You Before Anyone Else (14 page)

He nods, and Braden barges in on my other side. “Shake with your right hand.”

I lift an eyebrow. “That's good advice.”

“I can't go.” Finley shakes her head. “Besides, I don't have anything acceptable to wear.”

“Ask Summer. She's got a closet full of high-end stuff.” I look at the kids. “Right, guys?”

Braden waves a hand in front his nose. “Her room is stinky.”

Finley's eyes widen. “Please tell me you didn't mess around in Summer's room.”

“Too much perfume,” I tell her. We were only in there long enough for me to shut the door. “So we're going then.”

“This is completely pointless.” She drops her face into her hands and groans. “You're forgetting that Alexander Wang and all his competitors have already labeled me too sweet, spends too much time with grandma's knitting needles.”

I slide the ice cream in front of her and lean forward, lowering my voice. “It's not pointless. People's memories are short. And don't forget about the handbag. And as far as not being edgy enough, you'll be with me. I'm all edges. Like five of them. Before the end of the night, everyone will be calling you wild rebel Finley.”

She suppresses a laugh. “I can't believe anyone thinks you're cool.”

My thoughts exactly.

And wait…does this mean our bet is off?

Finley

This morning, I was at a swim meet, swatting flies and piling greasy sunblock onto my face. Now, I'm at this way too fancy party, way too nervous to talk to anyone, and wearing a way too tight dress. (Summer is a whole size smaller than me.) Eddie, on the other hand, is completely unaffected. He also looks much more comfortable wearing a close-fitting black blazer with slim, pinstriped slacks. A waiter passes us with a tray of champagne glasses. Eddie snatches one and then looks at me. I shake my head. “This has to be the fanciest place to throw a party in the entire city.”

He eyes the glass, apparently decides he doesn't want it, and sets it down on a nearby table. “The Guggenheim has a really nice event room.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Mr. NYC Party Expert. You should start a blog.”

Two actors from
CSI: NY
breeze past us, a small crew trailing behind them. I squeeze Eddie's arm and whisper, “Oh my God, that's—”

“The cop with the dead father and the scientist guy who only goes out at night,” Eddie finishes. “We should go say hi.”

I grip his arm tighter, holding him in place. I shake my head. Eddie shrugs and stops a waiter with a tray of some kind of shrimp. He asks the guy all about the food and then offers me one. I shake my head again.

“Do you want anything else to drink?” Eddie asks me after the waiter has left us.

His behavior has been suspiciously date-like tonight. I almost call him out on it, but I'm too tongue-tied.

“I think we stayed long enough, don't you?”

“Seriously?” Eddie looks me over and then laughs. “All the work it took to get here, and you want to leave after fifteen minutes? I don't even think the host is here yet.”

“Alexander Wang?” I glance around the big, beautiful, intimidating room. “Not like I was planning on talking to him.”

Eddie couldn't care less how long we stay. He's trying for my benefit. This was a bad idea from the start. Networking won't change the fact that I'm not anywhere near cool enough for these people and their jobs. Eddie nudges me in the shoulder and nods toward a girl clear on the other side of the room. Summer. “So she did score an invite?”

“Her mom,” I explain, gesturing to the very put-together woman beside her. “She never would have loaned me this dress if I got to go and she didn't.”

Summer surprises me by giving me a tiny wave. I figured she'd avoid any contact with me, considering how low on the model chain I am. She's super uptight when it comes to any networking-type events. Like she even needs to network. Everyone knows her already. A guy I recognize from a big billboard in Brooklyn walks past us; his name's Sean or Steven. He's currently linking arms with a woman who is high up in the Gucci world. The guy waves to Eddie, but he just stares at him in return, his body tense. Finally, he gives a small nod.

“What?” I ask.

Eddie watches the guy's retreating form and then looks back at me. “I had to check that dude for a pulse the other day. He'd been passed out on my floor for a good twelve hours.”

Jesus. I don't envy his living situation one bit. “Okay, now I'm definitely ready to go.”

“Follow me,” Eddie says, taking my hand and steering us through the party people.

I'm expecting him to move toward the exit, but instead, we end up on the outside of the room. It's lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, showing off an amazing panoramic view of lower Manhattan and the Hudson. Eddie turns me by the shoulders until I'm facing the windows. I lean against a small counter made to hold drinks and look outward at the river.

“Not bad, huh?” Eddie says.

His hands land on my shoulders. He slides his fingertips down my arms and then steps closer to me until his front brushes my back.

I try to resist relaxing into him—touching has been minimal for us since our almost-kiss last night—but fail miserably. I lean my head back against his shoulder and close my eyes for a second. “I could be watching you cannonball into the pool naked right now.”

