’s knee. Never give anything away, not in expression, in tone, or in posture.
The Winslows were the quintessential image of subdued elegance. Nothing his parents wore was ostentatious, but everything was meticulously selected to evoke their status. The most expensive watches, Italian handcrafted shoes, tailoring from the finest hands in several countries.
His parents commanded respect, and made everyone who wasn’t family feel small and insignificant. Polite to the extreme. They radiated power and privilege.
Christ, what they had tried to do to him. He was sure they wouldn’t mention that it should have been his campaign, if only he’d not been so rebellious.
“We would very much like to utilize the family connection in the two most appropriate blogs, Dollars and NYPolitic.”
“No,” Charlie said. “I’m not going to promote the family agenda on my blogs. It’s inappropriate, given I think Andrew would be a monumentally bad choice for the senate.”
His phone buzzed again, and he took it out of his pocket to find another text message from Bree. He couldn’t read it now.
“We’re not asking for a change of editorial direction or for you to give your personal endorsement,” his mother said. “Simply space for featured ads. It would mean significant revenue.”
He stared at his mother, knowing she was irked that he hadn’t offered them drinks. It was only polite, the right thing to do, even for uninvited guests. In her home, nothing of the sort would have ever happened.
He smiled as he looked around. This was his home.
ON MADISON AVENUE, BREE and her posse stopped again, this time for shoes. Or maybe a bag, she wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t help that Sveta’s accent—she was from Belarus—was nearly unintelligible. Bree mostly nodded and tried to keep up and not prostrate herself at the temples of fashion—Versace, Chanel, Anna Sui. Those were the kind of stores that only had a few items artfully displayed in minimalist snobbery. Where excellent champagne was served by stunning hostesses who knew every detail of the design and manufacture of the clothing on display. The music was always … interesting. Nothing you’d hear on Top Ten radio, because you could get that at the New Jersey malls.
The price tags made her hyperventilate. And even though the selections for her weren’t the top-of-the-top-of-the-line, they were still extravagantly outlandish. Truly, she was in another world, someone else’s life. Charlie’s world. As she snapped another photograph of herself in a pair of heels that would likely cripple her after five steps, she reminded herself that she was a visitor. A tourist. Nothing more.
CHARLIE’S FATHER STOOD and even he couldn’t control the way his rising blood pressure reddened his face. “Andrew is family, Charles. He’s a Winslow. We’ve allowed you to set your own course, have your fun, but this is our legacy you’re tampering with. I won’t have it.”
Charlie moved closer to the door, to the closet where he’d hung their coats. “Huh. It’s good to know some things don’t change. You continue to hold on to the ludicrous belief that you have any influence over me or my life. It’s nice having our own traditions.”
“Charles,” his mother said, as affronted as his father, but less flushed. “That’s enough. We are your parents.”
He approached them and held out his mother’s coat. “Thanks for dropping by. I hope you had a nice vacation in St. Barts.”
She looked at his father who took both coats from Charlie. He didn’t quite rip them out of his son’s hands. But it was close.
“This will be remembered, Charles,” his father said.
“I hope so.” Charlie led them to the door. When it was closed behind them, he was still buzzing with anger. He needed to cool down, get Zen about the visit, about the message. He wished Bree were here.
He’d never mentioned his parents to Bree, hadn’t asked about hers. They weren’t friends. Yeah, he was comfortable with her. Okay, that didn’t happen much anymore. But no. He wasn’t going to talk to Bree about his parental issues. Jesus.
He pulled out his cell phone, and clicked on the earliest of her text messages. He was grinning by the time he got to his office.
FINALLY, THEY HAD MORE THAN enough clothing to get her through at least a week of parties. The most extravagant was the Marchesa gown for the Courtesan premiere. The evening dress, pinned to fit her body by a bevy of seamstresses, was so out of her league it hurt.
It was almost eight by the time the cab arrived at Charlie’s. Sveta didn’t need to announce herself. The staff at the front desk nodded respectfully as the doormen helped bring in bag upon bag upon box. Bree rested against the mirrored wall of the elevator, then took a few deep breaths before they entered Charlie’s home. Her gaze went immediately to the hallway leading to his bedroom, and the reality of their new arrangement made her ache. Then he stepped into the atrium, and everything else became background noise.
He smiled widely when their eyes met. She shivered as he came closer, knowing he would touch her, and that she was allowed to touch him back, even in front of Sveta and the doormen. Such a mixed blessing. She could touch, but not have.
