It couldn’t be. Not possible. The sounds of her friends dimmed behind the whoosh of blood in her ears as she reached with trembling fingers to pick up the card.
Charlie Winslow. The Charlie Winslow. It had to be a joke, a trick. He could have anyone. He’d already had practically everyone. Why would he be on offer in the basement at St. Mark’s Church?
“I thought you might recognize him.”
Bree tore her gaze from the card to look once more at Rebecca. Her friend’s smile was as smug as if she’d gotten past the velvet rope at The Pink Elephant, but Bree couldn’t hold out for long. She stared again at the trading card, double-checked. Still Charlie Winslow.
“How?”
“He’s my cousin,” Rebecca said.
“Your cousin,” Bree repeated.
“Yep. God knows he’s single.”
“He can have anyone.”
Rebecca chuckled. “Yeah, but if all you’re eating is lobster and champagne every night, it’s bound to get boring, don’t you think?”
Bree shook her head. “Not even a little bit. Although now I understand why you’re part of the lunch exchange. We’re the tuna fish to your normal caviar, am I right?”
Rebecca dismissed the deduction with a roll of her eyes. “Trust me. He’s bored. And he needs a date for Valentine’s night.”
Bree took a step back, just to keep her balance. “Me? I’m …” She blinked as she stared at the woman she’d thought she knew. They’d gone out for drinks more than a few times, and she and Rebecca had gotten along great. They’d laughed a lot. Rebecca was a couple of years older than Bree, smart as a whip, rich as Croesus, but grounded. Sweet, too. It was one of the mysteries of New York that a woman like her was wanting for dates, but Bree knew that was the truth of it.
“What do you say, Bree? Don’t know where he’ll take you, but it’s bound to be glamorous as all hell.”
“I’m from Ohio,” Bree said. “I make all my own clothes. Taking the subway is glamorous. He’ll get one look at me and fall over laughing.”
Rebecca’s hand landed on Bree’s shoulder. “Don’t do that. Come on. That’s not you. I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought you couldn’t hold your own. I’ve known him my whole life. He’s funny. He’s smart. You’ll like each other. And besides, neither one of you wants more than one night. So what have you got to lose?”
“He’s like, the King of Manhattan. What’ll I even say?”
“Call him the King of Manhattan. He’ll love you forever.”
“Don’t want forever. But maybe, if people see me with him, even once, they’ll remember.”
“There’ll be pictures,” Rebecca said, her focus going back to the pile of cards. “There are always pictures with Charlie.”
“What about you?” Bree asked. “See any possibilities in there?”
Rebecca lifted a card. The guy looked yummy, but when she flipped to the back, her expression fell. “One-night stand.” She tossed the card back.
“Maybe not,” Bree said. “Maybe he only thinks he wants a one-night stand.” She kept hold of Charlie’s card, knowing if anyone else wanted it, they’d have to pry it out of her cold, dead hand, but picked up the yummy guy’s card, as well. “He’s a musician. A violinist with the Philharmonic. That’s impressive. And he hasn’t met you.”
Rebecca smiled as she flicked her long tawny hair behind her shoulder. “Are you going to change your mind? Suddenly want marriage and kids from one date with Charlie?”
Bree laughed. “No. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen to someone else.”
“Don’t worry about me, Kingston. I’ll find someone. Let’s get you all squared away first. Valentine’s night. I’ll set it up. Let you know the deets ASAP.”
“Oh, God.” Bree looked at her outfit. Made on the Singer that shared her closet-cum-bedroom. Hunter-green skirt, lined, with a mod patterned silk blouse, transformed from a thrift store bonanza. Black tights, black heels, a ribbon in her short, short hair. The only thing that had cost any real money were the shoes, and they were secondhand. What if he wanted to go to Pegu Club or 24 Ninth Avenue? Everyone would see instantly that she was a no one from nowhere, wearing nothing that mattered.
“You’ve got more style in your pinkie than anyone in this room. Than anyone on Project Runway. Come on, Bree. This is what you came to New York to do. It’s your chance to grab the city by the short hairs. You can do it. I know you can.”
Bree straightened her back. “All right. Worst that could happen, I make a complete idiot of myself. I’ve done that plenty of times. Get Charlie Winslow on the phone. Tell him he’s about to meet someone new.”
Rebecca laughed. Then she leaned forward just a bit. “You should probably take a breath now, Bree. In fact, maybe we should find a chair. Come on, hon. There’s a paper bag right on the counter. That’s a girl.”
edit profile
Charlie Winslow
Editor in Chief/CEO Naked New York Media Group
Studied Business/Marketing at Harvard University
Lives in Manhattan
BREE BLINKED UP AT THE forty-three-story tower at 15 Central Park West, the newest of the luxury, legendary co-op buildings that lined the street across from the park. Just several blocks up were The Dakota, The Majestic and The San Remo. This was quite like being in the center of a very realistic dream. Except that it was freezing. She’d splurged on a taxi even though she’d spent every spare cent on her outfit, using every moment of the trip to talk herself out of a panic attack. The affirmations hadn’t been very effective evidently, because even though her date with Charlie Winslow was about to start, she couldn’t make her legs move.
She still couldn’t believe it. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn it was all an elaborate practical joke. Why on earth would Charlie Winslow want to go out with her? Of course, she’d asked Rebecca that very question approximately a million times. Bree had gotten a variety of answers, all boiling down to the fact that Rebecca thought the two of them would have a good time. A good time.
Bree couldn’t move. Except for her now chattering teeth. The forties era shawl she’d found in Park Slope may have been the perfect accessory, but it did nothing to protect her from the cold. She might as well have worn her gargantuan puffy coat, considering the fact that she was rooted to the corner of Central Park West and West 72nd Street.
For God’s sake, the most amazing Cinderella night of her life was only moments and a few feet away. She had pictures of this very corner in her New York dream book, the one she’d been compiling for eight years. The only reason Charlie Winslow’s photograph hadn’t been clipped and pasted was that even her outlandish imagination hadn’t been that optimistic.
She had to remember not to call him Charlie Winslow, as if he was a movie star or an historical figure. Bree had practiced. She’d said his first name a hundred times, sometimes laughing, sometimes looking shyly away, coy, sassy, demure, outraged. She was very good at saying Charlie, but she couldn’t quite help the Winslow part. She’d read so many articles by him and about him, and none of them referred to him as Charlie, or even Mr. Winslow.
She