“True.”

Warm lips graze my shoulder and then drift to the crook of my neck. I close my eyes again and sigh. We are definitely entering date territory. “How are you so calm right now? Is it all your upscale party experience?”

“You're right. I've done stuff like this a lot. Too much. Though never with cool celebrities. Usually people well known only to avid readers of the
Wall Street Journal
and
Forbes
. With those parties, the goal was not to have any personality.”

“And here?” I ask.

“Here, the goal is to have fun and maybe even be the most fun person. I have trouble with that now. Having fun.” He slides his hands down my arms again and laces our fingers together. “But I think I'm getting somewhere right now.”

“Where?” I laugh. “First base?”

He moves my hair off to one side, allowing him to touch his mouth to more of my bare skin. “Second base if I'm lucky.”

“In this dress? Not a chance you'll manage getting a fingertip underneath it.”

In response to that, Eddie slips a finger under the shoulder strap and slides it over a couple inches. His lips head right for the newly exposed skin. Heat builds all over me, and I'm suddenly appreciative of my short, lightweight dress compared to Eddie's long sleeves.

I close my eyes again, and the sights and sounds of the party vanish. “What if I like this too much to wait for the next time it accidentally happens?”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“You mean the party?” Eddie asks. “I knew you'd warm up to it.”

“Not the party.” I slide my hand into his famously unruly hair and gaze out at the lit-up sky. “I mean you. Being in my personal space.”

“I love your personal space,” Eddie says.

The room pops into view again. “Maybe you're not doing enough to turn me off. I mean, do you have to be so nice and able to tell my brothers apart?”

The more I work to not compare Eddie to Jason, the more I do just that. It's not really fair to give Eddie points just because he's good with my little brothers. But it's not like I can help what makes me into him.

And I am. Into him.

“I didn't mean to,” Eddie says. “I even told myself last night, ‘don't look them directly in the eyes, or you might risk learning their names.'”

I laugh again. The butterflies are flapping in my stomach—I can't seem to make them go away when Eddie is around. “Maybe we're having a summer fling. That's a thing, right?”

“Sure.” Eddie plants several more kisses on my neck and shoulder, and soon, I'm dizzy from them. “Is that your way of saying that I don't have to ‘accidentally' run into you? I can ask you out?”

Is this what I want? It doesn't even matter anymore, because I'm not capable of walking away.

“That's my way of saying that I know you're temporary, making secret plans to be far away from here in the near future, and that I'm setting myself up for…well, for
that
.” I exhale and close my eyes again. “And yes, you can ask me out. And yes, I'll say yes.”

Eddie is silent behind me. Eventually, he tightens his arms around me and then presses a kiss to my temple. “I'm not going anywhere right now, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree.

“Eddie!” a guy calls from several feet away. “You made it!”

I look over my shoulder and see Toby Rhinehart—Hollywood's hottest actor, the face of Alexander Wang's new fragrance, the star of many movie nights with Elana—walking this way.

Eddie

Finley turns to stone in my arms before I even fist-bump Toby. She does offer him a genuine smile when I introduce her. I don't know why she's so intimidated by this party. She's by far the hottest girl here. But whatever. As long as I can get her to be real with me.

“This is quite a party they threw you,” I say to Toby after introductions are done. “Nice outfit, man.”

He's wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, not exactly party clothes, but they're designed by Wang. I only know this because I wore the same outfit in the catalog shoot. Toby spreads his arms wide and looks down at his clothes. “I know, right? Model off duty is what made Wang who he is. Why fight it?”

As if on cue, two of Wang's female models walk by us, hair gelled back, wearing dresses that have collars made of something stiff and covered in jewels.

Toby whistles under his breath and tugs at his own shirt collar. “Yikes. Hate to be them.” He glances at Finley. “So how do you know Eddie?”

I'm about to open my mouth and answer for her—the standard “we met at a party or a photo shoot” response she fed dozens of people at her brothers' party—but Finley gives me this sideways glance that is all mischievous.

“We hooked up at a party,” Fin says. “I decided I wanted to be a bit more rebellious—trying to get rid of the too-sweet typecast. But Eddie forgot to leave the next morning, and then he showed up at my shoot for Marc Jacobs—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “To be clear, I was
in
the Marc Jacobs shoot.”

Finley tilts her head and looks at me. “Were you?”

Toby laughs and lifts his hands. “No judgment, man. Stalking can be hot. With permission, of course. My wife loves it when I pretend to follow her around town.”

He's married? I forget that famous actors can do that. Get married. I glance around for someone who looks like she could be his wife. “Is she with you?”

