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Erect nipples
are so 2002. Who knew that London in June was more like December in Santa
Monica?
“Kate!”
Garret, my publicist, calls up ahead as stylish partygoers strut the sidewalk
like a runway toward the entrance. Despite the eleven-hour flight, his skin
appears flawless. But as I get closer, it’s clear that he’s been freshly
airbrushed. He looks down at his phone, his eyes hypnotized by the tiny screen.
“Nice nipples.”
“Is
it that obvious?” I adjust my siren-red strapless dress once again.
“Let’s
just say I saw them before I saw you.”
I quickly shield my chest with my
silver-studded clutch, almost envying his seriously loud, but much warmer,
black-and-gold silk shirt buttoned up to his collar.
“But
don’t worry,” he continues, tucking the distracting device in his pants pocket,
“I’m sure some straight man here will love your accessories.”
I
let out a small laugh. “I’m here for business, not pleasure.”
“Honey,
you design lingerie. You’re in the business of pleasure.” That may be true. But
I can’t remember the last time I experienced real pleasure.
Garret
ushers me in front of him, and I lead the way inside the gates. “Oh, wait.” He
steps off to the side, pulling me with him. “Your zipper’s falling.”
“It
is?” I crane my neck. “Crap. I couldn’t get the damn clasp to close.” When I
laid eyes on this one-of-a-kind designer piece two weeks ago, I absolutely had
to have it. And why let a silly thing like perfect fit stand in my way?
“I
got it.” He pulls the fabric tighter, then zips me in. “There. We don’t need
the Little Katies making an appearance at the party. Then again, it could be
good publicity for Kate Golden Lingerie.” He winks.
“I don’t think so,” I mutter through grit
teeth. “It’s bad enough you’ve got me posing in my panties for Lux Magazine,
now you want me showing off my goodies too?” Then again, the way sales have
been going, maybe I should take him up on his offer.
He
gives an innocent shrug. “It was just an idea. And speaking of Lux Magazine, what are the chances we’ll encounter The Nina Savoy?”
The
famous editor-in-chief with her platinum, perfectly angled, bobbed hair is
usually a no-show among the glitterati crowd. “Slim. I heard she never comes
out at her parties. It’s very Jay Gatsby.”
Garret’s
gray-blue eyes widen. “Really? How have I never heard this?” He taps his finger
on his chin. “What do you think she does while the rest of us drink all her
booze?”
I
purse my lips that match my dress to a tee. “I don’t know. Probably hangs out
in her chandelier-lit, temperature-controlled, three-hundred square foot closet
deciding which of us designers live and which of us die.” Yes, that woman has
the power to make or break a career.
We
turn the corner, finding ourselves on a picturesque stone terrace overlooking a
magnificent courtyard, skirted by a palace-like double-grand staircase. Waiters
in black ties balance champagne flutes on trays. Also very Jay Gatsby. I do a
quick once-over of the crowd milling around. By the looks of it, all of Lux’s
style-section models and designers are here, chitchatting throughout the
grounds and down into the courtyard with their pinkies raised high.
“This place is killer, right?” Garret asks as
we proceed inside through the French doors.
“Gorgeous.”
The property is stunning, but I’m more interested in the killer couture. That
is until I spot a familiar abstract drip painting. “Do you think that’s a real
Jackson Pollock?” I ask, pointing in its direction.
Garret squints. “Looks real to me. What do you
think it’s worth?”
I
shoot him a cynical glance. “Enough to save my boutique.”
He
frowns, knitting his perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Is the investor still coming
to the runway show?”
“Potential
investor,” I correct. “Yes, and if all goes well, I’ll close the deal before I
fly back home. If not, bye-bye boutique.”
“Don’t
worry, Kate. As soon as he sees those models in your lacy thongs, he’ll be
begging to invest.”
“I hope you’re right.” I sigh. Just the
thought of having to close my London store stitches a knot in my stomach.
The
temperature seems to rise as we walk through the crowd of voguish rock stars.
London fashionites are a bit different than their Los Angeles counterparts.
More fabulous hats in the U.K.
A
waiter carrying a few filled champagne flutes comes our way. I do my best to
make eye contact and get his attention, but he either doesn’t see me or
completely ignores me. The alcohol is within arm’s reach and I manage to grab a
drink as he passes by.
Snap!
The
sound of ripped seams is closer than desired. “Oh, my God.” My body stiffens,
and I press my arms firmly against my sides, waiting for my dress to unravel
and fall on the floor.
“What happened?” Garret asks.
I
shift my eyes, nodding behind me. “I think the clasp just broke.”
