Читать книгу Playing Her Cards Right - Jo Leigh - Страница 14

BREE SAT IN HER CUBICLE, shuffling papers from one stack to the next. She’d been at the office for two hours and she hadn’t accomplished a damn thing. Most of the morning had been spent rehashing last night, analyzing to death every single thing Charlie had done or said. Sneaking peeks at the picture she’d taken, of his trading card.

In the harsh fluorescent lights of BBDA, the events featuring Charlie seemed more like a dream than something that could have happened to her. But there was an ache in her body that wasn’t a result of working out at the gym. She’d tensed her arms so hard gripping the headboard that her muscles had burned as she’d showered this morning, and there was that thumbprint bruise on her hip. Plus her memories, of course.

She had no business thinking about him. The night. Him. Really now. It was over. Done. A recollection that should bring her pleasure instead of this sense of loss. How could she have lost something she’d never had? Never could have?

God, the whole morning sucked. Her thoughts had been wild enough before she’d seen that he hadn’t posted his blog yet. He should have. His routine was like Old Faithful, like atomic time. Instead, three other people had posted—one fashionista, one celeb tracker and one foodie.

So in addition to obsessing over the fact that sex had been no more than a part of the overall standard package rather than a romantically wonderful moment between the two of them, now she was pretty convinced that she had somehow jinxed Charlie. And she had a headache.

Surprisingly, Rebecca hadn’t called yet, which was fine because Bree hadn’t figured out how much she wanted to tell her and she wanted to be careful about that conversation, not dead on her feet. In fact, she seriously thought about sneaking in a nap today in place of lunch. She needed sleep more than food.

Her cell dinged and when she saw the name flash, she nearly choked. She clicked on the icon.

How are you feeling? CW

Bree stared at his initials, completely stunned. Why was he texting her? Good manners? Had she accidentally taken something from his apartment? She hit Reply then forced herself to think, not text, not yet.

This was silly. She shook her head as she used her thumbs.

Fine. Thanks.

You get to work okay? CW

On time and everything.

I’m glad. Also lunch? CW

What? Lunch? Was he asking her to lunch? Nope, no, that couldn’t be right. Not after this morning. She stared at the gray panel of her cubicle for a moment, then looked once again at her message. She hadn’t read it wrong. It simply made no sense.

Now her gaze lifted over the cubicle wall, but all she could see was the top of the heads passing by. There wasn’t a single person at BBDA she could pull aside for advice. None of them knew about her date with Charlie. Or really anything about her except that she tended to keep to herself.

She quickly typed BRB letting him know she was away from her keyboard, and grabbed the landline. Screw not telling Rebecca about what happened. Bree needed help. Fast. She dialed, praying her friend would answer.

The second Bree heard “hello,” she launched. “Last night was the most fabulous night in the history of earth, but this morning was completely weird and now he’s …”

“Bree—”

“Oh, God, you’re busy. Please don’t be busy because I don’t even—Wait. He’s texting me now, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Texting you what?”

“He wants me to have lunch with him. Today.”

Rebecca laughed. “Then go!”

“We both freaked out this morning. He offered me a hundred dollars.”

“What?”

“For a taxi.”

“Oh. Then I repeat. Go.”

“But—”

“Trust me on this. I know him. Really well. Lunch is huge.”

“Huge? Huge isn’t good at all. It’s over now, right? He doesn’t do repeats, and I’ve got a plan, and it doesn’t include liking anyone. Huge can’t be the thing that comes next.”

“Listen to me,” Rebecca said, her tone one she surely must use when she was negotiating with billionaires or friends having panic attacks. “Go to lunch with Charlie. Eat food. Listen to what he has to say. You might be surprised. Then call me after.”

Bree touched her hair and her face as her stomach flipped from excitement to dread and back again. Damn, she’d done almost nothing with her hair, and her makeup consisted of mascara. Period. She’d had barely enough time to shower and change, and then she’d had to scramble to make it to the office. “You’d better be right, Rebecca.”

“I am. Good luck.”

Bree hung up, then got her thumbs in position.

Where? When?

Bistro truck? CW

Um …

Mediterranean CW

Okay.

