Choose Me. Jo Leigh
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Название: Choose Me
Автор: Jo Leigh
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9781408969007
isbn:
She nodded. “Go. Work. Do your magic. I was always excited to read your Fashion Week blogs. You made me feel as if I was there.”
“Really?”
“Well, now that I’m here, not exactly, but more than enough. Don’t tell, but I like your reports better than the ones in W.”
He grinned. “Now you’re just being nice.”
“Nope.” She crossed her heart. “Mean every word.”
“Come on, then. Let’s go meet some famous people.”
Bree was tempted to pull him in for one more kiss, to make sure it had been real, but didn’t dare. Although it was hard not to imagine what it would feel like to walk across the lobby of his building, to go up in that elevator. Before her foolish notions got too carried away, she was reminded, quite spectacularly, of what she was doing now. A boatload of iconic symbols had come to life.
She felt like a Lilliputian in a world of Gullivers with Charlie as her guide. He led her through paths between tables, ice sculptures dripping and corks popping, and always, always the intrusion of cameras. Around the perimeter of the party, the different celebrity gossip shows had staked their territories, and their camera lighting bounced off the white of the tent making the entire arena glow.
They would walk two, maybe three steps, then stop as another celebrity, each one a surprise, approached Charlie. Interestingly, none of the familiar faces looked quite right. They were either better or shorter or skinnier or blonder than they looked in People or on TV.
Bree was good with makeup. Really. She’d made a point of learning the correct techniques at a beauty school near her college, but there was an element of magic to the faces that passed by. And the clothes …
She’d browsed through some of the high-end boutiques in Manhattan. D&G, of course, but a few couture houses, as well, showcasing their elegantly crafted suits and dresses, not daring to touch because each button or zip was worth more than everything she owned or would own for years to come. Now she saw those creations in motion, and it was poetry. No way to call it anything other than art. Each designer’s style was as individual as a Picasso or a Rembrandt. She felt humbled. And grabby.
Instead of touching the fifty-thousand dollar gown, she snagged some hors d’oeuvres. Prawns and sushi and filet mignon, each with a little napkin and dabs of aioli. If she hadn’t been an adult person standing next to famous people she wouldn’t have stopped shoving them into her mouth because they were fantastic
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