Garret
peeks around, returning with a cringe. “Yes, it did.”
My
jaw clenches. “Shit.” With my luck, this too-tight dress at this too-snooty
fashion party is turning into a serious liability.
“It’s
fine, the zipper is fully intact.” He waves a dismissive hand. “No one will
even notice.”
I
drop my shoulders along with my eager smile. “Ugh. I should probably go.”
“What?
Why? We just got here.” Garret whines.
“I’m
jet-lagged, my dress is literally falling apart, and I’m just not in a party
mood.” I lift my glass. “Cheers,” I say in a tone as bleak as the London sky,
then down the whole drink.
He
pops his hip, resting his fist on it. “Are you serious? How many times in your
life will you get to attend a party at Nina Savoy’s house? At least stay for
another drink.” The guy makes a good point. It’s a rare event, even in my
crazy, Hollywood-centric world.
“Fine.
One more drink. And you’re on zipper watch until I leave here.” I jab my finger
into his chest, and it nearly slips against the silky fabric.
He
reaches for his phone. “Ooh, can I tweet that? Hashtag zipper watch.”
I
narrow my eyes. “Very funny. Grab me a cosmopolitan and I’ll think about
letting you tweet my potential wardrobe
malfunction.”
“You
got a deal, Ms.-Golden-if-you’re-nasty.” He swivels his neck, then glances
around the room.
“The
bar’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction.
Garret
tilts his head. “I wasn’t looking for the bar.”
“You
scopin’ out eligible bachelors?” I give him a devilish smirk. Being a
wing-woman is much easier than picking up men myself. Maybe it’s because I’m
intrigued by so few. For me, it’s all about the guy’s shoes. I’m sick of suede
hipster boots, sequined high-tops, and designer dress shoes. I want something
unexpected. But not eccentric.
He
turns his attention back to the crowd. “I am,” he sings, “and you should too.
We’re on vacation.”
“This
is not a vacation. It’s work. I cannot
get distracted. Plus, I’ve been too nervous to date ever since I went out with
that guy who turned out to have a lingerie fetish.”
“Lingerie
fetish . . . ? Like he was into you
wearing lingerie, or he was into wearing your
lingerie?”
I
shift my stare, wishing I didn’t have to say, “Yeah, that one.”
“Yikes,”
he says. “I’ll get you a drink. Stay here.”
Garret
waltzes toward the bar while I survey the black and white backdrop of the room.
The crowd and the Pollock are the only decorative pops of color, and the
contrast is fabulous. It’s too bad Nina Savoy skipped out on the party. I want
to thank her for the invitation and the upcoming spotlight spread for my lingerie
line in the magazine. Not to mention, I was hoping to talk her out of making me
do the photo shoot myself. When we spoke on the phone last month, she had insisted that I model the lingerie. And
when Nina Savoy asks for something, she gets it. The thought of being half
naked in a room full of judgy editorial staff makes me want to barf up my
airplane peanuts. I constantly have to remind myself that it’s Lux Magazine.
They’ll make me look ten years younger and ten pounds lighter. Besides, I’m
desperate to keep my brand alive.
Garret
returns carrying a pair of classic martinis and hands me one.
“What?
No cranberry juice?” I ask, frowning at the glass.
“Sorry,
Carrie Bradshaw. They’re only serving clear liquid.”
“Seriously?”
I glance around the room, peering right through every stemmed and short glass.
“We
wouldn’t want to stain the white sofa or the white rug or the white arm chair
or anything else, now would we?” He leans his head side to side, mocking the
rule. Garret’s not much for rules, but I am. I totally get why she would want
to protect her upholstered, white antique bench from an appalling red-wine
stain. I shrug and sip my dirty martini. It may not be a cosmo but it’s a damn
good cocktail. I let out a long exhale, feeling my body relax and loosen.
Drinking on an empty stomach will do that.
Garret
and I stand quietly watching waify models strut in backless dresses and men
swagger in tightly tailored suits. One guy even sports a glistening diamond
tarantula brooch on his lapel. And then I spy something less couture but just
as appealing. Or should I say someone . . .
The
guy looks less like he stepped off the catwalk and more like he walked off the
set of Rebel Without A Cause, the
twenty-first century remake. Definitely has that James Dean, bad-boy thing
going, with dark hair that curls around the back of his ears and just a hint of
a beard. He leans against the bar, sipping from a short glass of some clear
liquor. And just when my nipples had settled, his brown eyes glance my way and
they’re hard again. I want to turn my head, pretend that I’m not totally eye
fondling him from afar. But it’s as if he’s caught me in a trance. I’m
breathless and can’t escape until he lets me go.
