Playing Her Cards Right: Choose Me. Jo Leigh
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.
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.”