by Jo Leigh
He finished, barely remembering to turn off the spigot, as it occurred to him that because of the blog experiment, he’d been spending almost every night with Bree, which was unusual as hell, and not sleeping with anyone else, which was also bizarre, so, of course, he was off balance.
Okay, so he’d gone without having sex for longer than a week before and he hadn’t done anything as stupid as ditch work, but the thing was, even during dry spells, he’d gone out with a variety of women. His batting average, despite the impression he cultivated, was nowhere near one hundred percent. There’d been extended stretches he’d gone without anything but his own hand. But he’d never gone any length of time accompanying the same woman to different events.
He snorted as he grabbed his towel. No cause for alarm. It was probably for the best if he didn’t make a habit of this, of Bree, because that could get messy.
He could stop seeing her altogether. Fashion Week was moving on to London. He wasn’t covering the show there, but neither was he covering the events at Lincoln Center. Tonight’s premiere was only tangentially related, and after the club opening tomorrow night and the perfume party Monday, the town and the blog would move on. There was nothing in the contract that stipulated their working relationship would stop at the end of Fashion Week, although it had been mentioned. It would be simple, a nice, clean break.
Instead of the rush of relief he expected, Charlie paused again, his hand partway to the knob. He opened the door slowly, cautiously, unsure why.
She was in his bed. Sitting up, in fact, her side to him while she faced the window. If someone had been outside looking in, they would have seen her, backlit like a painting. They’d have seen him, too, which should have prompted him to shut the light, if not the door, because he was naked.
But so was Bree. She was naked and lit from behind, and he knew she could see his reflection in the window as he stared at her, as intrigued by the shadows as he was by what the light revealed. His gaze moved down the length of her back to the pillow at the base of her spine. He could see the proof of his fingers in her hair, the dark mark he’d made at the junction of her neck and shoulder. The soft roundness of her breast as it peeked out from under her arm—a suggestion, nothing more. It made him swallow, it made the base of his cock tighten and interest curl deep in his body.
He hated to do it, but he had to turn off the light behind him. The darkness wasn’t complete because he’d thought of moments like these when this room had been redesigned. He was a visual man, and had no trouble sleeping when the space was less than inky black.
His image was still reflected, though not as clearly, but she could see him approach the bed, raise his arm, put his hand on her warm shoulder. “Stay?” he asked, his voice as low as the lights.
“I need to be up by eight. Well, eight-ish. I have to go to work in the morning.”
“We can do that.”
Finally, Bree turned to meet his gaze. “I was so sure you were going to ask me to leave.”
“I thought about it.”
She nodded.
“But it’s late,” he said. “And I want you here.”
A barely there smile curved her lush lips. “Just this once.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good. Fine.” She shifted, dislodging his hand. “I need to…” She nodded at the restroom.
He watched her small, perfect body as she climbed out of bed. She didn’t reach for the robe, which was a surprise. But she was always surprising him.
The door closed before she turned on the light, and he felt cheated. This was an irresponsible thing he was doing. Maybe that was the point.
IT WASN’T HER ALARM CLOCK that woke her at a quarter to seven. She wasn’t sure what had. It took Bree a moment to remember where she was, and to see she was alone. She hadn’t realized she’d wanted to wake up next to him.
The bathroom door was open, no sounds, no lights. She wondered if Charlie was in the apartment at all. It was only seven, so she could technically sleep for another hour or so, but that wasn’t going to happen. A shower was, however, but first, she’d have to go fetch her bag, her clothes, shoes. Sadly, she hadn’t packed her overnight kit. There weren’t supposed to be any overnights. Lesson learned.
She grabbed the kimono and opened the bedroom door. It was quiet and chilly, or maybe the chilly was because she was hurrying across long sections of floor in bare feet. The sheer space of this apartment boggled the mind. She pictured her bedroom/closet and how doing anything was a logistical nightmare. The sewing machine couldn’t be up while the bed was; the drawers had to be closed to get the sheets, to get anything on hangers. Most everything else was stored in her suitcases, which weren’t particularly big or handy. And here she was darting the length of a football field to grab her bag before she rounded the couch to dash to the media room, never once hearing or seeing the master of the house.
She looked at her work dress and it made her sad. It was her own, of course. Not that it mattered. It was a Saturday morning, hardly anyone would be at her office and whoever was probably wouldn’t remember she’d worn the same clothes two days in a row. She couldn’t believe she had to go in at all, but between the shopping, the preparations, the parties and writing the blogs, she’d been neglecting her day job. God forbid she got fired. She was beyond lucky to have any kind of job, let alone a great one. At least she’d slept more last night than she had all last week. Which said volumes about how little sleep she’d been getting.
Tempted almost to the breaking point, she left the green DKNY dress that was calling her name on the hanger and fetched the blue shirtdress she’d made in college.
She debated using the en suite bathroom here, or going back to the bedroom. Staying here was too much like work, and she was off until tonight.
She kept her eyes peeled for him, surprised when he wasn’t in the bedroom. Maybe not so much surprised as disappointed. Anyway, his shower was an otherworldly experience especially since the water pressure in her building was more or less random spitting. Even so, she didn’t linger.