Bree didn’t regret her decision about keeping the relationship out of the bedroom. It was the right decision, the mature way to go. It also completely sucked. “This is too much,” she said, as she looked into Charlie’s dark eyes. His hands went to her upper arms, and his palms ghosted across her skin down to her wrists and back up again. He kissed her, on the lips, yes, but the moment there was a hint of heat, he backed off. She wondered whom he’d kissed her for. Sveta? The rest of the team? Had to be.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s part of the gig.”
“Charlie, I saw the price tags.”
He smiled. “Most everything was free.”
“Nothing’s free. I know it’s barter, but I’m not even famous.”
“You will be.”
“In a week? I doubt it.”
He walked her farther into his apartment as Sveta led the doormen down a hallway, her heels clicking so quickly Bree wondered if it would be rude to suggest a switch to decaf. “You won’t be on the cover of People,” Charlie said, “but you’re going to be known in the city, where it matters.”
He paused, his palm warm on her skin. When he spoke again, his voice tightened along with his fingers. “You’re with a Winslow now, and the Winslows are the very heart of power in this city, didn’t you know?”
Bree stopped. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she felt uncomfortable. What had happened during his meeting? He’d brushed aside her questions, told her everything was fine, but that clearly wasn’t the case.
“Each item of clothing is going to get a lot of mileage in the blogs,” he said, letting her go. His voice had changed back to something less strident, more like Charlie. “In addition to your sidebars, I’ve got some fashion insiders who’ll be plugging them for weeks to come. I guarantee there will be ready-to-wear versions in Macy’s by April.”
Bree forced a smile even though she knew he was upset, that this last speech was him getting his bearings again. But she had no right to ask him to be honest with her, to tell her a single thing about his private life. “I’ve already worked up a quick first draft of what it was like to be fitted by a big-league design team.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
Sveta’s clicking heels announced her entry into the living room. “You come dress now.”
Bree checked with Charlie.
“It’s a media room. Used for these kind of things.”
“You style up all your women?”
His lips parted, but Bree hurried to follow Sveta, not wanting to know his answer.
The room itself gave it away, though. There were mirrors, hair and makeup stations, clothing racks. A lot of those racks held men’s clothes, but there were women’s, as well, all stunning. In a shocking nod to propriety, there was a changing screen in a corner. There were also people. Five people—one of them was a photographer she’d seen at the Mercedes party. His assistant was fussing with lights. Off to the side were giant rolls of backdrops, like bolts of material, ready to be swung into place for any kind of photograph.
There was even a sewing machine in one corner, which Bree longed to check out. It was most probably the Ferrari of sewing machines and would make her so jealous she would weep for a week.
“Change,” Sveta said, holding up the purple jacquard V-neck dress they’d picked up from the Victoria Beckham collection.
Bree obeyed, as if she’d dare do anything else. It was a matter of moments to slip out of her office wear into the magnificent cocktail dress, especially because her only undergarment was her own bargain basement thong. Beige on purpose.
The moment she stepped from behind the screen, she was covered in a smock, sat in a chair and set upon by far too many hands touching her hair, her face, her fingernails. The lights made everything more intense, hotter, scarier, and when someone said open, she opened her mouth, and someone else tugged her hair so she would bend her neck just so.
Her personal space had never been so invaded. The scent of many breaths and colognes went from cloying to unpleasantly sticky, and if this didn’t end soon, she was going to have to do something, stop them somehow.
“Hey.”
Charlie’s voice cut through, and in two, three heartbeats, those things that had been touching her, brushes, fingers, nail file, eyelash curler, pulled back. Bree sighed with relief, saw that she was gripping the armrests of the makeup chair so tightly with her unpolished hand her knuckles were white.
She watched him in the mirror, felt his hand on her shoulder.
“I didn’t even ask,” he said. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“I had lunch.”
“That was what, eight, nine hours ago?”
“About.”
His eyes narrowed in the mirror and he turned to face Sveta. “How long until she’s ready?”
“Five minutes. Nails on her left hand. Mascara. Lipstick.”
“Hold off on the lipstick. Finish the rest. I imagine you haven’t eaten, either. No, don’t look at me like that, you have to eat something. There’s a spread in the kitchen. Enough for everyone.”
Before he looked back at Bree, he squeezed her shoulder and smiled. “It’s not drippy stuff, but I’d keep the smock on, anyway. Just in case. We can talk about tonight’s shindig while we eat.”
She nodded. Calmly. Touched by his consideration. She hadn’t realized her panic was hunger. Mostly hunger.
Unable to turn, she was still able to watch him as he went to the men’s suit rack, grabbed one from the middle and went out. At the doorway, he turned and winked at her.
Before she could even smile, her hand was grabbed and the camera clicked and clicked and clicked.