Sending map. U say when. CW

1?

C U there. CW

Her cell let her know the map had arrived, and the Bistro truck was only a block from her office. She typed the name into her search engine to check out the menu, wanting to be prepared and avoid anything messy. Figured she’d go with the phyllo-wrap veg and the Belgium fries, assuming she could eat anything. Even if meeting him turned out to be a horrible mistake, fries would soothe the wound.

After closing her phone, she stared at the paperwork she had to finish before noon, her vision blurring on the words. He wanted to see her again. Why? Why? And why was Rebecca so sure she should go?

New York was confusing.

CHARLIE STOOD ON A CEMENT bench on East 14th Street, searching the lunchtime crowds for Bree. Despite her little black dress last night, he remembered Rebecca’s comment about Bree’s affection for colors, so he zeroed in on anything that wasn’t black clothes, which eliminated around seventy percent of the women. It helped that today was unseasonably warm, so that most of the coats were open.

He turned, not minding the stares he earned. This was Union Square at one in the afternoon. He did what worked. And work it did, because there she was. Her clothes hadn’t caught his eye; her hair had, though. It was the same short pixie cut, but today she’d worn a slim pink ribbon complete with bow. It was ridiculous, and it made him grin like an idiot.

As she got closer, he forced his gaze down, not stopping on her face, not yet. No coat. Surprising, but not, because they were only a block from her office and she’d already proven she would rather freeze to death than ruin the ensemble. She’d need another winter in New York until she woke up and smelled the frostbite.

Today she had on a pink-and-green-checked long-sleeved button-down, which should have been ugly as sin, but wasn’t. And a skirt, a little bitty one in a completely different shade of green. None of it had any business being on a single person at the same time. Even the flat matte gold shoes were wrong. And fantastic.

Her step faltered as he caught her eye. She smiled, one of those full-on middle American smiles that showed a whole lot of teeth. But as she started walking again that faltered, too. By the time he’d jumped down and met her on the sidewalk, she seemed worried. Or hungry. No. Worried.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Fine, thanks.”

He wouldn’t press now. First they needed to order. “Hungry?”

“Sure.”

He grabbed her hand, and before they took a step toward the line at the big white truck, he kissed her cheek. He’d debated that move all the way over here. It seemed rude not to acknowledge their night together, yet he didn’t want to emphasize that aspect of their acquaintance, despite the fact that the memory of her in his bed had been a constant low-grade fever since he’d opened his eyes this morning. It didn’t surprise him that she stopped short and looked at him as if he were crazy. It didn’t matter. He stood by the kiss decision. Come on, how could he have resisted? One look at her with her pink bow and that small skirt …

Okay, shit, wrong turn. He breathed deeply the scent of fried foods and city buses, getting his bearings once more. They wouldn’t be able to order for at least ten minutes, considering the length of the line, then there would be the food to deal with. Might as well dive in. He kept hold of her as he maneuvered himself close enough to talk without being overheard. “I have a proposition for you.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Last night, at the party, you were great.”

“Thanks,” she said, with just enough of a lift at the end to make it vaguely a question.

“I spent all morning trying to write the blog. So much time I ended up posting fillers from freelancers so people wouldn’t get antsy.”

“I know. I saw.”

“Ah. Of course.” He moved them up a half step in line. “Anyway, the thing was, you kept popping up in my first draft.”

“I popped up?” She said it slowly, her forehead now furrowed in confusion.

He didn’t normally confuse people. Piss them off, all the time, but clarity wasn’t an issue. “I realized that I’d felt as if last night was my first time at Fashion Week. That didn’t happen even when I did go for the first time. Seeing through your eyes was … different.” He’d almost said exhilarating. True, but too much information. “That’s what I wrote about. This morning.”

“O … kay,” she said.

He was not making his point. “I’m posting my blog late because I wanted to talk to you about it. I want to use your vision, for want of a better word, as the hook for the column. An innocent at Fashion Week. A new perspective.”

“I’m not that innocent,” she said, her tone brusque and bruised, as if he’d insulted her.

