by Sierra Rose
Let me start by saying, I had no intention of ‘cheating’ on Nick. None whatsoever. And not only because I currently had no social life to speak of (and thus, no one to cheat with), but because no matter the circumstance, I’d never been the cheating type.
That being said, I was fairly sure it wasn’t possible to ‘cheat’ on someone, when you weren’t technically in a ‘relationship.’
That being said, I didn’t know why Nick would really care either way.
True, I’d asked the same thing of him not long before—it had been one of the conditions I’d insisted on before we left Barcelona. But in my case, it made sense. The entire point of this little dalliance was to keep a positive spotlight on Mitchell Hunter’s son until his company’s grand awakening in three months. Every move Nick made would be scrutinized. The paparazzi fishbowl he already lived in would get even smaller—trapping him under a microscopic lens.
But the same rules didn’t apply to me.
I wasn’t a Hunter. I wasn’t the heir to anything. And even on my best of days, I was pretty damn sure the rest of the world didn’t think of me as an international celebrity.
I was, however, a world class talent at playing with the perceptions of the press. Even if I did happen to have a boyfriend on the side—it wouldn’t be a problem. If anyone knew how to keep a thing like that under wraps, it would be me.
Nick knew that. Of all the people in Manhattan, he knew it best of all.
And yet, he’d expressly forbidden it.
...why?
You don’t cheat on me either.
As if the words weren’t enough, then there was the look on his face. It was a look I had seen many, many times before. He might have been smiling, but there wasn’t an ounce of compromise anywhere in those twinkling blue yes.
It was not a request. It was a command. As simple as that.
I was still mulling it over a few minutes later, when there was a quiet knock on my door.
What the hell is going on today? Am I having an open house I don’t know about?
Cautious, and after double checking again that I was wearing pants, I padded my way over to the door. “Who is it?” I called through the double dead-bolts.
In Brooklyn, you could never be too careful.
“It’s Stacy.”
Stacy?
To say that Stacy Heathrow was a stylist, was like saying that Michael Phelps liked to play in the pool. The woman was a fashion goddess. A true icon. It was as if all of Manhattan had gotten together and compiled all their beauty standards into this one, bionic woman. A woman who somehow managed to encompass them all.
Tall, gorgeous, and with so little body fat I was amazed she wasn’t seasonally restricted indoors, she stopped the conversation of every room she walked into. Turned every head, unhinged every jaw. It was for this reason that Mitchell Hunter had hired her seven years ago.
That and the fact that she was one of the only women in the world who was impervious to his son’s devilish charms.
“Stacy—hey!” I yanked open the door, terrified to keep her waiting even a second longer than was necessary, “is everything okay? Did you and Lily have a fight?”
She swept inside, drenching me in a cloud of Chanel No. Five. Sure enough, despite the icy sidewalks, she was wearing a miniature cocktail dress paired with eight-inch heels. She had to bend down almost a foot to do her obligatory double-cheek-kiss.
“Lily—gosh no. Everything’s fine. She’s off in France or Spain or something—fighting against corporate interests with the rest of her little friends.”
(Lily’s ‘little friends’ happened to be a United Nations Human Rights Commission.)
“Oh, well that’s—”
“You know, this is actually a cute place.” Her ice blue eyes swept around appraisingly, as she shed her coat on a hook by the door. “Even if it is in Brooklyn...”
Knowing Stacy, that was as much of a compliment as I was ever going to get. At any rate, it was certainly as kind as she was biologically capable of.
“Uh...thanks.”
Now that she mentioned it, it was bizarre seeing her in a place like this. Was this her first time venturing over the bridge? I imagined her circuitry turned off once she left Manhattan. Like a broken robot, leaving her frozen and twitching on the far shore.
Wisely deciding not to ask, I quickly navigated back to my original question. “So, uh, not that it’s not great to see you and everything, but...”
I had hoped that would do it, but she returned my questioning gaze with a blank stare. I’d have to be a little more direct.
“It’s still like six in the morning...”
Still nothing.
“A little early to come calling...”
Silence.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
“What the hell are you doing here?!”
“Oh!” Her face brightened cheerfully, as she set her gigantic bag down in the middle of the living room floor. “Nick sent me. He didn’t tell you?”
Why the hell would he tell me? It’s not like it was my apartment or anything.
I shook my head quickly, trying to catch up.
“I’m sorry...Nick sent you?”
Why the hell would Nick send his stylist to Brooklyn? At six in the fucking morning?
“He called me about twenty minutes ago.” She poured herself a mug of coffee from the kitchen, before ripping open the curtains to let winter daylight spill into the room. “Said that we needed to get an early start if we were going to be ready for the event by tonight.”
“Ready for the—”
In an act of sheer desperation, I threw caution to the wind and actually snatched the coffee mug right out of her hands. Anything to stop her perpetual motion.
“I’m sorry, but you need to please tell me what’s going on.” I held the caffeine just out of reach, trying to ignore the way her eyes were dilating like an angry cat. “Nick sent you over to my place to help me prepare for an event? What event? And if it’s at night, why the hell do I need to start getting ready right now? And why would he send you here to help me?”