THE BEST PART OF THE evening postshow was Bree, but even she hadn’t been distracting enough to prevent Charlie from thinking about his parents. He’d put a call in to Rebecca, but it hadn’t been returned, and his thoughts just kept circling back to this afternoon. How dare they think he was so spineless he’d cross the line into promoting the Winslow agenda on his blogs. God damn, that pissed him off.
He looked up as a Pyramid Club waiter came by with vodka shots. He’d done it again, let his attention wander, although at this point, there wasn’t much more to be seen. Bree was standing against the black brick wall, looking beautiful in her purple dress, in her impossible heels, surrounded by newshounds and fame seekers.
He’d warned her it would happen. This morning’s blog insured that Bree was now on the B-list, which could stand for “by association.” He had the feeling it wouldn’t take her long to stand on her own, though.
Most of the real celebs were huddled outside in the smoking zone, freezing their asses off while they dished about everyone inside, and he should go join them, at least for the few minutes he could put up with the fumes. But Bree was far more enticing.
She held up her glass of pineapple juice, but it was her shining smile that told him he’d made the right choice.
“You enjoying yourself?” he asked after he’d dodged drinks and drunks to get to her.
“Dizzy with it,” she said. Shouted. The noise level at these things was going to make him deaf before he was forty.
“It’s late. We should go soon.”
“Whenever you like.”
It wasn’t actually that late. Just past midnight. But she had work in the morning, her sidebar to write. And he wanted some time with her where they weren’t talking about who to schmooze, who to avoid. He held out his hand.
Cameras flashed as they went toward the exit. It wasn’t a surprise that they were stopped several times, but it didn’t take long to get the limo.
Once inside, he slid to the corner and waited for her to scoot next to him. Instead, she pressed up against the other door. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You look … chilly.”
“No,” she said, tugging down her skirt, avoiding his eyes. “I’m good. Maybe you could call ahead to your building, give them an ETA for a taxi?”
“We’ll take you home.”
“I have my clothes at your place.”
“You’re wearing your clothes.”
She looked at him. “Right. I forgot.”
He moved closer to her, concerned. “What’s going on, Bree?”
She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“What?”
“You’ve been jumpy all evening. I admit I haven’t seen you at many events, but when I have you’ve seemed like the most relaxed person in the room. Not tonight. Actually, I felt as though something was off at your place.”
He shifted away from her, not one hundred percent comfortable that there was someone else who could read him. There weren’t many. Naomi. Rebecca. His college roommate. Charlie liked it that way. It had taken him a long time to cultivate the image he needed for the job, and Bree from Somewhere, Ohio, had already pierced his carefully crafted exterior in more ways than he cared to think about. He considered changing the subject for the rest of the ride home, making it clear she’d crossed a firm boundary.
Instead, he met her gaze. “My folks came by today.”
She certainly looked startled by his admission. She wasn’t the only one. He barely knew this woman. And yet … “They’ve wanted me to go into politics,” he said. “Ever since I was in high school.”
“Really?”
“The Winslows have had political influence throughout the generations. It was time to prepare a new senator from New York. Long-term planners, my family.”
“Obviously you weren’t enthused about the prospect?”
“No. I wasn’t. It didn’t matter to them, though. I was taught from an early age that we had an obligation to do public service. That our privileged life meant we had to dedicate ourselves to a larger cause, that what we wanted was immaterial. Which sounds great in theory, noble and philanthropic. But it had more to do with keeping the family in the top tier of society than philanthropy. My destiny was supposed to include law school, the Harvard Law Review, a prestigious firm, municipal office, a seat in congress, then the Senate. Carrying the standard of the Winslow heritage.”
“Wow, I can’t see you as a lawyer. Forget a politician.”
His smile was wry. “And what, you’ve known me for a week? What does that tell you about my family?” He stared out the window for a beat. This true confession business felt as awkward as wearing someone else’s clothes. “Not that I don’t believe in public service, I do. I take that seriously.” He faced her again. “What I didn’t want was to live a lie.”
“So you decided to become an internet mogul?”
“Sort of,” he said, aware his automatic half grin said more than most of his conversations with women he’d slept with. “I didn’t expect the blogs would become this big. Not complaining. I was in the right place at the right time. I wanted to be independent.”
“It’s worked. You are. And quite successfully.”
“Yes. It’s worked. It’ll continue to work.” He studied his hands. He was the one who was supposed to unsettle his companions. He was very good at it, and Bree wasn’t even trying, so whatever this was, it wasn’t a power game. No, he had opened another door for her. Game changers, these exceptions. It made him nervous.
