She wouldn’t trade this man for anything …

Bree looked over and saw that Charlie was in fact staring. His eyes never leaving her, never wavering.

She was acutely aware that he could have glanced down to the tops of her pushed-up breasts, to her barely covered thighs. If he had he would have noticed the intermittent tremors, the pink skin she felt sure was not just on her cheeks but the tips of her ears.

It was unbearably sexy, that stare, his dark eyes so large, unblinking. As if he could see more than his share, more than she wanted him to.

As every second ticked by, the heat intensified, until she couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’ve got a window in my bedroom,” Charlie finally said, his voice—still low and rumbly—moving through her like distant thunder. “I want to take your dress off slowly. Let it fall down your body.”

He reached for her. “I’ve been wondering for hours what’s underneath …”

Dear Reader,

My first true love is New York City. It sounds crazy, but I’ve been mad for Manhattan since the first time I went there as a kid. My father’s from New York, so we’d fly out from California regularly. Later on, I had friends who were commuters, spending half their time in NY and the other half in LA. I visited at least once a year, and knew my way around like a native.

So, when I came up with the concept for It’s Trading Men! (why didn’t they have this when I was younger?) I knew it was a New York tale. Ask any single woman who lives and works in the city, and she’ll weep as she explains how difficult it is to find the right man in all the hustle and bustle of skyscrapers and subways.

Heroine Bree Kingston is a sweet girl from a tiny town in Ohio who had the guts and gumption to go solo into Manhattan to find her dreams. She never imagined she’d one day end up in the bed of Charlie Winslow, the blogging king of Manhattan, but that’s where she finds herself, during Fashion Week, no less! But chemistry this sizzling and a match this perfect was way too good to last, right?

I hope you enjoy the fantasy and fun of CHOOSE ME. Look for more trading card men stories with Have Me in May 2012 and Want Me in June 2012.

I love hearing from readers and can be reached at joleigh@joleigh.com. And come visit www.blazeauthors.com

Happy reading,

Jo Leigh

About the Author

JO LEIGH is from Los Angeles and always thought she’d end up living in Manhattan. So how did she end up in Utah, in a tiny town with a terrible internet connection, being bossed around by a house full of rescued cats and dogs? What the heck, she says, predictability is boring. Jo has written more than forty novels and can be contacted at joleigh@joleigh.com.

Choose Me

Jo Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Birgit, for her enthusiasm and support.

And to Debbi & Jill, who rock. Hard.

1

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Bree Kingston

Assistant copywriter at BBDA Manhattan

Studied Advertising and Fashion at Case Western University

Lives in Manhattan Single From Ohio

Born on March 22

BREE KINGSTON HAD BEEN IN Manhattan for five months and twelve days. This was her third visit to the St. Mark’s Church basement kitchen, where she and sixteen women she barely knew were exchanging ten days’ worth of frozen lunches. She’d gotten invited by Lucy Prince, whom Bree had known for four days. Lucy wasn’t part of the exchange. Not anymore. She’d moved to Buffalo with her fiancé, thereby freeing up the foldout ottoman bed that Bree slept on in the one-bedroom apartment she shared with three other girls. Bree’s rent was a steal at seven hundred per month. The stove at the apartment had been nonfunctioning for as long as anyone there could remember.

Technically, this was her sixth visit to the kitchen. She had gotten permission to come to the communal church basement the evenings before the exchanges to prepare her lunches. Sixteen portions of veggie lasagna and medium-heat chili this week packed in small freezer-to-microwave containers, all ready to be handed out during the semimonthly trade.

Although it had sounded odd when she’d first heard about the group, Bree suffered from both of the two major maladies that came with living the Manhattan dream: no decent single men to date and no money.

She’d anticipated both. Since she’d spent most of her twenty-five years planning her escape to The Big Apple, she’d read every article, blog and book about the subject, saved her money like Scrooge as she’d worked her way through college, and even had a decent savings account set aside for emergencies. Bree was in this for the long haul.

Finding the lunch exchange had been a brilliant stroke of luck. Fourteen of the sixteen were also single, worked in the East Village and all of them knew where to find the best happy hours, the cheapest dry cleaning, cell service that actually worked and where not to go on a date, assuming one ever had a date.

Even better, she’d actually made her first real New York friends.

“Attention ladies!” Shannon Fitzgerald, a natural redhead wearing a fantastic knockoff dress Bree had noticed first thing, had needed to shout to get everyone to listen. All of them were standing around a rectangle of tables, their lunches in front of them in neat little stacks. Everyone had brought their own cooler bag with ice packs on the bottom. In a moment, they’d move from pile to pile, an elegant assembly line of working women, all of them under thirty-ish, all of them wearing something dark on this December day. All of them except Bree. She had chosen a yellow-and-black plaid skirt and jacket, emphasis on the yellow, handmade from her own copycat pattern. Which would have looked very nice on Shannon, now that Bree thought about it.

“Hush,” Shannon said, and in a moment, the room fell silent. “Thank you. I have had an idea,” she said.

It wasn’t just a sentence. Not the way it was said. No, all the words were IN CAPS and bold, like a headline. The IDEA was going to be good. Exciting. Way more than just a new frozen lunch recipe.

“For those of you who are new—” Shannon nodded toward Bree “—my family owns a printing press. Fitzgerald & Sons on 10th Avenue and North 50th.”

Bree had seen the place. It was huge.

“We do trading cards. Mostly sports, but now everybody and their uncle wants them. Artists use them as calling cards, Realtors do the same. They’ve got them for Twilight, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, and we just finished a ginormous order of official Hip-Hop trading cards.”

Shannon paused, looking around the room. Then she smiled. “No one, however, is using trading cards the way they should be used—to trade men.”

Bree blinked, shot a look at her closest friend, Rebecca Thorpe, only to find Rebecca staring back. They raised eyebrows at each other and Bree was grateful all over again that she and Rebecca had clicked at that very first lunch exchange, despite their obvious differences. Bree was from a little town in Ohio and had a huge middle-class family. Rebecca was an attorney, the only child of a snooty New York family and she ran a charity foundation, one of the biggest in the world. Still, within five minutes of meeting, they’d made plans, exchanged digits and by that night they’d been friends on Facebook and LinkedIn and had already talked on the phone for over an hour.

“Intriguing,” someone said, and Bree snapped back to the IDEA and the drama.

Someone else said, “Go on.”

Shannon obliged. “Three weeks ago, I went out on a fix up. My cousin knew this guy who worked with this other guy, and you know the drill. He was great. Really. We met at Monterone—I know, risotto to die for—anyway, he was good-looking, his job was legit, he’d been with someone, but they’d broken up months ago. It was a really nice blind date, one of the best I’ve been on in ages. But it wasn’t there.” The redhead sighed. “Zero chemistry. I knew it, he knew it. However,” she said, only it was HOWEVER, “I knew, straightaway, that he and Janice would hit it off like gangbusters.”

Every eye turned to Janice. Bree had met her, of course, but she was one of the few Bree hadn’t had drinks with. She was a cutie, too. Tall, brunette, great touch with makeup.