Fresh panties were an issue. She didn’t have any, if there were some in the media room, she didn’t want to know about it. She’d go without, but in this city? That wasn’t a smart move.
What the hell. She went back into Charlie’s empty bedroom. Second drawer in, she found what she was looking for. A nice pair of black silk boxer briefs. She’d replace them later.
Once dressed, she checked the mirror carefully, making sure no one would see her secret. It was kind of sexy, wearing something so personal of his. She might even tell him.
Then it was on to patching her makeup and fixing her hair. It wasn’t going to win her any beauty contests, but she’d pass. She left the kimono on the bed and went in search of her host. Or at the very least, a note.
She discovered that Charlie’s apartment took up the entire floor. The elevator was situated in an atrium. His office took up most of the previously undiscovered country.
And there he was. Sitting in a giant room with enough computers to launch the shuttle. He wore jeans, which she hadn’t even known he owned, and a scrumptious V-neck sweater. He made quite the picture, and not because he was so, so pretty—although that didn’t hurt—but because he was in his element. The difference was written in his posture as he typed on his computer, as he sailed across the floor in his chair. She couldn’t look away.
When he was at parties, even in the limo before parties, or when he was working with his crew inside the media room, there was never a moment when Bree wasn’t aware that Charlie was watching. No. Overseeing. It wasn’t super obvious, but she’d felt it, and on a couple of occasions she’d seen others notice. He was always one step removed, above it all.
That was one of the things that made even A-list celebs want his attention. He never gave too much of himself. He held back a small but vital part, the part that judged, evaluated. He was completely charming to everyone, so there was no hint, no clue. His real thoughts and o
pinions would show up in the next blog, or even worse, wouldn’t show up at all.
But he was completely present in his big office. The difference in his attitude couldn’t have been clearer. She’d been with this Charlie only twice before—in bed. She shivered at the memories, still hardly believing any of it had been real.
He hadn’t noticed her yet. She wasn’t even in the room, just peeking in from the doorway. Bree wondered if it might be better to leave now. He was so wrapped up in the work, he wouldn’t care. She shouldn’t. Only an idiot would make more of last night than what it was. Tension relief. Nothing personal.
Except for the naked part and the kissing and how she’d felt when he was holding her.
Last night she’d had every ounce of Charlie. His body, his attention, his focus. It had felt like being plugged into the mainframe. Every touch electric and unique—
“You’re being ridiculous,” Charlie said.
Bree froze, held her breath. His back was to her, how could he—
“Naomi, stop. Just stop right there.”
He was on the phone. Not a mind reader.
“Okay, okay. I’ll bet you a week’s pay there’s more traffic today about me missing the premiere than any of the Fashion Week stuff.” He laughed. “No, if I win, you have to be nice for a week.” Another laugh. “Nice as in pretending to be someone else. Anyone else.”
Bree turned to leave. She needed to go, and she could only excuse eavesdropping for so long.
“Naomi, for God’s sake, it’s the numbers,” he said, pushing himself over to another computer. “It’s always been the numbers. It’s me, remember? When have I ever had another motive? The minute the Bree thing stops paying off, we’ll end it. There’s nothing else going on, so you can stop with your concern. It’s unnecessary.”
A spike of ice went through Bree’s body, ripping her heart. None of it had mattered, the conversations she’d had with herself, her determination to be realistic, to focus on business. She’d been an idiot. A fool. The soul-sucking pain told her she’d fallen for him, waltzed right into an illusion, knowing it was an illusion, and she hadn’t even realized the fantasy had taken over.
She backed away from the door as quietly as she could on trembling legs. It was weird; she could feel her pupils dilating, feel a chill that had nothing to do with the air around her. But shock was an absurd overreaction, wasn’t it? No matter what was going on in her head, she’d never believed Charlie loved her. She hadn’t. That he’d liked her, yes. That they clicked? That last night had been mutually extraordinary?
Wrong. Wrong as wrong could be. She was a gimmick. Nothing more. Nothing real. He’d told her up front, and she’d signed a legal document that confirmed it. None of this was Charlie’s fault. Hell, she’s the one who’d instigated the sex last night. She couldn’t even blame him for that.
She had painted herself into this corner. And now that she was there, she had to get herself out. Now. She still had obligations, parties to attend as Charlie’s date. He could walk out of his office any minute, and oh, God, if he suspected she had turned into one of those women, she’d die a thousand humiliated deaths.
It didn’t hit her that she was in the living room until she saw the remains of their dinner on the coffee table. She needed to escape. Get her act together somewhere else. But she’d have to leave a note, something easy and quick.
There was the receipt from the Thai place. A pen in her purse. She scribbled “Thanks for the fun night. See you later!” It was all she could do not to run to the elevator, and even though it made no difference, she pushed the button over and over and over.
Finally, she flung herself into the small mirrored box, grasped the rail with both hands and held herself together. She would have to face the security people, the doorman, get a taxi.
Evidently, she’d learned a few things from Charlie. Like how to smile convincingly, and how to make idle conversation as if nothing whatsoever was wrong.