Allowing his parents to rattle him was frankly embarrassing. They didn’t for the most part. He’d just been caught off guard, that’s all. But telling Bree about it? Jesus.
“So their visit was uncomfortable?”
He reached over and took Bree’s hand in his. She was cold, dammit. “It was brief,” he said. “I made my point. Have I said how beautiful you look tonight?”
She stared at him, at their hands, then back at him. “Yes, several times. Thank you.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She sighed as she tugged her hand free. “It’s not that I don’t want to …”
He nodded, leaned back. Incredibly tired all of a sudden. Maybe he was coming down with something.

11 (#ulink_38c19888-5f13-5ea3-853c-e5411ba2cefa)
FRIDAY NIGHT CAME ALONG with a tux for the Courtesan premiere, and the only reason it was bearable was that Bree was in the media room getting prepped. He would check on her after he was dressed, although this time he’d made sure she’d eaten before Sveta snatched her away.
As he worked on his tie, he thought about the night ahead, pleased that she’d get to walk down a legit red carpet. A dream literally coming true, she’d told him.
The less sleep she got, he’d discovered, the more she revealed about herself. How when she was a little girl she would practice her Academy Award acceptance speech in front of the bathroom mirror, holding a bottle of shampoo or a hairbrush. She would very purposefully not thank whoever happened to be annoying her at the moment, which would sometimes be one of her siblings, a teacher, a friend or one of her parents.
It had made him laugh when they were slouched in the backseat of a limo, and it made him grin now. He could picture it so easily. He wondered if she’d always had short hair. Probably, given that she was so small. You wouldn’t want to hide any of that face, not with hair, not with too much makeup. Sveta had turned out to be the perfect stylist for Bree. People were taking note.
Her blogs were getting heavy traffic. Unique hits were much higher than with most of his new contributors, which made sense because this approach was fresh. Charlie had never asked one of his companions to post.
Much of the chatter was about the two of them, naturally. Were they? Weren’t they? There had been reports of Bree leaving in separate transportation at the end of an evening, and his place had acquired a few more paparazzi hoping to catch her doing the walk of shame in the morning. Speculation without confirmation was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
Bree had turned up on TMZ, PopSugar, Page Six, on almost every single one of his gossip feeds, as well as in the newspaper tabloids.
He slipped on his jacket, glad he’d chosen something so traditional. Beautifully cut, nothing radical. He wanted Bree to shine tonight. He had no idea what Sveta had chosen for her to wear, and he wondered how the stylist was going to top last night’s look. Bree had knocked his socks off when she’d made her entrance.
Come to think of it, every time he saw her she got to him. Having her so close, and so damned untouchable probably had something to do with it. Okay, a little interest from his cock, not good for the cut of his suit. Not good in a number of ways. She was off-limits. The statistics didn’t lie, and this new deal had increased NNY’s unique hits remarkably. It might kill him, but he’d keep to the script. Unfortunately, that meant touching. So much damn touching.
He checked his watch, made sure he had what he needed in his pockets and then went into the living room. He glanced at the open door in the atrium and wondered why he hadn’t taken Bree across to his office. It wasn’t that far to the other side of the elevator. Then again, they hadn’t had much time for anything but work.
He heard Sveta in the hallway, and swung around in anticipation of Bree’s entrance. Damn. She did it again. Like a slap on the back of his head.
She was a vision. So much for not getting excited tonight. He would have to put his cock in a straitjacket to pull that off, and yeah, he did not need to be thinking that when she was walking toward him with a smile that made him forget how to breathe.
Her white-and-purple dress was a structured strapless design that looked like origami. It drew his gaze to her face, then right to the bare stretch of skin from her long neck down to the top of her bust. Her waist looked tiny, her legs slim yet curvy, and with that smile and those smoky eyes, no one would be able to look away.
Jewelry would have been redundant.
“Well?” she said, her shoulders moving in an almost-but-not-quite shrug.
“You’re gorgeous. You’ll be the most beautiful woman on the red carpet.”
Bree blushed, rolled her eyes. Charlie let her think he was talking her up.
He took her hands in his and kissed both cheeks. Very European. All business. Not close to what he wanted. He’d kissed her on the mouth that first night, when he’d barely known her, and now he ached to take her mouth again, to taste her, and not only her lips.
“We have a half hour before we go. Want a drink?”
“Just water,” she said. “As excited as I am, I’m so incredibly tired I’m afraid a sip of booze will have me passed out for the night.”
“Can’t have that.” He nodded at the couch. “Sit. I’ll bring you water, then take care of the rest of our group.”
“Tell them again how wonderful they are, will you? I did, but I think they think I have to say it. I don’t. They’re magicians.”