“You’re new to the city. You’re not jaded yet. Since Naked New York excels at jaded, I like the idea of approaching this series from another angle. I won’t mock you. In fact, I won’t use your name or image if you don’t want me to. It’ll be my impressions of your impressions. Which I’ve never done before, so you may or may not be fine with it.”

“You already wrote the blog?”

He nodded. “Three different versions. One with you specifically, one with you obliquely, and one that focuses only on my impressions. I can send them to your phone now, if you want to read them.”

“I would,” she said. “Does it say that I … we …” She flinched briefly, then carried on. “You know, got together … at your place?”

“No. No, that’s … no. This isn’t about personal stuff. It’s about the event. The party.”

“Oh,” she said, and this time it wasn’t equivocal. “Send them, then.”

He clicked the necessary buttons as a group of five in front of them suddenly dashed off, which moved him and Bree up to the food truck window. “What’ll you have? I’ll order while you read.”

“Fries. Large.”

“Nothing else?”

She thought for a moment, but couldn’t imagine eating a whole sandwich. Not while her stomach was in knots. “Tea, two sugars.”

He grinned. Couldn’t help it. He still couldn’t believe he’d actually served her tea on a silver platter. With tongs. Bizarre. But then, everything about last night had been.

He heard the sound of her receiving the documents on her phone, then he turned his attention to the guy behind the counter. He ordered, glanced at Bree, paid, looked again, then moved them to the waiting line where he out-and-out stared. He ignored everything but her body language, her expressions, the speed with which she read the screen. He learned absolutely nothing.

Turning so he could only see her in his peripheral vision, he reminded himself that whatever her response, it would be fine. Even if she went along with his whole scheme, it didn’t mean anything. Not personally. This was a work thing. That’s it. Maybe they’d have the opportunity to get together again, but that wasn’t the point.

Even though the pink ribbon killed him. In fact, the pink ribbon was the point. None of the people he hung out with would have put that outfit on, not on a bet. It was an anti-Manhattan look. Those who attended Fashion Week were more afraid of not being cool than they were of being hit by a car. Bree’s kind of unabashed adoration was straight from the heart with nothing expected in return.

Her point of view would ring true for the majority of his readers, many far more like her, young people who would never have a chance to go to a gala, never stand next to icons of fashion and film, never be able to afford a scarf from any of the designers, let alone a couture gown. The trick in this approach was the balance. There was a hint of sarcasm, because he was a sarcastic son of a bitch, but he didn’t make fun of Bree. It was a fine line, a welcome challenge.

The whole concept could bomb, but he didn’t think it would. He had good instincts about his readers, and this felt right.

She’d gripped an edge of her lower lip with a barely visible tooth, white and perfect. The urge to kiss her hit him again, only he didn’t want her cheek, but her mouth. Ah, Christ, what was his problem? This was business.

“Hey, you. Blog guy. You gonna move up or what?”

The question had come from a beefy man with a pencil thin mustache. Charlie moved closer to the truck, gentling Bree along with a light touch to her forearm.

She looked at him as she closed her cell phone. Her cheeks blushed a pink that almost matched her ribbon. “Oh,” she said.

That wasn’t enough information. Out of an overabundance of the need to appear cool at all times, he didn’t push for more. He schooled his expression into one of disinterest, which was the only acceptable stance during a strictly business meeting.

Her head tilted a tad to the right. No blinks now, only a piercing gaze and “Why?”

“Why?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Your blog works perfectly as it is. Obviously. Your numbers are incredible. Why would you want to mess with the format?”

“Mixing things up isn’t messing with the format. If it doesn’t work, I’ll find out quickly and drop the idea. It’s not the first time I’ve tried something new, and it won’t be the last.”

BREE STARED AT CHARLIE. This lunch was even stranger than she’d expected. And not for any of the reasons she’d anticipated. It most definitely wasn’t about the sex. Of course. Because that would have been crazy.

“Whatever your decision,” he said. “I need to know quickly.”

