Choose Me. Jo Leigh
Читать онлайн книгу.
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
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