How could he not like her? She was the anticelebrity, the cure for New York cynicism, complete with authentic goose bumps and unabashed excitement. But even he could see she hadn’t exaggerated about how tired she was. Not that anyone else would notice, but he’d been watching her for days, staring too frequently and too deeply. There was more makeup under her eyes tonight. He wondered if he should cancel tomorrow night’s club opening. Bree had to work for a few hours tomorrow morning, but then she planned to sleep for the rest of the afternoon. He doubted that would be enough.
He fetched her water as she made herself comfortable, a feat in that dress, on the couch. Then he conveyed her compliments along with his own to the team and saw them to the door. The limo would be arriving any moment.
He could see Bree’s dark hair over the edge of the couch, and he needed to remind her to bring her other shoes for when they got back in the limo. How women walked in those ridiculous heels …
Bree had rested on the leather sofa with one leg curled up under herself. The glass, now empty, tipped at a thirty-degree angle in her hand. She was sound asleep.
After carefully lifting the glass from her fingers, freezing for a moment when she made a little low-pitched sound, he touched her bare shoulder gently. “Bree? Bree, we have to leave now.”
She mumbled something and adjusted the side of her face on the back cushion.
He hated that he had to disturb her. He brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek. “Bree,” he said as he sat down next to her. He wanted to wake her, not scare her. “I know you’re tired, but it’s the premiere. Movie stars! Glamour! Lights, cameras, action!”
She tilted. Toward him. He repositioned himself quickly so she would land on the inside of his shoulder, not the bony edge. She slumped against him, the leg that had been tucked under now at a weird angle. While it looked ungainly and not very ladylike, it didn’t seem uncomfortable.
It was too easy to shift himself, to wrap his arm around her back, to hold her close, to inhale the smell of her. Slumping turned to snuggling and he sighed as he gave his next move some consideration. Then, with his free hand he pulled out his cell. He had to call Naomi, as he wasn’t adept at one-hand texting.
“You in the car?”
Ah, the voice. Car became cah, and he couldn’t stop his grin. “No,” he whispered.
“What?”
How she’d given that simple word such a swoop gave him equal parts joy and the willies. “We’re not gonna make it. Danny can take my place. Catch him quickly, though, ‘cause he’s not going to be dressed for it.”
“Why are you not going? Why are you whispering? Charlie, what have you done? It’s something about the girl, isn’t it?”
“Shhh,” he said, although Naomi’s voice over the cell wasn’t going to wake Bree. “She’s under the weather. It’ll be fine.”
“How’s it gonna be fine? You’ve got deadlines. You know how many comments you got today? Over twenty-five hundred. And you’re taking sick leave? What the hell, Charlie?”
“It’ll work out. Like always.”
“Yeah, well, it’s me you’re talking to, sweetheart, and ‘like always’ my ass.”
“Naomi. Call Danny. I’ll send you the copy and photos in the morning.”
He disconnected before she gave him additional grief, and put his cell down on the coffee table. Bree hadn’t stirred an inch. She’d probably be mad at him for sending someone in their place, and he had no idea what he was going to do about tomorrow’s blog pages, but there was no way in hell he was going to wake her. Not now.
She needed to rest. There would be other premieres. He’d spin the story to his advantage. In fact … He had the perfect angle. Take that, Naomi.
He’d have a story for tomorrow, but for tonight, he was keeping Bree to himself.
BREE HEARD A DOG BARK AND while it was a real dog barking, it was a dog once removed. A television dog. But she didn’t open her eyes, not yet. She liked this place, the in-between where there was nothing at all unpleasant and no alarm was going to intrude. The subtle, woodsy scent of Charlie made her sigh and smile. He knew how to use cologne, not like some of the guys from work who showered in the stuff. There was always a hint of the man underneath with Charlie, and that was the best part.
She moved a bit, her head at a weird angle and it wasn’t her pillow at all, and oh. It was dark, very dark. Charlie’s window was right there, across from his coffee table and behind his big television. It was late. Wrong. All wrong.
“You’re up.”
She couldn’t exactly see as some of her fake eyelashes were now sticking to her cheek, but she looked up in the general direction of Charlie’s voice. “What’s going on?” As nice as it felt to be pressed against his chest, she pushed off, up, until her feet were on the ground and she was sitting like a person. “What time is it?”
“A little past nine.”
“Nine? p.m.? Oh, God, was the premiere called off? Did something bad happen? Is everyone okay?”
Charlie laughed as he rubbed his shoulder, the one she’d been nestled against. “Everything’s fine.”
“We were supposed to be at the theater at six.”
“You were tired.”