“Sure. Right. I understand.” How could she have forgotten even for a second? From the moment Rebecca had shown her Charlie’s trading card, she’d wondered what in the world a man like him would want with a girl like her. It had almost been a relief when she’d finally gotten last night that Rebecca had done her a favor, and in turn, he had done one for Rebecca. Why else would he have taken her out on Valentine’s Day? Even so, it had not been a date. He’d been very clear about the fact that it was work. She doubted he was ever truly distracted from his business. That’s how he’d become Charlie Winslow in the first place.

So he’d used her. Not maliciously, not at all. He’d found a way to parlay the favor, so good for him. He’d grabbed an opportunity, and by sheer luck, it might give her a spot on his blog. Other people would want to know who she was, how she’d scored a “date” with Charlie. She couldn’t have asked for a better shot at her dreams. But she had to be smart about it. Especially smart, given that the girlie part of her brain seemed to want to turn this into a romance. Nothing wrong with romance, but there was a time and a place.

Now that she had leapfrogged into the big time, she had to be more clear than ever about what was in her best interest for the long term, and not be dazzled.

“Look—” he said.

“If you need to have an answer right this minute,” she said, “it will have to be no.”

Charlie stilled and that air of boredom he’d been wearing like a comfy jacket vanished. He seemed disappointed, but that undoubtedly had more to do with his plans being thwarted than not being able to work with her.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I liked it.”

It occurred to her that she should have ordered more for lunch. She needed to appear as unaffected by Charlie as possible. “The approach is fresh for NNY. A good take on something done to death, and you managed to make me sound as if I’m not totally precious. Although …” She clicked on the most personal section of the blog he’d written and scrolled down a bit.

Here’s what Bree said, but not in words:

1. Everyone is tall and beautiful and has better clothes than me. Anyone who looked in any way normal wasn’t anyone. Example: Me.

2. People can be really rude, but at the same time, very lovely. Being with Charlie got me the last part. The first part was on the house.

3. Everyone has an iPhone/BlackBerry. And cameras are intrusive even if the whole point is getting your picture taken. Also? I’m really not in Ohio anymore.

“I’m really not in Ohio anymore?” Bree sighed. “Still. You did a nice job.”

The way his lips parted, it was clear he hadn’t expected her response, especially the way she’d said nice. Now if she could just keep it up. She’d imagined being the kind of woman who could go toe-to-toe with the biggest names in Manhattan, and now was her chance.

She’d been in Wonderland last night, and she wouldn’t apologize for feeling like Alice. Charlie had captured that perfectly in his blog. But she was back on terra firma now. She knew the score, business was business, and if he was going to use her, then she wanted something in return.

Yes, he was Charlie Winslow, and her heart had been beating double time since his first text, but there was a larger picture here, and she’d be an idiot to let it slip through her fingers. Being linked to Charlie was cachet she couldn’t ignore. “The blog would be better if you used my pictures. Used me.”

“Would it?” A hint of a smile came and went. Good. They were both playing the same game. It was important for her to remember he had years of experience, whereas she had … She had chutzpah. It would have to be enough.

Charlie handed her a plate of fries and a cardboard cup of tea. He’d paid, which was appropriate. He’d called this meeting.

At the thought, she had a twinge of sadness, real regret, and dammit, she had to stop that. The sex had been sex. The two of them were about to talk turkey, and she couldn’t afford to be sentimental, not for a moment. It had been great sex. The end. Her imagination could be a wonderful place, but it could hurt her, too.

Luckily, they scored most of a bench. The first Belgian fry was so good it made her moan, which made her blush, but only until she saw the spot of mayo on Charlie’s chin. If she were the nice girl her parents had raised her to be, she’d tell him about it. But this was business, and him looking so very human helped.

“What’s your concern?” Charlie asked.

“I’m really not as innocent as you’ve painted me. I understand that’s the gimmick, which is fine, but I’d like to have some input. My bosses read NNY, our clients, too. It may only be one blog, but it’ll have an impact on my career.”

He took another bite of his burger, and instead of looking at his mouth, remembering what it had felt like against her own, she concentrated on the mayonnaise dotting his chin.

“I want more than one blog out of this,” he said, after he’d swallowed.

Her gaze jumped to his eyes and for a sec she thought that maybe this wasn’t all about business, but then she remembered.