The
mystery man lifts his glass, sending me a nod. I return the gesture. His mouth
draws up in a suggestive smirk, while those rich-colored eyes penetrate more
deeply into me. And for a moment, I imagine what it might feel like if he . . .
Garret
gasps, pointing across the room. “Oh, my God, is that Miranda Kerr?”
I snap out of it and force myself to follow
Garrett’s gaze. I lift up on my toes, peering through the crowd. With my heels,
I’m barely five seven. Then I spot the woman he’s eye-stalking. “No, that’s not
her.”
“Damn!”
He snaps his fingers.
I
turn back toward the bar, but my modern James Dean has disappeared. Where did
he go? He isn’t like anyone else in the room. Or, I’m so tired that I made him
up.
Then,
a strong hand slips right above my hip as my dress tightens around my bust.
Zip!
“Is
that better?” A deep British voice vibrates next to my ear.
I
whip around with a gasp, my martini swishing from my glass, over the rim, and
spilling down onto the stranger’s black jeans. Oh. My. God.
“I’m
so sorry!” I say, dropping to my knees and pulling a silk handkerchief from my
clutch. He’s soaked from his zipper to his muscular thigh. Awkwardly, I dab my
hankie against his pants.
“It’s
all right,” the guy says.
“No,
I’m so embarrassed.” I shake my head, keeping up the cleaning routine until I
realize that I am
blotting more than just his wet jeans with my hankie.
And right smack in front of the London glitterati too. A prickling heat crawls
up my cheeks, probably turning fifty shades pinker as his dark denim bulges
more, growing stiff. If I keep it up any longer, he’ll bust out of his zipper
too. I freeze for a moment, then ball up the damp silk in my hand and jump to
my feet, meeting eyes with my leather-jacket-wearing James Dean wannabe. I
can’t think of a more embarrassing way to meet the hottest guy I’ve seen in . .
. well, ages. Will he think I’m crazy if I run out of the room screaming and
flailing my arms in the air?
“I
am so sorry,” I say.
He
brushes his pants with a stiff hand. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t have startled you
like that, but your dress looked like it was about to hit the floor.”
I
gaze at his curled upper lip. Five minutes with his sexy mouth and my dress will
absolutely hit the floor.
Garret
nudges my back. “Kate, introduce yourself,” he says out of the side of his
mouth.
I
tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m Kate.” I balance my hand in the
tantalizing air between us. When his skin touches mine, a surge of electricity
circuits up my arm, across my chest, and down below my waist.
“I’m
Drew.” He lifts my hand to his lips. His breath excites my skin just before he
kisses my hand. And it’s not one of those polite English gentleman kisses. It’s
sensual. Erotic. His mouth parts slightly, leaving behind an invisible
mark.
“Pleasure
to meet you,” I say. “And sorry again for the spill.”
Drew
grins. “The pleasure’s all mine. And don’t worry about getting me all wet.
Maybe one day I can return the favor.”
Garret
covers his mouth, choking on his martini. A little liquor dribbling down his
chin. I almost forgot he’s still here.
“This
is my friend, Garret,” I say with a tight-lipped smile.
“Hi.”
Garret flutters his fingers in a wave, then grabs on to my arm. “Kate, can I
speak with you for a moment?”
I
keep up my phony grin. “What is it, Garret?”
“It’ll
just take a sec!” My friend shows off his freshly whitened teeth. “Would you
excuse us for a second?”
Drew
nods. “Sure.”
Garret
tugs me along with him and I trot close behind in my stilettoes. When we’re out
of Drew’s earshot, he turns to me with a wide-eyed glare. “Look, I know you said
that this isn’t a vacation, but there’s no way that guy has a weird lingerie
fetish. He is bad-boy gorgeous, and if you don’t take him home, I’m going to
try.” He holds my hands in his, pleading with me.
“He’s
hot but I’m not taking him home with
me,” I say in a hushed tone, even though my body wants him in my bed. I have a
rule about one-night stands. I don’t do them because I think they’re tacky, not
sexy. Besides, how good can sex be with someone you don’t know?
“Kate,
honey, I love that you’re such a good girl but these last few months you’ve
been stiffer than the hard-on you just gave him. You have got to loosen up. Look,” Garret nods toward Drew. “He’s still
staring at you.”
I
glance over my shoulder. Drew is patiently waiting in the same spot I had left
him. There are at least five glossy cover models surrounding us but Drew stares
at me like I’m the sexiest woman in the room, or rather the only woman in the
room. And I like it. “He is gorgeous,” I say, giving in a little more.