“I was …” She peeled the lashes off both eyes and settled them in her palm like two spiders. When she glanced back at Charlie he was still rubbing his arm, shaking it. She must have been sleeping on it the whole time. Hours. He’d undone his bow tie, the top button of his shirt, too. The apartment was darker than it had been because he hadn’t turned on more lights. She’d slept through the red carpet. He’d let her. “I don’t understand.”
“I bet you’re starving,” he said, as he stood. “I know I am. How does Thai sound? Maybe some Tom Yum soup?”
“Wait.” She raised her hand to stop him, but it was the hand with the eyelashes. “Wait. Explain please. Why are we here? Why was I sleeping?”
“I told you.” He turned to leave.
“No, you didn’t.” She stood up. She might be foggy headed and probably looked like hell, but she was going to get an answer. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He kept walking to the kitchen, his tux jacket swinging loose, and she thought of watching him take it off slowly, seeing those perfectly cut trousers fall.
Her heels clicked on the floor and made her wince with each step. Holy crap, these shoes were the instruments of the devil. Speaking of which, her dress, the architectural wonder of a dress, looked like a badly folded sheet. Sveta was going to kill her. “Charlie!”
He paused. Turned around. Smiled at her. “There’ll be other premieres. I promise. I’ll make it up to you.”
“You don’t skip things. You never do. I’ve read your blog every day forever, and you’re always there. Even when you’re not, you have a really good excuse. Like natural disasters. Not that your arm was trapped under a sleeping person. So what the hell?”
Charlie sighed. God, he really did look hot in that tux. “Take off your shoes. It hurts just looking at them.” He kept walking to the kitchen, and she kept following, the pain in her feet making her blink.
“In fact,” he said, not bothering to turn, “just get into something comfortable. We’ll eat. You’ll have a decent night’s rest and so will I. We’ll go back to the madness tomorrow.”
They were in the kitchen proper and he’d flipped on the lights. It took her eyes a moment to adjust, to see he was holding a handful of delivery menus. Everything felt tilted sideways.
“Thai?” he asked. “Chinese? Pizza? Deli? There’s a terrific Indian place nearby that makes a hell of a chicken tikka masala.”
Bree inhaled, noticed that she really needed to brush her teeth, and that she was still completely bewildered by everything that had happened since she woke up. “Whatever,” she said, shrugging. “As long as it doesn’t have cilantro, I’ll like it. I’ll be back.”
She didn’t make it to the media room before she took off the shoes. The dress came off in the hallway entrance. When she reached the racks of clothes, she’d already decided to wear one of the kimono robes because dammit, she wanted to be comfortable even if she did have to dress to go home later. Not a teeny short robe, either, because she didn’t want him thinking she wanted that. They didn’t do that. It had been decided.
Besides there was a particularly beautiful long black robe with a crane on the back that felt like heaven over her bare skin and covered her more than her dress had. She didn’t even mind that it dragged on the floor. So what if she wasn’t an Amazon? She was compact. Efficient. Far more comfortable in airplane seats.
The bathroom was next, and she debated keeping the makeup that had taken such time and effort to apply, but in the end it was just no. It took longer than it should have, but feeling clean and herself was worth it.
She looked once more in the mirror and stalled. It made no sense that Charlie hadn’t shaken her awake. That they were here instead of Radio City Music Hall. The red carpet was long over now, of course, and that was the important part—not watching the movie. But there was an after party they could have attended.
It was highly unlikely that his excuse that she was “tired” was the real reason they’d stayed in. No, there had to be something bigger in play, but she was too fuzzy-headed to figure it out right now.
What she should do was get dressed, go home and go to sleep so that when she went into the office tomorrow to catch up on her real job, she might have an actual working brain cell or two.
On the other hand, a girl had to eat. That she got to eat with Charlie without a hundred people surrounding them was extraordinary. Unprecedented. They’d been on the run for what felt like months instead of days, seeing each other in snatches and in the blinding light of flashbulbs. The only truly personal moments had been in his bed on Valentine’s night—which she wasn’t allowed to think about—and last night in the back of the limo. She’d thought about that conversation all day. Not only about how different their worlds were, but how he’d opened up to her. It was as if she’d seen him naked again.
Screw it, she wanted to. Eat with him. Talk to him. Alone.
Her accelerated pulse and the rush of excitement that ran through her body merely thinking about what was next moved her out of the bathroom and into seeing dinner through. It was only her heart at risk, after all. And hadn’t she admitted, to him of all people, that she wanted her heart broken by callous men who wore gorgeous suits?

12 (#ulink_f83a60f8-b4dc-5acc-abf0-1d7bd0e268df)
CHARLIE GRINNED AGAIN. “So you’re a black sheep, too?”
