Playing Her Cards Right: Choose Me. Jo Leigh
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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.
“TASTE THIS AND TELL ME if you think it needs more salt.” Rebecca stood back so that Lilly could try