“Exactly.
Go over there, graze Little Katies on his arm, and if he asks you to go
somewhere private, at least consider it. You don’t want to die with any
regrets,” he says.
I
shoot him a caustic look. “I’m starting to regret this conversation.”
Garret
laughs. “Ha! No, you’re not. Now get your sexy little tush over there so we
have something to gush about later.”
I
tilt my chin forward as I turn away. “Fine.” Garret gives me a light swat on my
booty, sending me back over to Drew.
The
truth is I want to do exactly what Garret’s suggesting but not because I need
to loosen up. Because being close to Drew makes me feel like I’m already lying
naked in the sheets, every inch of me wants every inch of him. My body’s never
reacted to a stranger like this before. It’s like not knowing how thirsty you are
until someone offers you a drink.
I
may consider myself somewhat confident in business but I’ve never been bold in
the bedroom. Maybe it’s his leather jacket or his five o’clock shadow, but
something about Drew makes me want to toss the rulebook over the Tower Bridge.
I
smile, batting my eyelashes as I approach him. “Sorry about that.”
Drew
holds a steady gaze. “No problem.”
Another
champagne waiter passes by, this time noticing me. I grab one, swapping it out
for my now-empty martini, and suck down half the flute in seconds. If I’m going
to consider what Garret said, I’ll need some liquid courage.
“Wow, you must be thirsty.” His eyes bulge.
“Yeah,”
I say, catching my breath. “I didn’t realize how parched I was until I saw
you—I mean saw this . . . glass of champagne.” I hold up the flute, pretending
to be mesmerized by the bubbles floating near the surface when I really want to
face palm myself for that stupid slipup.
He
lets out a small laugh and sips his drink, keeping those mysterious eyes intently
fixed on me—like he’s undressing me in his mind, in every way a person can be stripped.
Like he can see right through me. A shiver runs up my spine and I quickly down
the rest of the champagne.
“You
from the States then?” Drew asks in a low tone.
I
nod. “Yeah, I just flew in from L.A.”
“You’re
a long way from home.” He smirks.
Being
five thousand miles from home is one thing, but being close to him pushes me
way out of my usual element. I glance down at his shoes—roughed-up designer
combat boots. That’s unexpected. I like it. “Yeah. What about you?”
“I’m
what you’d call a Londoner.”
My
brows knit together. “I’m sorry, did you say Londonaire?”
His
smile reaches his eyes as he laughs. “No, London-ER,” he pronounces with a hard
American accent.
I
giggle. “Ah, Londoner. Got it. Thought you were American when you said it. You
an actor?”
He
shakes his head with a twisted expression. “No, not at all.”
“Model?”
I ask.
“Nope.
Why, are you a model? A Hollywood actress?” he jokes.
I
raise my brows, shifting my jaw. “Definitely not.” And I can’t remember the
last time someone asked me that. Probably because my business is my husband and
we like to stay in and work on evenings and weekends.
Drew
leans in, his lips nearly touching the edges of my earlobes. “So, what are you
then?” he whispers.
My
empty glass trembles in my hand as I inhale his spicy, intoxicating cologne. Can
he hear the sound of my racing heart like I can? “I’m a . . . I’m just Kate.”
Just
Kate? What the hell does that even mean? I usually can’t wait to gush about my
company and designs. But Drew pops into my life and my usual small talk goes
out the window.
He
pulls back with a slight sparkle reflecting in his leather-brown eyes. “I like
that answer. Why define ourselves by our jobs or last names when we can just be
Kate and Drew?”
Kate
and Drew? I don’t hate it. I also don’t hate how he can strip me down with one
look. Though I can imagine him with his boxer briefs around his ankles, I don’t
know if I have him pegged.
He
gestures toward the stairs with a nod and a confident stance. “You wanna get
away from this lot?”
I
glance around the room for Garret, chewing my bottom lip. “Sure. What did you
have in mind?”
He
raises his brows as if surprised. “I know a place upstairs. No one will bother
us.”
“Upstairs?
Here?” I ask, wondering if this guy is the good kind of trouble or the bad
kind. I’m really not looking to be bad in Nina Savoy’s house.
“Oh,
yeah. I know a place. It’s totally fine.”
Who
is this guy? “Um, okay. I guess we can check it out.”
Drew
shoots me a wry look. “Really?”
“Yeah
. . .” I say. It’s as if he doesn’t believe I’ll actually go upstairs with him.
“Okay.”
He smirks and gulps down what’s left of his cocktail. “That’s a nice surprise.”