Bree swallowed her mouthful of noodles and took a sip of soda before she could answer him. “Oh, yeah. I was supposed to marry Eliot. My high school boyfriend. It was a thing. Big. Tons of teeth gnashing and hand wringing. Comfort food played a big role. In particular, fried chicken.”
At the mention, they both ate for a bit in silence, which gave her time to go over what Charlie had told her about his struggles with his family. How was it possible for them not to be proud of his accomplishments? Maybe they were proud, but the family was crappy at communication. Rebecca had said that was an issue between her and her folks, and Charlie’s parents were cut from the same cloth. But then again, Charlie was driven. He put the implementation of his goals above everything else. As did Bree. “You know what I can’t figure?” she asked.
“What’s that?”
“How come you’re nice.”
“Me? Nice?”
“Very much so. I expected you to be on the conceited side of horrible. You’ve been great.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“There was absolutely no agreement in that response. To be clear, I meant nice in an Ohio sense. It wasn’t a dig.”
“Well, then. I appreciate it even more. Nice can go either way around here.”
“I gathered. How would you describe yourself?”
“Oh, that’s a scary question.”
“I’m not frightened.”
“I’m not referring to you.”
Bree grinned. “Come on. I’m already prejudiced in your favor.”
“That’s what’s got me worried. I like that you think I’m nice.”
“But …”
“I’m … focused. Extremely focused.”
She ate a bit, trying on the word to see how it fit. “Is that all you are?”
His wince was extravagant for him. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s the whole deal.”
“You’re funny. That’s not an opinion. That’s fact. You make me laugh a lot.”
“Hey, no fair talking about my looks.”
“See? Cute. Very cute.”
He put down the carton and picked up the beer, but he didn’t drink. “What else?”
She almost teased him, but the look in his eyes stopped her. “You’re thoughtful. You see who’s around you and you don’t take advantage of them. I’m not terribly experienced but I have the feeling that not everyone feeds the makeup and hair crew. Or even notices the building’s security staff.”
“That’s manners.”
Bree shook her head. “Nope. It goes beyond that. Most people in your position wouldn’t give a damn about anyone around them. It would be easy to be horrible. Expected. But you don’t need to be ruthless and evil to be a powerful presence because you’re already a powerful presence. People get it. You don’t have to shove their faces in it.”
“I like that. Not sure I agree, but it’s something to ponder. Of course, I don’t want to completely disregard the whole ruthless and evil thing. That has a lot of appeal.”
She gave a quick nod. “Yes. It does.”
He drank some more, then reached for the rice container, but as he did so, he managed to move himself over until they were close enough to touch. The carton stayed in his hand as he leaned into her.
Bree held her breath. Warning bells went off in the distance, muted but not silent. “I should call for a taxi,” she said. “Get home. Take advantage of the night off.”
Charlie put the rice down, but his leg, his hip, his side were pressed warm against her. He smelled like spice and beer and her eyes closed as she inhaled. “I don’t like beer. To drink. But I really like how it tastes when—”
He waited, not five inches between them, maybe not even three. “When …?”
“When I do this,” she whispered right before their lips touched.
CHARLIE WANTED TO PULL her into his arms and kiss her until she cried uncle, but he held himself back, every muscle in his body on a hair trigger. Her lips were soft against his, brushing, teasing. Her breath came in gentle puffs, scented with galangal and heat, and no matter how fervently he thought now, now, now, he let her call it, let her make this decision. What the hell was wrong with him?
The whole night had been one bizarre thing after another. He didn’t miss premieres. He didn’t sit still for three goddamn hours just so he wouldn’t disturb someone’s sleep. He wasn’t nice. Nice wasn’t even a part of the equation, so what was happening? What was he doing?
A touch, fingers, small, cool, delicate on the back of his neck, and he became very aware of his cock. Not for the first time since they’d landed on the couch together. In another bid to make this the weirdest night ever, he’d found himself cycling through stages of hardness. From that first moment she’d leaned into him all sleepy and mumbling, he hadn’t been completely soft. Not hard as a rock, either. Which was fine. He’d only touched himself the one time, and that was an adjustment. Even though this whole scenario was as close to an erotic dream as he’d ever had without sleeping.
She tugged his hair, pulled him closer, deepened the kiss. Little licks against his bottom lip, then the top, as if he were ice cream, a caramel apple. His cock filled, pressed against his fly. He should have taken off the tux, but it was too late to worry about that now. Not when she slipped her tongue inside and he tasted her for the first time since the party at Chelsea Piers.