Janice grinned. “We’ve been out three times, and he’s fantastic. I can’t even believe it.” Janice put her hands on the table in front of her and leaned over her frozen chicken enchiladas. “I’m going to meet his mother on Friday.”

The whole room said, “Ohhh,” in the same key.

“I know,” Janice said, standing up again. Back straight, face glowing. As if she’d won not just the spelling bee but aced the math final, as well.

Shannon spoke. “We’ve all got them, you know. Men who are nice and cute and have steady jobs. Who aren’t gay or taken or married and not telling. Combine that with my family’s printing press and what you get is …”

This was like a Broadway show, Bree thought. Or the Home Shopping Network. She held her breath, waiting for the reveal, the IDEA in all its glory.

Shannon raised her hands. Holding in each one, a card. A beautiful, glossy card. A trading card fit for a Heisman trophy winner, for a Hall of Famer. “On the front,” she said, “the picture. Of course.” Then she flipped her hands around. “On the back are the important details. The stats that matter.”

“Like …” Bree said, surprised she’d spoken aloud.

“First and foremost,” Shannon said, “marry, date or one-night stand.”

The women nodded. Hugely important. How much pain in life could be eliminated by knowing who was whom. Each had their place. Bree would never be interested in a marry. Probably not a date, although that would depend. But a one-night stand? God, yes. Someone prescreened? It would be perfection. A Manhattan girl’s idea of heaven.

“His favorite restaurant,” Shannon added, and again, there was a collective “Uh-huh.” “Because while I’m a gal who likes the pub down the street, some of you might prefer a little Nobu action. Then there’s his passion.”

Silence followed this statement, but Shannon milked it, in no rush to explain, though even she had her limits. “You know as well as I do that all of them want to talk about themselves, and usually they want to talk about their thing. No, not that thing. I mean, their other main preoccupation. You know, the Yankees, or the stock market, or the iPad or foreign films. If you’re into the Mets, you don’t want to get stuck with a day trader. Or maybe you do, but, at least, you’ll know going in. And finally,” she said, taking yet another dramatic pause. “The bottom line. Full disclosure. Snoring might not bother me, but it might bother you. Chemistry is downright fickle. But we all deserve to hear the unmitigated truth. Google can only give you so much, am I right?”

Again, there was silence, but not because anyone was confused. The beauty of the IDEA was sinking in, was gelling, was blooming like a rose in winter. As one, the semimonthly St. Mark’s frozen lunch exchange began to applaud.

Hot Guys New York Trading Cards was born.

WITH A QUICK GLANCE OUT the window at the snowplow spitting down West 72nd Street, Charlie Winslow pushed his chair across his office to computer number three, the Mac. There were six altogether, each running a different operating system, each rotating views of his Naked New York media group. There were setups like this, well not exactly like this, but similar enough, in an apartment in Queens, a bungalow in Los Angeles, a flat in London and an office in Sydney. Then there was the huge old mansion in Delaware where the bulk of his servers were housed.

Naked New York was a gluttonous bitch, needing constant attention. What had begun as a single blog about Manhattan in 2005 had become ten separate blogs generating at last count over two-hundred-million page hits per year, and far more importantly, roughly thirty million per annum in advertising revenue. NNY was just like any other conglomerate, only the products manufactured were ideas and opinions, words and tips, photographs and gossip. Ever changing to remain ever pertinent. The revenue stream was one hundred percent advertising, and while Charlie paid a small team of fulltime employees and a very large team of contributors, each blog was his baby whether it focused on celebrities, finance, sports, technology, gaming or even the female perspective on life. He trusted his editors, but it was his name on every masthead.

Which had made Charlie a celebrity, at least in the important cities. He liked that part. Hadn’t considered it when he wrote up the initial business plan, but there were worse things than getting invited to every major event and having stunning women eager to accompany him to each one. He wasn’t in Clooney’s league, but Charlie’s determination to remain a bachelor had passed from joke to fact to legend in the span of six years.

His phone rang, a call, not a text, and he answered, his Bluetooth gear attached to his ear directly after his morning shower. “Naomi. How are you today, gorgeous?”

“Filled with wonder and delight, as usual,” his assistant said, her voice a nasal Brooklynese, her tone as dry as extra brut champagne.

Charlie grinned. “Any changes?”

“Nope. Just don’t forget that the tailor is coming by at eleven. Don’t make him wait. You did last time, and while you’re precious as diamonds to me, his client list would make you tremble.”

“You’re always so good for my ego.” Charlie glanced at his handset to see who wanted to interrupt his call. It was his cousin Rebecca. Odd, she rarely texted on a workday. “Got to run.”

Naomi hung up even before Charlie pulled out the phone’s keypad.

What’s wrong? Has someone died? CW

A moment later, his phone beeped as his screen refreshed.

Everything’s fine. I have a treat for you, though.

He sailed across his floor again, this time to check the stats on one of his latest clients. Their ads had been on rotation in five markets, and they were doing well in four.

What kind of treat? CW

A date.

He laughed. His thumbs flew.

Come on, Becca. CW

She was his favorite cousin, which was saying something because he had a ton of them. His parents each had five siblings and they’d all bred like rabbits. Charlie had three siblings of his own, but only one had climbed aboard the baby wagon.

Instead of the beep announcing a return text, his phone rang. Charlie switched to voice.

“Seriously,” Rebecca said. “I think you’ll get a kick out of her. She’s … different. She’s new. Brand-new. Still, wears colors, for God’s sake. And she’s bright, tiny, funny and completely starstruck. She’ll swoon over you, and make that head of yours so large you won’t be able to fit through your front door.”

“Ah, Rebecca. I didn’t know you cared. She sounds perfect.”

“I’m betting you’re not booked for Valentine’s day.”

He sighed. “Don’t be silly. I never plan that far in advance.”

“You will this time.”

He looked away from his monitor at the sound of her voice. Teasing, as always, but he hadn’t missed the dare. He liked a challenge, and Rebecca was clever. Really clever. “Fine.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“What’s her name?”

“Does it matter?”

He inhaled as his hands went to his keyboard. “Nope.” Charlie clicked off and two minutes later, he was lost in a conference call, Valentine’s Day and intriguing puzzles forgotten.

BREE HAD MADE CHICKPEA veg curry and mac and cheese for her frozen meals, but like everyone else in the big kitchen, she wasn’t here for the food.

Today was CARD DAY.

The past few lunch exchange meetings had been more focused on the trading cards than food. Everyone, with one notable exception, had offered up at least two men to the trading card list. They’d brought in pictures, supplied the back copy, agreed that all first dates were to be held in very public venues, with the submitter knowing the details and phone numbers involved. Then, Shannon had done mock-ups of the cards, changed them twice until they had a design that worked. The actual printing of the cards hadn’t taken that long, but time had stretched like putty since that day in December. Finally, a month and a half later, here it was. There was actually a chance, remote as it might be, that Bree would find a card that had her dream man on the cover, and all he’d want was a night that would blow the lid off this town.