“What
does that mean?” I tilt my head. It’s not as weird as a lingerie fetish but
it’s an odd thing to say.
“Because
girls like you don’t really go for guys like me,” he says, and I can’t imagine
any woman in her right mind not wanting to go upstairs with him.
“Girls
like me? You don’t know anything about me.”
“Maybe
not, but I bet you’ve never fooled around with a guy you met an hour earlier.”
I
swallow hard. What is he? Psychic? “Why does that matter?”
“It doesn’t. Not to me.”
“Well,
it doesn’t matter to me either.” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, it does
matter. But I can’t figure out if that’s because of him or because of me.
“Okay,
then.” He extends his hand. “Come with me, Kate.” He says my name as if he’s swirling
the syllables in his mouth like a good sip of wine. Then he takes my hand,
tucking it safely in his like a delicate piece of lace. My hesitation seems to
melt with every step we take up the steep staircase. And now I’m sure that my
dress is coming off. Tonight. At Nina Savoy’s house. With a guy I just met.
The
long, well-lit hallway is vacant and all the doors closed. We turn the corner
with only one final, closed door at the end. “This is it,” he says, wrapping
his fingers around the silver doorknob. “Are you ready?”
The
answer must be no because the next
thing out of my mouth is, “Is there a bathroom I can use first?” Because
bathrooms are super sexy . . .
He
cocks his head looking like he wants to laugh at me, then points down the hall.
“Around the corner. The second door on the left.”
“Thanks.
I’ll be right back.”
“If
you say so,” he says, pushing open the door. A dim light radiates from the room
and he disappears inside, shutting the door behind him.
If I say so?
Is that some kind of reverse psychology? Well, it worked because now I’m definitely
coming back.
I
hurry around the corner, adjusting my dress but thinking it’s a futile pursuit.
Nina Savoy’s hall bathroom is easily bigger than my master bathroom with its
sunken tub surrounded by black-and-white-swirled marble and matching sink, beautiful
recessed lighting, and a huge diamond-patterned beveled window. I check out my
dress in the full-wall mirror behind the tub, then my clutch vibrates on the
marble vanity top. A familiar tune sounds from inside. I pull out my phone. It’s
Beau, my best friend since first grade. I ignore her call, but then my phone
alerts me to her four missed calls from the last twenty minutes.
“Shit,”
I mutter, swiping the screen.
“Thank
God, Kate.” Beau’s voice is thick and cracks around my name.
My
heart plunks into my stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Martino,” Beau sobs. “He posted a photo with
some girl on Instagram. And it was not
his sister. I texted him—Nice photo. Are we seeing other people now?—and he
texted back saying he’s been so lonely since I left Italy, that someone had to
keep him warm. What the hell kind of response is that? I thought we were in
love. I was gonna fly back in like ten days.”
Beau
has a fetish for unavailable foreign men. She claims that each one of them is
the love of her life. I’ve heard “He’s The One” at least sixteen times in the
past seven years. But despite the string of heartbreaks it’s caused her, she
never seems to grow tired of putting herself out there over and over and over again.
I want to tell her to grow up, get it together. But she’s my oldest and dearest
friend. Not to mention the most loyal. She’s always on my side and so I choose
to always be on hers.
“Oh,
honey, I’m sorry. You know how those European guys are. They’re players.” And
I’m literally about to fool around with my own European player. “Remember Franco,
and Milos, and Isak?” How do I remember their names? “You should protect your
heart. Save it for someone who’s really worthy.” While I give this sage advice,
I can’t help but think that no one is really worth a broken heart.
“But
I thought he was worthy. I thought he
was the love of my life.” She lets out a long, dreamy sigh. “The way he made
love to me that night in Manarola, I knew he was my sex soul mate.” A handful
of men she’s been with have won the title of sex soul mate. I don’t believe in
soul mates but I do believe in chemistry. And I need to go back to that room
with Drew and find out how explosive our chemistry really is.
I
sigh, slouching my shoulders and leaning my hip against the bathroom sink. “I
know you did. I’m so sorry, Beau. If I could make this better by bringing you
animal-style fries from In-N-Out I would, but I can’t. And I really have to go.
I’m at this party—”
“Kate,
I really need you right now. I feel so lost.”
I
take a deep breath and glance at my sad expression in the mirror. “Okay, I’m
here.” I slip out of the bathroom with the phone glued to my ear, consoling
Beau as I trek down the stairs, making my way outside. Chemistry with some guy
isn’t nearly as important as Beau’s broken heart. And if it is, I guess I’ll
never know now, which is probably for the best.
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