My voice rose in panic with each question, flailing as things spiraled further and further out of my control. By the last one, I was nearly shouting—sending little drops of coffee flying in every direction.
“And...and how the fuck does everyone know where I live?!”
Most people would have cringed to be on the receiving end of such a tantrum. Most people would have had the good sense to avoid the scalding drops of liquid shooting like shrapnel through the air.
Stacy simply looked bored.
“Are you finished shouting?”
I sucked in a quick breath, considering the question.
“For now.”
Her lips twitched up in a rare smile.
“Good. Then I’ll tell you what I know.” She ticked things off her fingers, one by one. “To start, Nick sent me over here because you’re no longer ‘Abigail Wilder his publicist,’ you’re now ‘Abigail Wilder his girlfriend.’ That means you’re not a behind-the-scenes puppet-master anymore, you’re center stage. The leading lady. And in this town, at Nick’s level, that means you officially relinquished the right to dress yourself. That’s where I come in. With me so far?”
Strangely enough, I was. When Nick had first proposed the idea in Barcelona, it hadn’t really occurred to me that I would have to look the part if I was to play it.
“Yeah...I guess.”
“You’re going to be on breakfast television. You know, Good Morning America.”
My jaw dropped. “Say what?”
“It’s just a little segment. Not long at all. A few minutes tops.”
I let out a long breath. “Okay, I can do this.”
“Yes, you can. So make our Nick look all shiny and clean.”
A few women burst out in laughter.
“As if that’s possible,” one muttered.
I chuckled. “I work in PR. I know how the game works.”
“Great, then let’s get started, shall we?”
I glanced down at the bag she’d brought with her, suddenly seeing it in a whole new light. For the first time in my entire life, someone was here to do my makeup. They were here to curl my hair and pick out clothes. For the first time ever...that bag was here for me.
But Stacy was just getting started.
“As for the rest of it, I don’t know what the event is. Rumor has it that Nick planned the whole thing out himself—and you know how secretive he gets when he’s planning a surprise.”
I didn’t, actually. Most of the time, I was planning it with him. Going through all the logistics while he monologued excitedly from the sofa. Never once had the surprise been for me.
A sudden stir of excitement fluttered in my stomach, but it was instantly countered with a wave of nerves. I might not know exactly what Nick was up to—but I did know Nick. The man was a fucking poster boy for the perils of ‘getting a little carried away.’
Case in point: he had once launched a hot air balloon off the top of the Empire State Building, just because his friends bet that he couldn’t land it in the Hudson. (He couldn’t.)
Without me there to rein him in...who knew what the lunatic was planning.
“Maybe I should have pushed for a long-distance relationship,” I murmured, wondering whether it would be prudent for me to go out and update all my shots. “You know, something that kept me...out of range.”
“Out of range?” Stacy repeated with a grin. “Of Nick Hunter? Is there such a place?”
Good point.
“So why are you here so early?” I asked, ignoring her question as I focused again on the bag. “Six in the morning for an evening event? Even you can’t possibly take that long.”
Instead of fighting back like usual, her lips turned up in a dangerous smile.
“Aw sweetie, I probably can’t...”
As if on cue, the elevator dinged open, and the sound of a dozen or more voices floated inside from the hall. A second later, they were followed by a dozen or more footsteps. A second after that...there was a knock on my door.
My eyes widened in disbelief, but Stacy simply grinned.
“...but I’m not the only person who knows where you live.”
Chapter 6
YOU KNOW THE HUDDLE that sports teams do at the start of every game? Right before they run out onto the field? Dozens upon dozens of people all packed together in a tight circle, all straining as far as they can to reach their hand toward the center?
Well that sports field was my tiny, tiny living room.
And that thing everyone was grabbing at in the center?
...that was me.
“I’m sorry,” I blinked in amazement as a three thousand dollar massage chair was wheeled into the room, “how did you even fit that in the elevator?”
No one answered me. Most of them didn’t speak the language, and the rest were far too focused on the task at hand. The most I got was a silencing pat on the head.
In the four minutes it had taken me to make a fresh pot of coffee, my living room had been transformed into a virtual spa. The original furniture had been either shoved aside or exiled unceremoniously to the bedroom, soon to be replaced with massage beds, hot wax machines, one of those old-fashioned hair domes, and a million other pieces of equipment I had never seen.
My clothes were yanked off and as I perched atop a wooden stool—draped in a terrycloth towel designed to relax—no less than thirty people buzzed in and out of my line of sight. Trimming. Buffing. Polishing. Preening to their heart’s content.
It was every girl’s dream. To be treated like a queen by a host of willing subjects. Fussed over and pampered by an Eastern European mob trained to do exactly that.
But at the same time...all the attention was a little much.
“Okay, seriously?” I pulled back my hand, as a woman I’d never seen before walked toward me with a little jar of something simply labeled youth. “Is that a joke? What do you even do with that?”
More importantly, where did she get it? They weren’t kidnapping forest maidens somewhere, right? Draining them dry to moisturize the skin of the Upper East Side?