She even gave the cabdriver her address, and sat back for the ride.
Once she’d cleared Central Park West, she fell apart.
14
CHARLIE WAS ANGRY AFTER disconnecting from Naomi. He wasn’t mad at her, not exactly, but she knew better than to keep pressing when he clearly didn’t want to be pressed. That the woman kept his life together was an undisputed fact. He could probably survive her loss but even the idea bothered him. Nothing made him more aware of how important his routine was than the thought of his network splintering.
The inner circle—Naomi, the server techs that oversaw the equipment, his blog editors—were like his pulmonary system with Naomi at the heart. Which made it difficult to lie to her.
He’d done it before, mostly for the sake of ease. Trivial matters. That he’d missed the premiere, that he’d been with Bree over such an extended period of time, that he liked her, was not trivial at all.
He’d been staring at his monitor for several minutes without absorbing any data, but rather than getting back to business his eyes closed as the memory of Bree’s body beneath him went straight from his brain to his cock.
She was probably still sleeping as it wasn’t even eight, let alone eight-ish. The nice thing to do would be to leave her be. The girl was exhausted, and what they’d done last night hadn’t helped. Yet he wanted to go to the bedroom right now and do it all over again. What the hell was up with that? They’d agreed, the sex might have been mind-blowing, but it wasn’t smart. This was a rookie mistake, allowing his feelings into the mix. He’d end up as just another blogger if he wasn’t careful. Someone who used to be someone.
He should wake her. Maybe with a cup of tea?
He pushed himself across the room, calling himself every kind of an idiot. Coffee was the polite thing to do. It was business as usual today. No screwing around. No goddamn tea.
This time, he’d give her a couple of twenties, make sure she took them. Explain to her how it was a write-off. That would get them both back on track.
She had work, they had the club opening tonight, and he had to put a spin on last night’s premiere that would bump up the numbers.
As he went toward the kitchen to get her coffee, he saw her note. He picked it up, recognized her handwriting but didn’t believe she’d left without saying anything to him. That she’d left a note instead. What the hell…that wasn’t like Bree. Had last night been that bad?
Shit, missing the premiere hadn’t been like him. Maybe Naomi was right. Maybe he was too messed up to see clearly. He glanced down at her note and the rush of disappointment churning in his gut made him more determined than ever. Bree was a bit player in a long-running play, and he’d better start thinking of her only that way.
THERE WERE SIX OTHER people on her floor at work, which was six too many. Unfortunately she was no longer the invisible new girl. Now she was Charlie Winslow’s date. The one whose byline was on the front page of Naked New York. She’d wanted to be noticed, and she’d gotten her wish. If she could have, she would have turned around and gone straight back home. But she couldn’t put her job at risk. More at risk.
As she sank into her chair, Bree was incredibly grateful for the cubicle walls. She knew she looked like crap with her swollen eyes and her red blotchy skin, but who cared? What difference did it make, now that she understood? The awakening had been inevitable. At least she’d gotten some really good sex out of it, right?
No, she would not cry again. Instead, she took out the preliminary copy for one of their lesser accounts. She blinked back tears and yet one dropped on the word latte and the letters in the middle lost their definition, spread and blurred into something that looked like failure.
The copy had been terrible, anyway. She crushed the sheet of paper into a ball and tossed it into the trash bin under her desk. Naturally, she missed. The carpet was a dark, wavy blue that was meant to disguise, meant to trick the eye into thinking it was clean when it wasn’t. She didn’t bother picking up her mistake.
Her phone buzzed b
efore she could turn to her keyboard. Rebecca, sending a text.
Call me. SOON!
Bree ignored it; the prospect of speaking to Rebecca made her queasy. It wasn’t her friend’s fault; it wasn’t. She had done Bree an unbelievable favor. It was nobody’s fault but her own. She’d read the rules, entered the game with her eyes wide-open.
The task of rewriting the copy was too much for her to bear and she considered leaving, going back to her hole-in-the-wall bedroom, cowering under the covers for a while, but couldn’t. She’d file now, give herself time to calm down, stop thinking that her life was some kind of tragedy when it wasn’t. God, she could be a drama queen.
Poor Bree, getting a chance to meet famous designers and go to all the best parties in New York. How horrible.
Her sigh made the top few pages of her filing stack flutter up like little skirts. She grabbed a handful of reports. Boring as hell, maintenance stuff like expenses, inventory and billable hours, but they had to be sorted before they could be shoved into files, and what happened to the mythical paperless office? They were probably right there next to flying cars and silver unitards for all.
The image of Charlie swooshing across his office in his fancy chair froze her. She blinked it away, but the image lingered, filling her chest with pressure.
The phone, again, and this time it was Lilly.
Can U meet 4 dinner? Or is CW taking U somewhere fab?
The expense reports went on the far corner of her desk, setting the border of the assembly line. There were seven distinct piles, and she put every ounce of her concentration on each item, neatly squaring each stack as she went, the tap tap of the paper against her desk loud in the gray cubicle with the calendar next to the picture of her parents and the clips from newspapers and magazines, all precisely placed with only blue pushpins that matched the carpet and looked good against the gray.