She didn’t deserve to find Mr. Right Now, though. Because Bree had brought zero men to the table. Zilch. Nada. She knew some single men at the advertising agency, but she’d never gone out with any of them. Not that she hadn’t been asked. But she was planning on moving up in the company as quickly as possible, and didn’t want to make any alliances until she’d been there at least a year. She might be from Ohio, but she hadn’t just fallen off the turnip truck.

Bree had plans. More specifically, she had a five-year plan. End goal: to become a fashion consultant, author and television personality. The plan was her guiding light, her pathway through the Manhattan madness. One cornerstone of the plan was that under no circumstances was she to get involved with a man. Yes, a girl had needs. She’d been on dates since she’d moved to New York, but only a couple of them had included sex. The earth hadn’t moved either time, which meant that the idea of a selection of eligible, vetted, one-night men hadn’t been far from her thoughts since December.

Scary thing, being mostly friendless in a city like Manhattan. Thrilling, too. But the men were different than the ones she’d known back home. The rules here seemed to be more … fluid. The stakes higher.

Thank goodness her friendless status had changed as a result of the lunch exchange. Enough, in fact, for her to have been included in the trading card deal even when she hadn’t contributed.

Shannon entered the room, and chaos ensued. Frozen meals were abandoned without a backward glance as the women huddled around one empty table. Shannon’s penchant for drama made her lift her cardboard box high in the air only to tip it over, covering the table in a cascade of beautiful, practical possibilities, all on 2.5 x 3.5 thick-coated stock, suitable for purse or wallet, as a handy reference, as a focal point for dreams and wishes.

Bree’s gaze swept over the puddle of cards, her eyes wide, adrenaline pumping, hoping for someone nice, but not too nice. Someone easy.

Rebecca came up next to her and bumped into her shoulder. Bree glanced at her friend, but only to scowl. When she looked back down at the cards, her breath stilled and for a moment, her heart did, too. There was a single card away from the pile, directly in front of Bree. On it was a picture that sent Bree’s heart racing.

It couldn’t be. Not possible. The sounds of her friends dimmed behind the whoosh of blood in her ears as she reached with trembling fingers to pick up the card.

Charlie Winslow. The Charlie Winslow. It had to be a joke, a trick. He could have anyone. He’d already had practically everyone. Why would he be on offer in the basement at St. Mark’s Church?

“I thought you might recognize him.”

Bree tore her gaze from the card to look once more at Rebecca. Her friend’s smile was as smug as if she’d gotten past the velvet rope at The Pink Elephant, but Bree couldn’t hold out for long. She stared again at the trading card, double-checked. Still Charlie Winslow.

“How?”

“He’s my cousin,” Rebecca said.

“Your cousin,” Bree repeated.

“Yep. God knows he’s single.”

“He can have anyone.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Yeah, but if all you’re eating is lobster and champagne every night, it’s bound to get boring, don’t you think?”

Bree shook her head. “Not even a little bit. Although now I understand why you’re part of the lunch exchange. We’re the tuna fish to your normal caviar, am I right?”

Rebecca dismissed the deduction with a roll of her eyes. “Trust me. He’s bored. And he needs a date for Valentine’s night.”

Bree took a step back, just to keep her balance. “Me? I’m …” She blinked as she stared at the woman she’d thought she knew. They’d gone out for drinks more than a few times, and she and Rebecca had gotten along great. They’d laughed a lot. Rebecca was a couple of years older than Bree, smart as a whip, rich as Croesus, but grounded. Sweet, too. It was one of the mysteries of New York that a woman like her was wanting for dates, but Bree knew that was the truth of it.

“What do you say, Bree? Don’t know where he’ll take you, but it’s bound to be glamorous as all hell.”

“I’m from Ohio,” Bree said. “I make all my own clothes. Taking the subway is glamorous. He’ll get one look at me and fall over laughing.”

Rebecca’s hand landed on Bree’s shoulder. “Don’t do that. Come on. That’s not you. I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought you couldn’t hold your own. I’ve known him my whole life. He’s funny. He’s smart. You’ll like each other. And besides, neither one of you wants more than one night. So what have you got to lose?”

“He’s like, the King of Manhattan. What’ll I even say?”

“Call him the King of Manhattan. He’ll love you forever.”

“Don’t want forever. But maybe, if people see me with him, even once, they’ll remember.”

“There’ll be pictures,” Rebecca said, her focus going back to the pile of cards. “There are always pictures with Charlie.”

“What about you?” Bree asked. “See any possibilities in there?”

Rebecca lifted a card. The guy looked yummy, but when she flipped to the back, her expression fell. “One-night stand.” She tossed the card back.

“Maybe not,” Bree said. “Maybe he only thinks he wants a one-night stand.” She kept hold of Charlie’s card, knowing if anyone else wanted it, they’d have to pry it out of her cold, dead hand, but picked up the yummy guy’s card, as well. “He’s a musician. A violinist with the Philharmonic. That’s impressive. And he hasn’t met you.”

Rebecca smiled as she flicked her long tawny hair behind her shoulder. “Are you going to change your mind? Suddenly want marriage and kids from one date with Charlie?”

Bree laughed. “No. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen to someone else.”

“Don’t worry about me, Kingston. I’ll find someone. Let’s get you all squared away first. Valentine’s night. I’ll set it up. Let you know the deets ASAP.”

“Oh, God.” Bree looked at her outfit. Made on the Singer that shared her closet-cum-bedroom. Hunter-green skirt, lined, with a mod patterned silk blouse, transformed from a thrift store bonanza. Black tights, black heels, a ribbon in her short, short hair. The only thing that had cost any real money were the shoes, and they were secondhand. What if he wanted to go to Pegu Club or 24 Ninth Avenue? Everyone would see instantly that she was a no one from nowhere, wearing nothing that mattered.

“You’ve got more style in your pinkie than anyone in this room. Than anyone on Project Runway. Come on, Bree. This is what you came to New York to do. It’s your chance to grab the city by the short hairs. You can do it. I know you can.”

Bree straightened her back. “All right. Worst that could happen, I make a complete idiot of myself. I’ve done that plenty of times. Get Charlie Winslow on the phone. Tell him he’s about to meet someone new.”

Rebecca laughed. Then she leaned forward just a bit. “You should probably take a breath now, Bree. In fact, maybe we should find a chair. Come on, hon. There’s a paper bag right on the counter. That’s a girl.”

2

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Charlie Winslow

Editor in Chief/CEO Naked New York Media Group

Studied Business/Marketing at Harvard University

Lives in Manhattan Single From Manhattan

BREE BLINKED UP AT THE forty-three-story tower at 15 Central Park West, the newest of the luxury, legendary co-op buildings that lined the street across from the park. Just several blocks up were The Dakota, The Majestic and The San Remo. This was quite like being in the center of a very realistic dream. Except that it was freezing. She’d splurged on a taxi even though she’d spent every spare cent on her outfit, using every moment of the trip to talk herself out of a panic attack. The affirmations hadn’t been very effective evidently, because even though her date with Charlie Winslow was about to start, she couldn’t make her legs move.

She still couldn’t believe it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn it was all an elaborate practical joke. Why on earth would Charlie Winslow want to go out with her? Of course, she’d asked Rebecca that very question approximately a million times. Bree had gotten a variety of answers, all boiling down to the fact that Rebecca thought the two of them would have a good time. A good time.