“You cry into it, then we offer up your tears as a sacrifice to the gods,” Stacy answered matter-a-factly. “It’s basic science.”
It was a testament to how crazy things had become, that she was my rock. Twice, she had vetoed things deemed too extreme. (My vetoes apparently didn’t count. Even when it came down to something ominously referred to as a ‘vampire face lift.’) Twice, she had been met with a shrieking hailstorm of Russian.
Fortunately, Stacy was more than up to the task.
“Science. Right.” I bit down upon my lip as a strip of waxing cloth was ripped from my leg. My other leg was hiding instinctively behind the chair. “You know, I always thought that spa days were supposed to be relaxing. Women always talk about them like they’re a treat.”
“Women also paint their faces, pierce their ears, and pretend they enjoy walking around on miniature stilts all day,” Stacy replied, disassociating completely. “Women are crazy.”
An ironic condemnation, considering I was talking to one of the foremost stylists in the country. Even more ironic considering that she dated women exclusively, ignoring the other sex.
She caught my sarcastic look with a wry grin.
“Men are even crazier.”
I snorted under my breath, flashing back to a showdown over a lobster tank. A hang-gliding incident involving powerlines in Bolivia. An unfortunate run-in with a renegade swan.
“You’ve got that right.”
And speak of the devil...
My phone buzzed away in my pocket, and I hastened to dig through the designer threads draping me to respond. No less than six women scolded me in various languages as I did so, but in the end, I came up triumphant—giving each one of them a winning smirk before peering down at the screen. Sure enough, it was Nick.
You get my presents? Told you, I like to spoil.
I shook my head with a little grin and held the phone closer to my chest, shielding the conversation from anyone who might be looking in.
You call this spoiling? I’m covered head to toe in wax, a woman I don’t know is rubbing some sort of paste into my scalp, and I’m nursing a chemical burn from a woman named Helga.
There was a brief pause, followed by:
Please send photographic evidence at once.
I choked back a laugh, then had a miniature tug-of-war with a fierce-looking woman who was trying to claim my hand. In the end, I surrendered it—typing with my other.
Lol. Next time you want to spoil, try sending chocolates. Not the 23rd Battalion.
Another pause. I could picture him grinning down at the screen. Sipping his morning cup of coffee from out on the balcony as he gazed out over the entire city. Completely oblivious to the girlish hell that had settled over my little apartment.
You like chocolates?
I perked up with dread at the smell of fresh wax and quickly angled my body in the opposite direction, tucking my other leg up beneath me for safe keeping.
Everyone likes chocolates.
There was a miniature scuffle as someone grabbed my other leg—the one that had gone into hiding—and began mummy-taping it over with hot wax. I braced against the arm-rests of my chair, preparing for the worst. And just as the strip pulled away from my leg, a high-pitched yelp burst through my lips.
The price of beauty...
Thirty minutes passed when I received another text from Nick.
Get the door...
Knock. Knock.
I looked up with sudden curiosity just as Stacy answered the door. The doorman handed her a medium-sized box and she thanked him.
She glanced over at me. “Hey! You got a present! Truffles.”
“I did?”
“Aw, it came with a card and everything.” She flipped it open, oblivious to the laws of privacy, and started read
ing the message meant for me. “Wow—this is some pretty adorable stuff. It’s even written in Nick’s own hand.”
I twisted free of the women holding me, and held out my hand.
“Please give me that!”
She did so. Only after removing a chocolate for herself.
The card was on simple stationary stock. But yes, it looked like it had been written by Nick himself. I marveled at this silently—baffled by the perfectly timed delivery with his texts.
‘Truffles for the woman who never fails to take my breath away.
Hoping they’ll butter you up for a little surprise I have for this evening.
Also hoping you’ll wear a certain dress...’
- Nick
“What dress is he talking about?” Stacy asked, her mouth full of chocolate.
I opened up the box and peeked inside, completely unsurprised at this point, to see that it was a compilation of all my favorites. The corners of my lips curled up into a secret smile as I reached down to extract a piece of caramel—popping it into my mouth.
“I don’t know,” I answered evasively.
She nodded and returned to her coffee, while I chewed on the caramel with a secret grin.
Truth be told, I happened to know exactly what dress Nick was talking about. It happened to be sitting in a Dior bag underneath my bed. The same bag I hadn’t touched since the day the two of us went shopping.
Before I discovered Ella and ruined the whole thing.
Before he dumped Ella and replaced her with me.
“So when exactly did this whole thing with you and Nick happen?” Stacy asked, waving the others away, as she looped my dark hair around a curling iron. “I’m assuming it’s some last-ditch publicity effort to replace that model from Oklahoma.”
The smile faded from my face as I nodded quickly.
“Yeah it’s...it’s just a convenience, you know?” I closed the lid of the truffles quickly and settled back in my chair. “He still needs a steady ‘relationship’ for the next three months.”
Stacy chuckled under her breath, snapping her fingers for a sparkling water.
“Talk about dedication to your job. I hope you’re getting paid overtime for this.”