They should have known that without him having to smear it in their faces. But they’d only seen what they wanted to see.
His answer might have appeared radical to anyone outside the family. Getting arrested in a public scandal his senior year in college was, he’d admit, a dramatic move. But Rebecca, of all people, should have understood. He’d done what was necessary. His success had been a matter of skill, planning and yes, luck. Why wouldn’t he want to continue to thrive? It would have been nice to be with Bree. He couldn’t deny the attraction. But she didn’t fit. Not as anything except a temporary gimmick, a sidebar, a tweak on the blog.
And his bed. Good Christ, she’d fit there.
He stared at the window as the cab pulled up to his building. Life was about choices. Some tougher than others. Hell, she was just a girl. He’d learned long ago not to romanticize sex.
THE STYLIST, SVETA BREVDA, was tall and manic and thin as a whippet, and she wielded her opinions with an iron fist. The first stop—at Dior!—taught Bree to strip quickly, stand straight and keep her mouth shut.
She’d stopped being self-conscious about being naked by store seven. Didn’t matter who was in the dressing room. Salespeople. Friends of salespeople, men, women.
For all she knew the pizza delivery guy was standing by the exit, nodding as he studied her slipping into a skintight dress with absolutely nothing beneath it as if he were picking out curtains. But the clothes were …
Bree had lost her adjectives. That’s how fantastic the clothes were. And the accessories? Good Lord, she’d died and gone to heaven. Even though the shoes tortured her feet, she couldn’t breathe in the two dresses that were honestly a size too small, and she was turned and bent and paraded around like a show pony, but the torture was totally worth it because she got to keep everything.
Even the bit where the silver-haired dresser from Prada stuck his hand down her bodice and lifted her bare breasts. Now there was a blog entry.
All this done at the speed of a montage: cabs were hailed seconds before they stepped out doors, clothing selections were made preternaturally and perfectly, and she finally understood the worth of a good stylist.
The only thing missing was Charlie. She kept wanting to tell him things, to see his reaction, to feel his hand on the small of her back, but he was working, and she was, as well. Only this work made her feel like a model—despite the fact that every article of clothing had to be shortened—and like a prom queen. But mostly like someone had made a mistake that would be corrected momentarily.
Charlie wasn’t the kind to make mistakes of this magnitude. Yet it would have been better if she could have talked to him. She’d texted in cabs—the only time she’d been able to—but he was in a meeting, so his response would have to wait.
CHARLIE HAD TO WORK TO KEEP his expression mild, to speak as if his parents dropping by wasn’t something unwelcome and entirely too coincidental given his talk with Rebecca last night. He’d always liked Rebecca so much. She’d been his ally, his cover, his friend. Her betrayal hit hard and low. Shit.
“We’re not here to take up much of your time, Charles,” his father said, his gaze scrutinizing the living room. He—both his parents—were busy cataloging every change, the new lamps, the slate that had replaced the bricks around the fireplace. They’d only been to his place a few times over the years. He preferred meeting in neutral territory, although he went to family gatherings, typically one per year, wherever it was being held. He didn’t shut his parents out completely.
“You’ve undoubtedly seen that Andrew is starting his campaign in earnest,” his father said, his voice modulated and soft. That had been one of the earliest Winslow lessons. Speak softly. Make them listen. “We’re very pleased with the endorsements he has now, but the committee is budgeting media advertising, and naturally, your blog group has come up.”
So it hadn’t been Rebecca. Charlie didn’t acknowledge his father’s remarks. Another lesson he’d learned at his father’s knee. Never give anything away, not in expression, in tone, or in posture.
The Winslows were the quintessential image of subdued elegance. Nothing his parents wore was ostentatious, but everything was meticulously selected to evoke their status. The most expensive watches, Italian handcrafted shoes, tailoring from the finest hands in several countries.
His parents commanded respect, and made everyone who wasn’t family feel small and insignificant. Polite to the extreme. They radiated power and privilege.
Christ, what they had tried to do to him. He was sure they wouldn’t mention that it should have been his campaign, if only he’d not been so rebellious.
“We would very much like to utilize the family connection in the two most appropriate blogs, Dollars and NYPolitic.”
“No,” Charlie said. “I’m not going to promote the family agenda on my blogs. It’s inappropriate, given I think Andrew would be a monumentally bad choice for the senate.”
His phone buzzed again, and he took it out of his pocket to find another text message from Bree. He couldn’t read it now.
“We’re not asking for a change of editorial direction or for you to give your personal endorsement,” his mother said. “Simply space for featured ads. It would mean significant revenue.”
He stared at his mother, knowing she was irked that he hadn’t offered them drinks. It was only polite, the right thing to do, even for uninvited guests. In her home, nothing of the sort would have ever happened.
He smiled as he looked around. This was his home.
ON MADISON AVENUE, BREE and her posse stopped again, this time for shoes. Or maybe a bag, she wasn’t quite sure. It didn’t help that Sveta’s accent—she was from Belarus—was nearly unintelligible. Bree mostly nodded and tried to keep up and not prostrate herself at the temples of fashion—Versace, Chanel, Anna Sui. Those were the kind of stores that only had a few items artfully displayed in minimalist snobbery. Where excellent champagne was served by stunning hostesses who knew every detail of the design and manufacture of the clothing on display. The music was always … interesting. Nothing you’d hear on Top Ten radio, because you could get that at the New Jersey malls.
The price tags made her hyperventilate. And even though the selections for her weren’t the top-of-the-top-of-the-line, they were still extravagantly outlandish. Truly, she was in another world, someone else’s life. Charlie’s world. As she snapped another photograph of herself in a pair of heels that would likely cripple her after five steps, she reminded herself that she was a visitor. A tourist. Nothing more.
CHARLIE’S FATHER STOOD and even he couldn’t control the way his rising blood pressure reddened his face. “Andrew is family, Charles. He’s a Winslow. We’ve allowed you to set your own course, have your fun, but this is our legacy you’re tampering with. I won’t have it.”
Charlie moved closer to the door, to the closet where he’d hung their coats. “Huh. It’s good to know some things don’t change. You continue to hold on to the ludicrous belief that you have any influence over me or my life. It’s nice having our own traditions.”
“Charles,” his mother said, as affronted as his father,