Bree couldn’t move. Except for her now chattering teeth. The forties era shawl she’d found in Park Slope may have been the perfect accessory, but it did nothing to protect her from the cold. She might as well have worn her gargantuan puffy coat, considering the fact that she was rooted to the corner of Central Park West and West 72nd Street.

For God’s sake, the most amazing Cinderella night of her life was only moments and a few feet away. She had pictures of this very corner in her New York dream book, the one she’d been compiling for eight years. The only reason Charlie Winslow’s photograph hadn’t been clipped and pasted was that even her outlandish imagination hadn’t been that optimistic.

She had to remember not to call him Charlie Winslow, as if he was a movie star or an historical figure. Bree had practiced. She’d said his first name a hundred times, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking shyly away, coy, sassy, demure, outraged. She was very good at saying Charlie, but she couldn’t quite help the Winslow part. She’d read so many articles by him and about him, and none of them referred to him as Charlie, or even Mr. Winslow.

She pushed herself forward. If she waited any longer she’d be late, and he’d probably leave without her, which had its merits as then she wouldn’t have to endure actually meeting him, but that would defeat the purpose, and dammit, she was brave. She was. She’d gotten on a plane all by herself, knowing absolutely no one in New York, let alone in Manhattan. That took guts.

So did tonight. But she could do it. Because, like her relocation, Charlie Winslow fit perfectly in her five-year plan.

1. Move to New York

2. Get a job in fashion advertising

3. Continue fashion education

4. Find a way into the Inner Circle

5. Become a regular at fashion events

6. ????

7. Publish

8. Success!!!!!!

Look how far she’d come already. She was flying past three directly into four and she’d only been in Manhattan six months! Meeting Charlie Winslow was a piece of cake. The easy part.

Okay, no. That was a total lie. As she headed for the doorman, complete with hat and epaulettes thank you very much, the truth settled like a stone in her stomach. Meeting Charlie Winslow was like meeting the President or Johnny Depp, or Dolce and Gabbana.

She would not throw up.

Somehow, the door was opened by the tall man in the cap and gloves, and he smiled at her as he gave her a tiny bow. Then she was inside where it was warm and unbelievably gorgeous. This building wasn’t as famous as The Dakota, but it was right up there in the stratosphere of luxury. Her entire apartment could fit into the reception area where she had to sign in. Everyone smiled. The security guard, the other security guard, the woman by the elevator wearing a winter-white suit, whose huge honkin’ diamond ring must make it an effort to lift her hand.

No Charlie Winslow in sight.

Bree let out a breath.

“May I announce your arrival?” The security guard sitting behind the beautiful burnished oak desk leaned forward so elegantly it made her think he was desperate to hear who she was going to see. Either that, or he’d almost lost his grip on the automatic weapon hidden above his lap. Just in case she didn’t have the right name or something.

“Bree Kingston for Charlie Winslow,” she said, and she only had to clear her throat once.

The way the uniformed man’s left eyebrow rose meant something. Bree had no idea what. She glanced down to make sure she hadn’t dribbled on her dress, but she appeared fine. If nervous. If very, very nervous.

The guard picked up a phone, but his hand stilled midway to his console. He nodded, looking past Bree’s shoulder.

She turned, holding her breath, praying she wouldn’t make a complete ass of herself. And there he was. Just like his pictures, only better.

Tall, though everyone was tall to her, considering that she barely reached five-one. His hair was as perfectly mussed as it was in his photos—dark, cut with such precision that she imagined he woke up looking camera-ready. He wore a black suit with a simple perfectly tailored white shirt beneath, no tie, slim cut, Yves Saint Laurent? Spencer Hart? Or maybe her beloved D&G?

As gorgeous as the trimmings were, it was his face that snagged and kept her staring. Much, much better than his pictures. Big eyes, brown. Very big. A generous mouth, too, but she kept getting snagged on the eyes, and how he looked as if he’d discovered something wonderful and interesting, except he was looking at her. Smiling big-time. At her.

His gaze let hers go as he took his time across the lobby. Not that it went far: a long slow trip down her body, pausing for a moment on her boobs. Not enough of a pause to make her self-conscious. Any more self-conscious.

She’d been scoped out before, sure. But this felt different. Like an audition. Her heart pounded, blood rushed to heat her cheeks, hell, her whole face. Then he was looking in her eyes again, and she exhaled when he seemed even more pleased. Maybe it was an act, probably was, in fact, but it didn’t matter because it was only for one night and she’d imagined dozens of expressions on his face, but none of them had been quite this fantastic.

“Bree,” he said, his voice low, a cello kind of baritone full of resonance and promise.

“Hi,” she said. “Charlie.”

He took her hand in his. The one not holding her clutch, the edge of her shawl. “Rebecca told me you were pretty,” he said. “She’s never in her life made such an understatement.”

Bree’s blush went four-alarm and she knew it was a crock, but a gorgeous crock, and if he wanted to say things like that to her for the rest of the night, she wouldn’t mind in the least. “You’re very kind.”

“Not really,” he said. Still holding on to her hand, he glanced behind her. “George, could you call for the car?”

“It’s in place, Mr. Winslow.”

“Thank you,” he said, then Charlie looked at her again. “Did she tell you where we’re going?”

“She wouldn’t. She said I’d like it, though.”

“I hope so.” He led her out, his hand still holding hers until they got to the exit. When the door was pulled open, Charlie put his arm around her shoulders and picked up the pace. Before she knew it, she was sitting in the backseat of a black limousine driven by an honest-to-God chauffeur and Charlie was scooting in on her left.

How was this her life? Her high school graduating class had under two hundred kids. Seven years later, every one of her friends were married, and most of them had at least one kid. And here she was, being whisked off into a mysterious night with one of the most famous men in New York. On Valentine’s Day. Holy mother of pearl.

CHARLIE NORMALLY DIDN’T have champagne chilling in the limo. It had only happened twice before, in fact. Once, when his guest had been a Queen. Not the kind from Asbury Park in New Jersey, but a real royal Queen. The other time had been for a friend who’d been crushed by a devastating loss in the love department. A night of drunken weeping and aimless driving had helped pass the time and given her the courage to face the sunrise.

In tonight’s case, he’d ordered the Dom Pérignon Rosé Oenothèque for Rebecca’s sake. He knew every detail of the evening would be reported to his cousin, and he was determined to impress Rebecca despite her opinion that he was still the same adolescent terror he’d been at thirteen.

But now that he’d actually met Bree, he wasn’t sure Rebecca deserved such an expensive champagne. Bree was pretty, all right. Petite and sweet-looking with an elfin haircut and a nice little body. But as his date? What was Rebecca thinking?

Clearly there was something more to Bree than his first impression would indicate. Rebecca was bright and she knew him very well. Which meant she knew that the women he went for had mile-long legs, wore nothing but the top labels, were on the cover of Vogue, never Home Sewing Monthly.

