Playing Her Cards Right. Jo Leigh
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.
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,