Playing Her Cards Right. Jo LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
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