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
