of celebrities, and they’ll all be drinking your gin. The network publicists can work their magic for you.”
“Why would you do that for me? And why would I need to keep that a secret?”
She grumbled, “I’m getting to that part. I need you to come to the party. With me. As my date.”
For a moment, Marcus wasn’t entirely sure of what she’d just said. “I only date women I’m serious about. Because of Lila.”
“Then it’s perfect, because I don’t date at all right now. And I’m not talking about anything more than you taking me to the party and pretending you like me. The network wants me on the arm of a handsome man, I’m not seeing anyone, and you’re literally the last man I’ve been on a date with.”
The part of him that warred with her over her apartment wanted to snicker that he was her only option, but the situation also genuinely struck him as a bit sad. “I’m not entirely sure that Manhattan Matchmaker and Chambers Gin is the right match. I don’t see the correlation between the two brands.”
“You want to appeal to young, hip customers? My demographic is all about young and hip.”
“And Mrs. White.”
“She’s a lot hipper than you.”
“That’s up for debate.” He was making her angry, which didn’t entirely bother him. Nothing like some good verbal sparring with a beautiful woman to get the blood pumping.
“Well? Will you? Just think of what this could do for your business.”
She might have been right about that. He and Joanna had been discussing exactly that, and judging by the look on his sister’s face, she’d pop off at him if he said no to this. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
“You will?”
“Yes, I will. Please don’t tell me you’re angry with me for saying yes.”
“No. Not angry. Just surprised, that’s all. You fight me on everything.”
It’s easier to convince myself I’m not so damn drawn to you. “I won’t lie. Chambers Gin could use the help. The American market is a big mountain to conquer.”
“Okay, then. It’s Thursday night. Eight o’clock. I’ll have a car for us at seven thirty.”
“I’ll come round your place at seven-fifteen.”
“I’m capable of meeting you at the elevator, you know.”
“Ashley, I’m a gentleman. A gentleman always picks a lady up for a date.”
Ashley hardly recognized the woman in the mirror. Same face as hers, same hair and nose. Same eyes. But this was the familiar wrapped up in an entirely new and very expensive package. Poised on a pedestal, she twisted from side to side, admiring the sublime lines of the gown designed for her by Peter Richie. Designed for her. Since the Manhattan Matchmaker ride had started, there had been countless times when she’d wondered whether she was awake or dreaming. Today was just another to add to the list.
Peter shook his head slowly as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Absolutely. Stunning.”
He planted both hands at his waist, studying her. A woman with a mouth full of straight pins kneeled at Ashley’s feet, adjusting the hem of the gown.
Ashley wrestled with her innate need to deflect attention from herself. “The dress is beautiful. You’re absolutely right. Thank you so much for doing this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.” She glanced down, only to catch the woman rolling her eyes. Had she said something stupid? Was it uncool to be thankful? She wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to say in this situation other than thank you. Her mother had always been emphatic when she was growing up: “No one will ever fault you for having good manners.”
Peter let out a deep belly laugh. “No, doll. Not the dress. You. You’re stunning. All eyes are going to be glued to you at that party.”
Ashley swallowed, or at least attempted to. It was hard to get past the lump in her throat. The thought of all eyes glued to her made her exponentially more nervous about the party. Those gatherings were difficult—everyone vying for a piece of her, but it was always a bit superficial. Lots of compliments and praise, but not much in the way of real conversation. No, it was all “keep doing what you’re doing” and “we just want more.” How much more of this was there? One day the world would tire of the Manhattan Matchmaker. It happened to everyone who ended up in the spotlight as she had, and when it ended, it always seemed to end badly. Tastes changed. Fads came and went. She didn’t want to be reduced to that, but someday she would. In some ways, it would be a big relief, but it would mean that her fabulous ride was over.
People assumed that since she was on TV, she’d wanted the limelight. That wasn’t the case for her at all. Her confidence in what she was doing and in her ability to do it were unwavering, but it was the other piece of the puzzle that gave her problems. She didn’t want her face on the sides of buses. She wanted to match people. She wanted the world to believe in true love. In a world where there was so much bad, she wanted people to remember that there was good.
“I’ll be sure to tell everyone that all of the credit for the world’s most perfect dress goes to you,” Ashley said to Peter.
“Keep talking like that and I’ll keep you in party dresses forever.” He winked at Ashley then held out his hand to help her step off the pedestal. “You’re done, sweetie. The girls will have your dress ready by the end of the day. We’ll have it sent to your apartment.”
“Oh no. Send it to my office, please. I’m in the middle of a huge apartment project, and it’s a total mess.”
Ashley left Peter Richie’s design studio in the Garment District and opted to walk along 8th Avenue to her building on the Upper West Side. She probably wouldn’t make it all the way in heels, but she’d try. It was too beautiful a spring day to not enjoy the splendor of the city. Sporting her biggest Jackie O sunglasses and with her hair tucked up in a hat to avoid being spotted on the street, she set out on her way.
What was left of the afternoon sun peeked between the buildings, the late-April air warming her enough to make her shed her cardigan, draping it over her arm. South Carolina would always be home, but she couldn’t see herself living anywhere but New York for the foreseeable future. The city was simply too much fun, brimming with its own kind of beauty. Sure, it could also be a very lonely place, but changing that, one couple at a time, was her charge. There was love to be found in the city that never sleeps. And she was just the girl to give it a push.
After a good twenty blocks, her feet had had all they could take, and she hailed a cab. It didn’t take long before they were stuck in rush hour traffic, so she took the chance to call her mom.
“Hello, sugarplum,” her mother answered.
As welcome as the sun she’d soaked up along her walk, Vivian George’s sugary South Carolina accent was all Ashley needed to shake off the vestiges of her stressful day and feel much more like herself. “Hey, Mama.” Her voice cracked simply out of happiness. If she closed her eyes, she could smell her mother’s cooking and remember exactly
