Choose Me. Jo Leigh
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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
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