by R.S. Grey
That’s because I whispered it, you hard of hearing whore. Please stop drawing attention to me.
I coughed and took a step closer. “Josephine Keller.”
Madeline nodded and got to work, flipping through her notes.
“Just a second,” she said.
I was crossing my fingers behind my back, repeating the phrase “Please find my name, please find my name,” over and over again in my head, when I looked up and met the eye of a man standing in line.
My gut clenched.
HOLY GUACA-DO ME.
He was third from the front of the line and watching me with a bemused smile. Where all the other stares had been easy to ignore, his devoured my attention to the point of discomfort.
I swallowed slowly as I scanned over him. Handsome only brushed the surface. He was a vision in black. He had everything down to a T: a fitted tuxedo, silver cufflinks, and impeccably polished designer shoes. His arms were crossed over his chest and his wide shoulders blocked out the streetlamp behind him so that he seemed to glow against the bustling backdrop of limousines and hotel attendants.
I let myself glance over him for three intense seconds and then forced myself to look away.
Enough.
I’d stared too long.
But he’d been staring back.
I forced myself to watch Madeline scan through the list of names until the line moved forward again. I peered up from beneath my lashes, using the opportunity to see him one last time before he went inside and disappeared into the crowd forever.
I tried to memorize every feature as quickly as possible. His black hair was thick and styled flawlessly, a bit shorter on the sides with a smooth wave on top. His cheekbones were so defined that Webster’s surely had an entry for them. As he spoke to the guests in front of him, a permanent pair of dimples framed his cheeks. His jawline was sharp, clean-shaven, and inexplicably alluring.
I watched him for another moment before he finally detected my stalker-stare and turned my way.
Hazel eyes locked with mine and I froze as my world slipped right out from under me.
“Ah! Josephine Keller! I finally found you,” Madeline exclaimed. “Someone put your name down as ‘Josephine Geller’.”
Typical.
“Okay,” she said, offering me a relieved smile. “Right this way.”
I followed behind her as she beckoned me toward the hotel doors. I knew the man’s gaze was following me as I stepped past him. I could feel his eyes on me, heating my cheeks to a cruel, rosy blush that I prayed he couldn’t see.
“The step and repeat is there to the left,” she said, pointing to a small section of the hotel lobby where a few celebrities were getting their photos taken by the paparazzi. “And the ballroom is just beyond the lobby.”
I glanced past the black marble floor to where she was pointing.
I could see a glimpse of the party, hear the pulsing music streaming out, and smell the delicious hors d’oeuvres sweeping into the room.
For better or for worse, I’d arrived.
Chapter Two
J O S E P H I N E
After I’d snatched a glass of champagne, spilled a bit of it onto the front of my dress, run to the bathroom to clean it off, and stuffed a few crab balls in my mouth, I was officially ready to party.
Oh, and by party, I mean stand by myself in the corner of the ballroom and pretend like I belonged. I was praying that the dim lighting made me look like a statue so that people wouldn’t take pity on me. Either that, or for the sexy man from the line to come over and say, “Nobody puts baby in a corner.” And then we’d perform that routine from Dirty Dancing, and everyone would clap, and Vogue would offer me a job because they were so impressed with my footwork.
I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Lily, my best friend back home in Texas.
Josephine: I’m standing in the corner by myself like the kid that pees his pants at a middle school dance.
Lily: Get out there and schmooze! You need a job!!
Lily: Also…Nobody puts baby in a corner.
Josephine: Already made that reference in my head.
Lily: Classic. But, seriously, the longer you stand there the more you look like the pee-kid.
Josephine: Yeahyeahyeah. By the way, I submitted my resume to Lorena Lefray today.
Lily: Is that for the executive assistant position?
Josephine: Yeah, it’s just something temporary while I keep building my blog following. NYC ain’t cheap.
Lily: I’ll be moving up there soon, don’t worry.
I finished off my glass of champagne and cringed.
Josephine: Oh god, my drink’s empty. What do I do with my hands now?
Lily: Snap along to the music.
Lily: No wait. Keep touching or pointing toward your cleavage so guys will get the picture that you’re an easy lay.
Josephine: I hate you. Later, dweeb. The crab balls are coming back around.
Lily: Stop shoving balls in your mouth. You’re at a gala. This is why you don’t have any friends in New York.
I rolled my eyes at Lily’s response and shoved my phone back into the glittery purse I’d thrifted a few years back. I missed Lily, but I really needed to find some friends in the city. In the two weeks I’d been there, I’d only made two, and that was counting the old Jewish man in my building and my landlady.
After finding a new glass of champagne to hold in front of the small stain made by my previous one, I ventured out of my comfortable corner and ambled through the party.
The gala organizers hadn’t changed much of the hotel’s original Art Deco décor for the evening. Ornate gold sconces and extravagant crown molding surrounded the party from above. Cocktails tables were spread throughout the room with small groups of people crowded around them. I was too intimidated to attempt to join a conversation already taking place, until I spotted a few women I knew from the blogosphere. I’d only met them once, at a small blogger conference, and they hadn’t been the nicest women in the world, but a bitch in need is a friend indeed. Or something like that…
I was almost upon them, having worked up the nerve to reintroduce myself, when a hand reached out to touch my shoulder. I paused and turned to see a smiling older woman standing behind me. She had a chic gray bob, layers of colorful jewelry, and was clutching the “it” Hermès bag of the season. I had to resist the urge to snatch it and run.