Bree was … tiny. She didn’t look terrifically young, just compact. Everything diminutive. There was definitely something appealing in her almond-shaped eyes, heart-shaped face, her pale skin and slight overbite. She was Lula Mae before she became Holly Golightly, and where they were headed? She would be a guppy out of water.

He was almost afraid to speak to her, not having the first clue what to say. He was just a vain enough idiot to have loved the way her eyes had widened at meeting him, how she’d trembled, although that could have been from the cold. But that rush could only last so long. Some champagne would help both of them.

She turned from the window as he popped the cork. “I didn’t know that was a real thing,” she said. “Champagne in a limousine.”

“It’s decadent and foolish, but then this is Valentine’s Day. Besides, we’re not driving, so what the hell.”

“No, we’re not. I should warn you, I’m not much of a drinker.”

“We’ll have to be judicious with our ordering, then. But how about one drink, to christen the adventure ahead?”

She stared at the crystal flute in his hand. “Yes, thank you. I’d like that.”

“There will always be tonic, soda or juice wherever we are, although you’ll be surrounded by booze.” He filled her glass, careful what with the stop-and-go traffic. “If you tell me what you prefer, I’ll make sure you have it.”

“I like pineapple juice the best,” she said, taking the glass from him with her slender hand, her nails trim and shiny and pale.

“Pineapple it is.” He poured himself a glass then sat back, lifting the flute to hers. “To blind dates.”

Her smile did nice things to her face. Made it clear she hadn’t learned to hold back yet, to equate cynicism with sophistication. He hadn’t seen that in a long while. Not up close.

“To extraordinary things,” she replied, clicking his glass gently.

The champagne was excellent, perfectly cold and just dry enough. “Tell me about yourself, Bree,” he said, leaning back into his corner of the seat. He didn’t want to crowd her or make her uncomfortable. They had a big night ahead of them, and as long as she was his date, he truly wanted to show her a good time. Nothing extravagant, naturally. Experience had taught him it was better to stay low-key with new people of any stripe. Since the success of Naked New York, he’d had to relearn public navigation.

His celebrity could still be an awkward fit, although nothing like it had been when the business had hit critical mass. He’d set out to make a name, but when he’d first put the blog plan together, he envisioned himself more like a Jason Weisberger of BoingBoing than an Arianna Huffington. Someone whose name would be recognized by people who mattered, but who was not easily recognized in person. Instead, he’d become part of a new phenomena. In Manhattan, more people recognized him than recognized the mayor. Financially, it was the best thing that could have happened. Personally, it had been … interesting and not terrifically pleasant.

Bree turned her lovely green eyes to her glass, watching the bubbles pop and fizz. “I’m a copywriter,” she said. “At BBDA. A baby copywriter, which means I’m mostly a gofer and I take a lot of notes, type a lot of memos. But it’s good. The people I work with are quick and creative and they aren’t out for blood. Well, not more than you’d expect.”

“BBDA is a big firm. A number of their clients advertise on my blogs.”

Her eyes widened again. “Seventeen of them, at the moment. Naked New York is a major focus in the eighteen-to-thirty-four demographic.”

The last word had been bitten off, and she pressed her lips together for a second. “Anyway,” she said, her voice lower, slower. “I graduated last year with an MBA from Case Western. I’d always wanted to come to New York, so I did.”

“Is New York what you thought it would be?”

“Much better. I loved it even before tonight.”

He laughed.

“Come on, you have to know how much this evening is blowing the bell curve. You’re Charlie Winslow and we’re going on a mystery date, and even though I have no idea where, I’m sure it’s going to be the most thrilling night of my life.”

He couldn’t help his wince, although he tried not to. “Most thrilling? That’s a tall order.”

She lowered her head, frowned a bit, then looked up at him through her long lashes. “Really? This—” she waved at the lush interior of the car, at, he imagined, the night in general “—is insane. It may be your day-to-day, but it’s certainly not mine.” Bree sat back, sipped the cold champagne. “Rebecca wouldn’t tell me. Every time I asked why you’d want to go out with me on Valentine’s night, for God’s sake, she smiled in that smug way that made me want to pinch her.”

He smiled. “You know, I find myself wanting to pinch Rebecca a lot.”

“Then you’ll understand my frustration when I ask you straight-out, why are we doing this? Why are you doing this with me? I can’t help thinking it might be some awful mean-girl prank. That wherever we’re going, there’ll be a big spotlight on me when I’m covered in green slime or something. Which would be horrible by the way. In case you need to call ahead.”

Okay. She made him laugh. Big point in the plus column. And now that she’d admitted her fear, she seemed more relaxed. Now that he’d noticed, he lingered on the way her simple sleeveless dress showed off the woman more than the garment. He liked that she wore no jewelry. It was a bold choice, but it brought his focus to her neck, which had more appeal than a neck had any right to. There was just something about her skin, the way her chin curved, her elegant clavicle. There was a thought he’d never expected to have.

“Rebecca isn’t like that,” Bree said, softer now, more to herself than him, and Charlie remembered she’d asked him why he’d pursued the date.

Before he could answer, she added, “I haven’t known her for long, so maybe I’m wrong, but my instincts are pretty good, and she stood out right from the start.” Bree used her hand again, not a wave this time, but a flip of the wrist. A tiny wrist, delicate and feminine.

“We went for drinks this one night at Caracas, Rebecca and me and our friend Lilly, who teaches music at this amazingly exclusive prep school, and it started out a little weird, because the three of us only knew each other from the lunch exchange, but then we started talking and we clicked, especially Rebecca and me. When I mentioned how desperately I’d wanted to live in Manhattan, both of them completely got it. How I don’t mind paying a fortune to live in the Black Hole of Calcutta with four girls I barely know, and how I can’t even afford to go to a movie, let alone have popcorn. They grinned and we toasted each other with sidecars, and I felt as if I was home.” Bree blinked and then for some reason her shoulders stiffened again. She cleared her throat. “That may have gotten away from me a little.”

And … he liked her. Just like that. No, she wasn’t his type, not even close, but he liked the cadence of her speech, the way she talked with her hands, how she was clearly nervous but not cowed. The night changed right then, between Columbus Avenue and West 61st.

Charlie touched her arm. She was warm and soft, and she flinched a bit at the contact, catching herself with a breath and a smile.

“No,” he said, “it’s not a prank or a trick. Rebecca thought we’d get along. She and I grew up together, were friends through private schools and first dates and proms and way too many horrific holiday celebrations.” He shuddered thinking about some of the epic Christmases, the ones where half the family wasn’t speaking to the other half, where feuds were conducted across air-kisses and designer wreaths. All that passive-aggressive power brokering over Beluga caviar and shaved truffles. “She knows me as well as anyone. And she’s never wanted to set me up before.” “So what does that mean?”

He thought for a second. Excellent question. “I don’t know.”

Instead of pressing him for his best guess, Bree’s head tilted fetchingly. “Where are we going?”

“You don’t want to be surprised?”

The way she looked at him made him want to meet her expectations, even though there was no way he could. “I’ve been stunned since you took my hand.”

Stunned? “What were you expecting?”