Instantly he realized it was a mistake. A hormone driven error that would come back and bite him in the ass. He’d known better, but had he pulled away? Hell no.
He adjusted his head so they fit together better, then started his own exploration. He was not delicate or tentative. In fact, it was all he could do to stop himself from showing her just how ruthless he could be.
He opened his mouth and claimed her, sucked on her tongue, thrust with his own, and the sound she made, holy god … now he was getting the kind of hard that meant business. With determination and the endgame in sight, he pulled back. “Bedroom?” he asked. Hoped.
She blinked at him. Charlie realized he’d abandoned his beer and taken hold of her upper arms, the silk of the kimono warm beneath his fingers. She was virtually naked under that kimono; he knew that. He could see the push of her hard nipples against the silk. Maybe he’d been hit in the head or something, because this was not his style. This felt reckless, and he hadn’t been reckless since his teens.
Her nod let him breathe again. He kissed her once more. It started out thankful and turned desperate with one slick of his tongue against hers.
They stood as they’d been sitting, his hands lifting her up, their mouths working together to remember, relearn, discover.
He had them halfway across the room before they had to take a real breath.
One of Bree’s hands was in his hair, the other under his tuxedo jacket on the small of his back, as if they were doing some crazy waltz. “This is a bad idea,” she said before she kissed his chin.
“Terrible. We decided.” He captured her mouth again, amazed at how she let him guide her, backward, through the space. How, even with the height difference, the important parts matched, like her breasts against his chest and her lips within his reach. He only had to move a single muscle for her to react exactly as she needed to. It was a dance, not crazy, just theirs.
“Five years,” she said, in a rush of air and half a moan.
“What’s five years?” The hallway was coming, so they shifted slightly to the left.
“My plan.” Her hand moved down right over his ass as they maneuvered the turn, and he pushed her back into the wall. Her “umph” made him swing her around as he stood straighter, the graceful equilibrium between them going down the drain.
“You okay?”
“Where’s the damn bedroom?”
“Close,” he said. Speeding them there would have been the smart move. He kissed her instead. The pull was too much, knowing he shouldn’t, they shouldn’t.
The hand that had been in his hair was now on his chest, rubbing in vague circles.
“What plan?” he said, his voice as husky as a pack-a-day smoker’s. “To take over the world? To bring me to my knees? You don’t need five years for either.”
She laughed, stepped on his toe with her bare foot. It didn’t hurt. “I’m going to be a cross between Tim Gunn and Tina Brown,” she said, stumbling on the kimono.
If they didn’t kill each other before they made it to the bedroom, it would be a miracle. “Good for you. You’ll be great.”
“Not if I can’t say no to you.”
He looked at her then, at her darkened eyes filled with a heat that could burn a house down. “You can.”
She breathed in, then there was silence. Only his heartbeat loud in his ears.
“Please don’t make me,” she whispered.
A dark sound came out of his throat as he bent over and lifted her into his arms. It was ridiculous, something he never did, would never do, but he’d had enough walking, enough of everything but stripping her bare, burying himself inside her for as long as he could, as deeply as he could.
“Charlie,” she said, working her arm around his neck. “We’re insane.”
“I know.” The door was there, right there, and it was open. He had her inside in a flash, over the bed in two, but he had to kiss her one more time before he let her go.
She pulled back from the kiss first, but she barely moved. Her breath brushed his face, soft panting, a faint-as-a-whisper tremor.
He lowered her slowly, head on the pillow, the shoulder of the kimono slipping down enough for him to see the crease where her arm pressed next to her side. It made his cock jerk and he wanted her so badly he didn’t know what to do.
“It’s my turn,” she said.
“What?” He pulled his gaze from that patch of heretofore ordinary skin. “Your turn?”
Her normally very sweet smile and her big innocent eyes turned wicked as she looked him over. “Strip for me. Slowly.”
He had to grin. She’d said the words like a crime boss, like a vixen. And then she shrugged that partially bared shoulder until the kimono … He could see the edge of her hardened nipple. Only the edge.
BREE BIT HER LOWER LIP hard as Charlie took off his jacket. He’d taken her at her word, so his movements were unhurried, but his technique? Bless his heart, he had no clue how to do a sexy striptease. He kept checking to make sure he wasn’t going to trip and he tried to take both arms out of his sleeves at once and that made him cuss, and start again. She didn’t want to laugh because, oh, God, he was trying so hard. Her whole body ached with how adorable he was, how the normally smooth, completely controlled internet mogul looked exactly like a seventeen-year-old virgin trying to impress the prom queen. They both relaxed when the jacket hit the floor. She wasn’t about to put him through it again with his shirt and trousers.

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