“Excuse me, are you Josephine from What Jo Wore? The blog?”
I all but gaped at her, completely stunned that this regal-looking woman would know of my blog and recognize me from my posts.
“I am,” I said, putting my hand on my chest before reaching out. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met?”
She smiled wide and a few lines near her eyes hinted at her age.
“I’m Maxine Belafonte, the U.S. director of operations for House of Herrera.”
I laughed.
I laughed because I was too stunned to do anything else. I was two seconds away from asking, “Are you serious?” when I remembered where I was. Of course she was Maxine Belafonte, because this was a dream that I would soon wake up from.
“It’s such an honor to meet you,” I fumbled quickly, proud of my brain for having acquired appropriate social skills some time during my several decades of life.
“Likewise,” Maxine said, smiling wide and shaking my hand. “I’ve been following your blog for several months and I think you have a real eye for fashion.”
I stood there holding her hand for an inappropriately long time, then finally spoke.
“I’m sorry. I think my brain just stopped working for a second there. Could you repeat what you just said?”
Maxine laughed, patted my shoulder, and then gently extracted her hand from my death grip.
“I’m serious. I’d love to hear more about your story. Do you have a few minutes to chat?” she asked, gesturing toward a free cocktail table a few feet away from us.
I nodded. “For you
, I’m free for the rest of the night.”
She smiled. “See! That’s why I wanted to meet you. I love your humor. It really comes across in your posts. I think a lot of fashion bloggers tend to take themselves much too seriously. But not you.”
I nodded my head, unsure of what to say. After striving all night to just blend in with the herd, this request for individuality caught me off guard.
“How long ago did you start your blog?” she asked as we settled across from each other at the table.
“It’s been seven years.” I inwardly cringed as I thought about her going back to read my very first posts. “But those first few years were rough. I was just starting college at the time.”
“NYU?”
“Um, no,” I corrected. “A small fashion school in Texas.”
She smiled, and I hurried to change the topic away from the fact that my degree wasn’t from a prestigious New York fashion school.
“I’m sorry, but may I ask how you even happened upon my blog in the first place?” I asked before taking a small sip of champagne.
She smiled wider, but before she could respond, a pair of dress shoes hit the marbled floor right behind me and I caught the scent of spiced cologne. There was a hint of fresh citrus with a unique blend of cinnamon and geranium. The combination was intoxicating.
“Ah, there you are Maxine,” a deep voice said behind me.
Six of the sexiest syllables I’d ever heard gave me no choice but to turn and put a face to the voice. I shifted to look over my shoulder, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, and then openly gaped as I came face to face with the handsome stranger from earlier.
His eyes shifted to me and he nodded, the tip of his mouth lifting in a silent acknowledgment that he recognized me as well.
“Julian! I wasn’t sure if you’d make it. I’d assumed things were too hectic with your family right now.”
“It was a last minute decision. You know how I like to fly by the seat of my pants.”
If I was a provocative temptress from a James Bond movie, I’d have picked up my champagne, held his eye as I took a sip, and then seductively whispered, “Is there room for two on that flight in your pants?” or y’know, something equally as seductive. But since I am Josephine, weird-girl-from-the-country, I stayed silent and took another sip of champagne.
Maxine cleared her throat and then held her hand out in introduction.
“Josephine, this is Julian Lefray.”
My eyes widened in shock as I fought to keep from choking on my champagne.
Julian Lefray. Julian Lefray, as in the brother to Lorena Lefray, the designer I’d submitted a resume to just that afternoon. He was the silent partner of her brand, heir to his family’s old-money fortune, and apparently keeper of all my hopes and dreams.
I pulled it together and held out my hand.
“You look nothing like your sister,” I noted, trying to reconcile the fact that they were related. Lorena was a lithe, pale woman, all skin and bones. Julian was…the polar opposite: tall and tan, with a captivating smile and those bright, hazel eyes.
“I got more of the Spanish blood,” he said as he took my hand. “She took after our mother.”
I nodded as I let his strong grip encase my hand. His touch was hard to reconcile, and for a moment, I glanced down at where our hands met, surprised by the connection.
“Do you have a last name Josephine?” he asked as he dropped my hand. I gripped my fist after losing contact with him, trying to maintain the fading warmth in my palm for as long as possible.
“Keller.”
“Josephine Keller,” he repeated, testing it out on his tongue. “Well, it has been a pleasure.” He motioned around the room. “Unfortunately, I have to keep making the rounds.”
To his credit, he didn’t look too pleased about it, but before I could come up with a reply, he excused himself to greet other party guests. I was left staring out after him, trying to understand how someone could possibly be that gorgeous.
“He’s quite a lot to take in, no?” Maxine asked once we were alone again.
I laughed and brushed off her question, careful to keep my silly feelings under wraps.