She shrugged. “Not sure. Something else. I mean, I’m not shocked about the doormen, the limousine or how amazing you smell, because I was secretly hoping for all that. I’ve never been around celebrities much. I’ve seen some since I’ve been here. The obligatory Woody Allen sighting, of course, but there’ve been others. Quite a few of them, now that I think about it, but they’ve all seemed, I don’t know, extraordinary. In the truest sense of the word. As if the air around them was sparkly, or that even if they looked like they’d thrown on a potato sack and bowling shoes, it was on purpose, but I wasn’t cool enough to get it. You’re not like that.”

“Is that a compliment?”

She nodded. “Yes. It would have been okay if you’d turned out to be a major hipster, although I definitely would have bored you to tears.”

Charlie grinned. “Know how many hipsters it takes to screw in a lightbulb?”

She grinned back, leaning in for the punch line. “How many?”

He purposely rolled his eyes. “Some really obscure number you’ve never even heard of.”

Bree laughed. It started out as delicate as her wrist, but ended in an unexpected snort. Her eyes widened and she held her hand up in front of her face, but then she did it again. The snort, not the laugh. And she added a blush that was the most honest thing he’d seen in years.

Okay, Rebecca might deserve more than a sparkling wine. The vote was still out if she’d end up with a ‘96 Krug Clos D’Ambonnay.

3

BREE KNEW SHE WAS BLUSHING, but there wasn’t a single solitary thing she could do about it. From the way Charlie was smiling at her, the problem wasn’t going to fix itself anytime soon.

She wished they’d get to wherever they were going. She needed some distance, just for a moment. A bathroom stall would work, a private place where she could squeal and jump and act like a fool and get it out of her system. Because whoa. Charlie Winslow plus limo plus champagne plus the fact that his dates always ended with more than a friendly peck on the cheek and she was practically levitating. The whole night, no matter where they ended up, was improbably perfect. Her once in a lifetime.

Someone had reached into her fantasies, reviewed those that were most outlandish and most frequent, decided they weren’t grand enough then given her this. She wanted to lean over the front seat and ask the driver, a nice-looking guy she’d guess was in his fifties, if he had a video camera, and would he mind filming every second of the rest of the night so she could watch it until her eyes fell out.

She glanced out the window and all her thoughts stuttered to a halt. “This is Lincoln Center,” she said, her voice high and tight.

“It is,” Charlie said, and while she couldn’t take her eyes off the scene in front of her, she could hear the amusement in his voice.

“It’s Lincoln Center,” she repeated, “and this is Fashion Week.”

“Right again.”

“It was in the blog. This morning. I read it. This is the Mercedes-Benz/Vogue party for Fashion Week.”

She wanted to open the window, stick her head out like an overexcited puppy so she could see everything. But she might as well paint a sign on her forehead that said hick. Still, she couldn’t help it if her hands shook, if her breath fogged the window, if she wanted to pinch herself to prove she was really, really here.

“I thought you might have guessed.” His voice sounded smiley. Not smirky, though, and she would have thought …

“No.” She grinned. “No, really. No. It’s too much. Come on. It’s … fashion Nirvana. The single event after which I could die happy.” She turned, briefly, to gape at him, to verify the smile she’d guessed at. “I’ve been sewing since I was twelve.”

Then she was staring again, at the klieg lights, at the people. Glittering, gorgeous, famous, glamorous people. Her heroes and heroines. In one small clump standing near a police barricade there were three, THREE, designers. Designers she adored, well, maybe not her, because she was kind of derivative, but still, Bree was going to be in the same room, at the same party as Tommy Hilfiger, as Vivienne Westwood!

She turned again to Charlie, almost spilling her drink. “We are going to the party, right?”

“Yeah, we’re going to the party.”

“Oh, thank God. That would have been really embarrassing. If we were going to a concert or something.”

He laughed in a way that made her shiver and reminded her again that this wasn’t a dream. The limo was in a long line of limos, and Bree guessed it would be a while until it was their turn. Which meant that she had a window of alone-time with Charlie. She leaned back in the luxurious leather seat so he was the center of her attention. “I remember reading about this last year. It sounded as if you had a good time.”

He nodded. “I did, considering it’s part of the job. I think this year will be better.” He spoke casually, as if they were talking about stopping at the corner market. As if they knew each other. Casually, but not bored or above it all. This was a typical night for him. A night to look forward to but not to panic over.

Speaking of panic. “We’re at Fashion Week, and I’m wearing a homemade dress. My shawl …” It had cost fifty cents at the thrift shop but he didn’t have to know that. “Oh, God.”

He studied her, grinning. She couldn’t tell if it was because he thought she looked adorably out of her league or laughably ridiculous. When he leaned forward, Bree wasn’t sure what to do until he crooked his finger for her to move in closer. Conspiratorially closer. “The whole point of fashion is originality and talent. Everyone will look at you, at your dress, and wonder who the new designer is. I suggest you milk that till the cow’s dry.”

She had to laugh, because well … “That’s a very nice thing to say.” She touched the back of his hand to make sure he knew she wasn’t kidding, only the second her hand was on his, she realized how they were mere inches apart. She could feel his breath on her cheek, the warmth of his body sneaking into her own.

That he could think she was capable of pulling off something so outrageous was … awesome. “I’m not sure I could keep a straight face.”

“Look bored,” he said. “That’s the key. Act as if you’d rather be anywhere else on earth, and they’ll all think you’re the next big thing.”

“Bored. I can do bored.” She had to lean back a bit because being this close to Charlie was making it hard not to hyperventilate. “Actually, no, I can’t, not here. My God, no one’s that good an actress. But I can be observant. Which almost looks like bored.”

He moved back, too, his smile lingering in the way his eyes crinkled. “Observant can work. Remember, though, that there’s no one here you need to be intimidated by. Well, almost. But you probably won’t meet them, anyway.”

Oh, he was good. This was effortless charm, the true heart of tact and perfect manners. To put her at ease as they inched their way to the Mount Everest of her aspirations? Wonderful, wonderful. But she’d better bring herself down a notch, because at this height, a fall could kill her. “I read an article once,” she said, “by a woman whose passion was movies, and she went and got herself a job in the business. She said that in the end it was kind of sad. That what she’d loved were the illusions, the characters, the fantasy. Once she’d looked behind the curtain it was never the same again.”

Charlie finished off his champagne and put his flute back in the space next to the ice bucket, slowly, as if he were giving deliberate thought to what she’d said. “I can see that. Most terribly brilliant people I’ve known are also terribly troubled. Not all of them, but a lot of them.”

“I don’t think I’ll be disappointed. I know it’s all illusion. And that’s okay with me. I had normal. A whole hell of a lot of normal. It wasn’t for me.”

“Where was that?” he asked. “Your normal.”

“Ohio,” she said. “Little tiny town. Great big family. Happy. Well-adjusted. My folks had lots of siblings, I have lots of siblings, everyone else in my family wants to get married, if they aren’t already, have a bunch of kids, live within driving distance of the family home. We’re a Norman Rockwell relic, with small rebellions and modest dreams. I can’t tell you how much I hated it. Not my family, they’re great, but that life. Knowing what the day would bring. The Sunday dinners and the baby showers, knowing every person at the Cline’s SuperValu and never having to look at the menu at Yoders. I wanted out.”

She took in a deep breath of Manhattan limousine air. “I want unpredictability and crowds of people, all of them in a rush. I want to go to clubs and stay out till 4:00 a.m. when I have to be at work at eight and I want to eat things I can’t pronounce and I want to have my heart broken by callous men who wear gorgeous suits.”

She looked away, feeling foolish. Talk about TMI. It was all nerves, of course, but there was no way not to be nervous given the circumstances. The line of limos, hiding their secret passengers, was still impressive.

“I think you’ll be great here,” Charlie said, and it occurred to her that the timbre of his voice wasn’t the biggest surprise, the kindness was. “They’re all divas, and what do divas do best?”

“Get free swag?”

Charlie laughed as he shook his head. “They think about themselves. They’ll be far too preoccupied to focus much attention on you. The only reason they’ll notice me is because they can use me. So relax. Enjoy it. You’ll have a great time.”

She was already having the time of her life, and they hadn’t left the car, so the possibility of enjoying herself for the rest of the night wasn’t out of the question. She wouldn’t necessarily trip or spill something down her dress. She’d already decided she would eat nothing that could possibly get stuck in her teeth. And she’d make sure she didn’t get drunk.

Charlie leaned forward until he had his driver’s attention. “We’re going to be at least a few hours, Raymond,” he said. “Feel free to leave. I’ll give you some warning when it looks like we’re ready to go.”

“Will do, Mr. Winslow. Thanks.”

Bree shook her head. When she’d first come to the city she’d been prepared for mass rudeness, cynicism and impatience from every corner. Hadn’t happened. Not that there weren’t more than a fair share of ass-hats in residence, but the proportions had been off. Mostly the people she’d met, whether it was asking for directions or standing on line at Starbucks, had been nice. Pleasant. They could be brusque but they were more than willing to help, even when she hadn’t asked. Those were the regular folks, though, not people like Charlie. If television shows about rich New Yorkers were to be believed, he should have been a complete bastard.

Instead, he’d brought her to Fashion Week. She’d been a slave to fashion since seventh grade. Her walls had been covered with her collages, a perfect pair of shoes from Vogue, with a particular skirt from W and a top from Seventeen. Of course, there’d been photos of accessories included, affixed with Mod Podge and shellacked so they’d be permanent reminders that she had more than a daydream. She had a goal.

Her love of writing had come later, and the combination? That had been a match made in heaven. Her destiny was set—she’d be a style writer, a trendsetter, a goddess of form and function.

To be here with Charlie was … nope. No words came close to what this felt like.

The man himself shifted in the seat so he could watch her, but also have a clear view through her window. “It’s a hell of a culture shock, moving to New York,” he said. “A lot of people find nothing but trouble in Manhattan.”

“I wouldn’t mind finding a little trouble,” she said, a blush stealing up her cheeks. She touched her purse, hyperaware of the thong, the toothbrush, the condom and the rest that made up her one-night stand kit. Rebecca hadn’t said it outright, but she hadn’t needed to. Charlie’s bachelor ways were the stuff of legend.

The theme from Mission Impossible rang from her purse, scaring the crap out of her.

“I bet I know who that is,” he said.

Bree opened her clutch, not wanting him to see her kit, or, heaven forbid, his trading card. She snatched her phone and saw she had a message from Rebecca.

U there yet?

Bree grinned.

!!!!!!!

Knew U 2 wld be gr8

We’ll talk tomrw I u for this!

You’re welcome. Knock m dead!

Charlie tried to sneak a peek, and she helped him by turning her screen.

He pulled his own phone out of his jacket pocket. Of course it was something amazing looking. Might have been a BlackBerry, she thought, latest gen at the very least, if not some exotic model not available to the public. Unlike her second-hand first-gen iPhone.

He was amazingly fast with his thumbs. Dexterous. But his texting couldn’t hold a candle to how expressive his face was. He grinned in a whole different way than he had a moment ago. None of that sweet, reflective rumination. Now he was the very picture of high amusement, his head tilted to the side, his eyebrows raised in either surprise or delight, possibly both. Or maybe something completely different, but this was the night for believing the best, right?

Before she put her phone back, she turned it so she had his face framed for a quick photo. She’d be damned if she wasn’t going home with some physical mementoes from tonight, and no, blisters from her incredibly high heels didn’t count.

As she reached to put her cell in her bag, it hit her. Why she was here. Why Rebecca had given her Charlie’s card. What the whole deal was.

A favor.

First night out with Rebecca, Bree had spilled her five-year plan all over the conversation. Her dreams, the steps, the obsession. Rebecca hadn’t told her she was related to Charlie. Hadn’t seemed to be aware of Fashion Week at all. That sneaky …

Which meant Bree had better pull her expectations down another fifty notches. She wasn’t really on a date with Charlie. She was on a favor. Those two things ended in completely different ways. Favors didn’t extend to the bedroom.

Charlie put his phone back in his jacket pocket just as her phone beeped again. “It’s going to be crowded in there. I’ve just sent you my number. If we get separated, text me, and I’ll find you.”

She had Charlie Winslow’s cell phone number. She could be excited about that. It might be a one-off, but so what? Just because it was a favor didn’t mean it wasn’t the biggest kick of her life.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. Great. Am I likely to lose you?”

“Not if I can help it—ah, we’re here.”

The door next to Bree opened as Charlie slipped her glass from between her fingers. In yet another spectacular fairy-tale moment, she stepped onto a red carpet. She hadn’t flashed anyone, she hadn’t tripped and she managed not to let her jaw drop even when flashbulbs popped all around, blinding and thrilling in equal measure.

Charlie took hold of her arm above her elbow, and that 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.

4

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, Mick,” he said, holding out his hand. “Charlie Winslow. I’d love to get a photograph with you and my lovely date. Do you mind?”

The man shook Charlie’s hand, but only smiled once he set eyes on Bree. Then he couldn’t have been nicer. In fact, before they’d been there two minutes, Jagger had his arm around Bree’s shoulders and Charlie was taking the photo with her phone.

Bree looked thrilled to her toes even when Jagger copped a surreptitious feel during the photo op. Charlie wasted no time escorting her back to their saved place.

“I have to see,” she whispered, pressing buttons on her cell. “My hands are shaking. I’m such a dork.”

He took over the delicate operation, and she oohed and aahed at her fantastic luck. She was trembling with excitement and he would never have guessed. When she’d stood with one of the biggest celebrities on the planet, she’d appeared completely cool about the whole affair. Now her eyes hid nothing of her excitement. She grinned widely and clapped her hands together like a kid at the circus. Which, he supposed, she was.

Then they were at the security checkpoint, and there were wands and buckets and well-behaved guards. A short walk across a cold path, and they entered the main tent, the vast pavilion filled with music and chatter and laughter and a hundred different perfumes. Dresses that cost more than cars, faces that had been sculpted to the point of madness, lots of skin, lots of white teeth, and Bree looking like she’d arrived in Wonderland.

Charlie tried not to stare at her as they weaved through the crowd, as some chart topper sang her country tunes and photographs were taken. He sent a waiter for pineapple juice, and when he handed it to Bree, she blinked in utter bemusement.