“So anyway, I believe you were saying something about how awesome my blog is…” I joked, letting the laughter rescue me from the ether of Julian’s presence.
It wasn’t until I was in the bathroom later, fixing my red lipstick, that I realized my mistake. I’d had Julian Lefray right in front of me and I hadn’t even mentioned my desire to work for his sister. He probably didn’t have much say in the hiring process, but I’d been a fool not to mention it. Wasn’t this how it worked? Insider jobs were given to people willing to go the extra mile, to put themselves out there.
I clasped my clutch and evaluated my look. The rented gown had only been available in a size smaller than I normally wore, which meant my chest was a bit more on display than I would have preferred. Thanks a lot for the boobs, Mom. I pulled up the strapless bodice and tried in vain to hide a bit of my cleavage. Yeah. Nope. Not happening. They had minds of their own.
I blew out a puff of air, checked that I didn’t have any red lipstick staining my teeth, and then finally exited the restroom.
After a few minutes of searching, I finally spotted Julian in the middle of a discussion with a group of men near the bar. They were older, with thick beards and hard lines across their foreheads. They looked like a stock photo of investment firm big wigs, but I couldn’t let that stop me. I just needed a moment to speak with Julian.
I subdued my nerves and waltzed up to the group. I inhaled his cologne as I stepped close; it was just as captivating as the first time. He was in the middle of a conversation, but I didn’t want to take the chance that I’d lose him again. I ignored the curious stares from the other men in his group and cleared my throat.
“Mr. Lefray, do you have a moment to speak with me?” I asked, reaching up to tap his shoulder.
One of the men stepped forward, sloshing his drink over the brim of his glass.
“I’m available to speak sweetheart, if Julian here is too busy,” he said with a leering smile and a roaming gaze that never quite met my eyes.
Chapter Three
J U L I A N
My eyes flicked from Patrick to the younger woman I’d met earlier in the night. She looked stunning in her red gown—a fact I knew the men nearby were all too quick to pick up on as well.
“That won’t be necessary, Patrick,” I replied.
She shot me a thankful smile.
I nodded and stepped away from the group, gripping her arm just above her elbow. Her arm was slim and toned, and I found it far too easy to lead her away from the group of investors. A moment alone with her would far outweigh another five minutes of suffering the company of old men with older money. I led Josephine toward a private corner of the ballroom, consumed by the subtle scent of gardenia that followed in her wake.
“This won’t take long,” she promised, her bright green stare meeting mine. A blind man wouldn’t have missed the hope poorly hidden behind her faltering smile. My alarm bells rang loud and clear, but I tried to quell them. Not every girl wants to fuck you, asshole.
“It’s fine. You saved me from another ten minutes of a boring pitch,” I replied, slipping my hands into my pockets and doing my best to stare anywhere but her chest. I’m no saint, and she had an unbelievable body. Nothing like the fashion girls I usually saw around Lorena’s office. Emaciated seemed to be the desired look as of late, but Josephine had curves.
“Oh crap. You were doing a pitch?” Her eyes widened and then she covered her mouth. “Ignore the fact that I just said crap.”
I smiled.
“Twice,” she said, uncovering her mouth and seeming to regroup. She rolled her shoulders back and stared up into my eyes. She looked so young, much too young for me.
I laughed. “It’s fine.”
“This whole event is making me a little nervous to be honest,” she offered, glan
cing up at me from beneath her long lashes. She blushed, a rosy tinge dotting her cheeks—the same blush I’d appreciated outside earlier.
“Is this your first big event?” I asked, tilting my head to the side with a curious smile.
“Is it obvious?” she asked, touching her curled hair self-consciously.
I shook my head. “No. The event coordinators tend to memorize faces after a while, so their guest lists are more of a formality.”
She laughed, interpreting my subtle reference to her delayed entrance earlier.
“Well, my face is far from being memorable.”
I resisted the urge to insist otherwise.
“Should I get us a drink?” I offered, trying to figure what her game was. Most women were a little more forward, but Josephine seemed to be working up the nerve to ask me something. I thought perhaps I could make it a little easier on her.
She held up her hands to stop me. “No thank you. No drink.”
Her gaze drifted to the party as she took a deep breath and then she met my eye with newfound conviction.
“I wanted to speak with you because I’d like a job at Lorena Lefray Designs. I actually submitted my application this afternoon—before I realized you’d be at this event—and I was hoping if I got a chance to speak with you, maybe you could put in a good word for me.”
Son of a bitch.
She wanted a job, not a night in my hotel room.
I narrowed my eyes and studied her: delicate features, bee-stung lips. She was practically lethal.
“What position did you apply for?”
Her back straightened as she replied. “Executive assistant. I think it would be for Lorena, but the job description didn’t specify.”
Of course.
I stared out at the party, trying to regroup for a moment before glancing back to her. This was dangerous territory. The feeling of being near her in public was tempting enough; would I really want her working alongside me every day?
When I glanced back, the glimmer of hope hadn’t faded from her eyes. God, she was so young. Couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. Was I willing to dash her dreams just because I found her attractive?