It was too entertaining to last, because while he was on a date, he was also on assignment, and at least fifty percent of the guests at this shindig wanted their names on his blog tomorrow.

Normally this dance was one he could do in his sleep. Tonight, though, he wanted not just to include Bree, but feature her, make sure she met everyone she recognized. He wanted to see what she’d do, how she’d react. Unexpected. Completely out of character for him and puzzling, but nothing he cared to examine.

He felt drawn to Bree, which hadn’t happened in so long he’d almost forgotten it could happen. What was more interesting was that he couldn’t pinpoint why. If he had his way, he’d spend more time figuring out the deal with Bree than getting the dirt on the A-listers at the party.

“What’s wrong?” After a tour of the immediate area, complete with air kisses, handshakes, posturing and pumped-up drama, they found a spot as far away from the speakers as they could get. Yet even next to the side exits to the powder rooms and private paths, Bree had to shout.

“Nothing. You having a good time?”

“Yes,” she said. “Although I’m still in shock. It’s overwhelming.”

“It is. There are a lot of people wanting attention.”

“I see what you mean about the seats,” she said as she scooted closer to him.

He slipped his arm around her waist. Interesting, holding someone who was so small. He felt … protective.

“It’s as if every chair is a throne, exclusively for the most important kings and queens.”

He nodded. “Some of them have a seat for a lifetime, but not many. For most of them, it’s a limited run.”

“You could sit,” she said. “You probably do, don’t you?”

“Nope. I work the room. I may be recognizable to some, but my job here is to shine a light on the real celebrities. I’ll have to blog this in the morning, and if I don’t get it right, I’ll get dozens of calls and texts and emails from furious PR people telling me I’m a disgrace and I’ll never work in this town again.”

A waiter carrying champagne came by, and before Charlie could say anything, Bree touched his hand. “I’d like one, please.”

“Sure?”

She nodded. “It’s a champagne night.”

“You must be starving. I haven’t seen you eat a thing.”

“I’m too excited to eat. I shook hands with Tim Gunn!”

“I know,” he said. “He liked what you were wearing.”

“He did not,” Bree said, almost spilling her drink. “Why, did he say something?” She closed her eyes. “No, don’t answer that. You’re being sweet.”

“Yeah, but if he’d had a minute to notice, he would have liked your dress. You look stunning.”

She sighed. “I didn’t expect you,” she said. “To be honest, I’m not even sure what to make of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I know I’m not at all what you’re used to. Yesterday, I saw a picture of you with Mia Cavendish. Then I saw her on the new Victoria’s Secret billboard in Times Square. Rebecca went way above and beyond doing me this favor, but you’ve made tonight incredible. A dream come true. I don’t even …”

He hadn’t thought of it in the car, or in line, or after the Jagger incident, but right now, he couldn’t think of anything in the world he wanted more than to pull this tiny person into his arms and kiss the daylights out of her.

So he did.

BREE SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN shocked by his lips, but she froze, stunned more completely than she’d been at being bumped by Jean Paul Gaultier. Charlie Winslow was kissing her. Softly. Teasing her with the tip of his tongue, waiting for permission to enter. She obliged.

He turned out to be a gentleman in this respect, as well. No thrusting, no swallowing her whole. Entering slowly, he gave her time to get used to him. To savor. She’d expected champagne but he tasted like mint, although come to think of it, she had no idea what the finish of champagne would taste like.

One flat palm touched her bare shoulder, his other hand pulled her closer, and the tentative portion of the kiss ended, as did all but the most basic of thoughts. He angled his head and settled in for a stay as they explored each other. It didn’t take long for her shoulders to relax, to feel comfortable enough to pull back for a breath and a peek, then return for more.

That hand on her shoulder moved across her back warming her wherever it touched. It wasn’t cold in the room, not with this many people, but Charlie’s touch felt hot, not only his hand, either. The bass from the band made the room vibrate but she was already quivering. Kissing Prince Charming did that to a person.

As if the night wasn’t spectacular enough.

She’d never forget this, the song that was playing, how she felt him moan even though she couldn’t hear him. It was dizzying, every part of it, and her hope that this was more than just a favor went from not daring to think it to letting the idea take a seat.

He pulled back, not very far. “As much as I’d like to stay right here, I have to work. I’ll warn you now, the people we’re going to meet won’t pay you enough attention. They’re working the room, as well.”

“I don’t mind,” she said truthfully. She expected nothing from this crowd. Which couldn’t be said about Charlie. She had to stop herself from touching her mouth like a lovesick tween, but God, he had great lips. No matter how she looked at it, there’d been no reason to kiss her, none at all, except he’d wanted to. There went her breath, and any hope of walking on her wobbly knees.

“A room this size, it’s going to take a couple of hours. Make sure at some point that you get something to eat. I won’t be able to look after you as carefully as I’d like, and we can’t have you keeling over from starvation. Grab things when you can, or duck out to the buffet. I’ll be holding my cell, so I’ll hear if you call, and we’ll find each other.”

She nodded. “Go. Work. Do your magic. I was always excited to read your Fashion Week blogs. You made me feel as if I was there.”

“Really?”

“Well, now that I’m here, not exactly, but more than enough. Don’t tell, but I like your reports better than the ones in W.”

He grinned. “Now you’re just being nice.”

“Nope.” She crossed her heart. “Mean every word.”

“Come on, then. Let’s go meet some famous people.”

Bree was tempted to pull him in for one more kiss, to make sure it had been real, but didn’t dare. Although it was hard not to imagine what it would feel like to walk across the lobby of his building, to go up in that elevator. Before her foolish notions got too carried away, she was reminded, quite spectacularly, of what she was doing now. A boatload of iconic symbols had come to life.

She felt like a Lilliputian in a world of Gullivers with Charlie as her guide. He led her through paths between tables, ice sculptures dripping and corks popping, and always, always the intrusion of cameras. Around the perimeter of the party, the different celebrity gossip shows had staked their territories, and their camera lighting bounced off the white of the tent making the entire arena glow.

They would walk two, maybe three steps, then stop as another celebrity, each one a surprise, approached Charlie. Interestingly, none of the familiar faces looked quite right. They were either better or shorter or skinnier or blonder than they looked in People or on TV.

Bree was good with makeup. Really. She’d made a point of learning the correct techniques at a beauty school near her college, but there was an element of magic to the faces that passed by. And the clothes …

She’d browsed through some of the high-end boutiques in Manhattan. D&G, of course, but a few couture houses, as well, showcasing their elegantly crafted suits and dresses, not daring to touch because each button or zip was worth more than everything she owned or would own for years to come. Now she saw those creations in motion, and it was poetry. No way to call it anything other than art. Each designer’s style was as individual as a Picasso or a Rembrandt. She felt humbled. And grabby.

Instead of touching the fifty-thousand dollar gown, she snagged some hors d’oeuvres. Prawns and sushi and filet mignon, each with a little napkin and dabs of aioli. If she hadn’t been an adult person standing next to famous people she wouldn’t have stopped shoving them into her mouth because they were fantastic

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