“She's over at the bar pretending some strange dude is watching her right now,” Toby says, and when both Fin and I turn our heads to look at the bar, he laughs. “Kidding. She's at home with the kids. Sleeping, I'm sure. It's late as hell. Think they serve coffee here?”

He's got a wife
and
kids? I'm about to ask him this when both Toby and I notice Finley trying to gesture about something.

“What—” Toby starts to say and then looks over his shoulder. A small crowd has formed behind him, all people waiting for something from the guy. “Shit, I forgot to be on,” he mutters, then plasters on a big grin and raises his voice. “Well, it was great networking with you two. I hope we can do business in the future. Lots of business-type things. Yada, yada, et cetera, et cetera.”

He lowers his voice and says to Finley, “Consider it a positive that you haven't been asked to lay across a public bathroom sink, wearing designer clothes, and looking like a drug addict in withdrawal.” He offers me another fist bump, while I'm still scratching my head over the bathroom sink reference. “Talk to you later, man. I'll text you about watching the game next week.”

Toby walks away from us and immediately drapes an arm around two guys hovering nearby who are probably some of his “people.” “Sorry about that. Work. It just never ends. But you should hear some of the stuff those two are doing. I'm thinking about endorsing their book. Writing a foreword for it. Compelling shit.”

We wait for that whole crew to be out of sight, and then both of us start laughing. Finley rests her forehead against my shoulder. “Sorry. About the stalking thing. I was just trying to be cool.”

“You are cool.” I rub the back of her neck, since casual touching seems to be a thing for us tonight. Not that I'm complaining. “And he's got kids? How old is he?”

“Twenty-nine,” Finley says right away, surprising me. “According to iMDB. And he's got four kids. Two are twins. Assuming the Internet doesn't lie.”

“Jesus,” I say. “He could establish an unclaimed country with that kind of fame and reproductive capabilities.”

Finley laughs. “Okay, let's go meet some more people. I've already tackled the biggest man at the party.”

“That's the attitude to have.” I glance around the room. “Too bad we already met the only people I know here.”

Finley looks up and steps out of my arms just as Summer is brushing past us. “There's someone who knows all the big names. Hey, Summer!”

Summer spins around to face us, one hand on her hip and an expression that says
you better make this quick
. “Oh, look who it is? The famous authors to be. What is it you're writing about?” She eyes Finley. “Does it involve knitting needles or how to care for stray animals?” She glances at me when she says that last part.

“My beautiful bitchy roommate,” Finley muses, hooking an arm through Summer's. “Let me count the ways I could eliminate you. Except, wait…you
are
surprisingly helpful when I need you. Like now.”

“She wants to meet some important people,” I explain.

To my surprise, Summer does actually walk around with us and introduce Finley to a big Gucci designer—who has already heard great things about the book—and a Prada designer who recognizes Finley. The guy claps his hands together when he sees her and says, “The ballerina! I've been trying to find you! Do you have a business card or website for your services?”

“My services?” Finley asks, looking confused. Summer slides behind the guy and shakes her head, directing her to go with it. Finley gives a slow nod. “Right. My services. Well, it's more of a word-of-mouth system.”

The designer leans on one elbow against a small drink table. “All the best ones are, honey.”

“I can give you my personal email. Promise not to give it out?” Finley asks, dead serious.

The guy comes to life, punching the information into his phone and then explaining a bit about a tutu line he's developing for men. I can barely hold in my reaction to that, but luckily, we're interrupted by a middle-aged woman seated one table over. “Did I hear that right? Prada is using real dancers as consultants?”

“Well, of course!” the designer guy interjects, putting on his best networking face. “Wouldn't have it any other way.”

Summer, who Finley says is still scarred from her day in pointe shoes, snorts back a laugh.

“I'd love to run that story in a
Cosmo
issue,” the woman says. “Maybe February. I think we've got a slot open.”

She and the guy go back and forth with too much fake conversation for my taste. I reach for Finley again, shift her hair over to one side, and bring my mouth close to her ear. “One party and you're all kinds of famous. Novel-writing, pointe shoe consultant, friend of Toby Rhinehart…”

“I think Toby and I really hit it off,” she says. “I'd definitely consider us BFFs.”

“Soon, you'll ditch me for someone with a bigger name.” I touch my nose to her neck, wishing we were alone. Maybe lying in her backyard again. Or swimming naked in the pool. What happened to that plan?

“I just realized,” the
Cosmo
lady says to me. “You're the billboard guy.”

I'm about to ask what the hell she's talking about when Finley elbows me in the side and points to a set of three giant posters. The middle one is the biggest, and it features Toby—with very little clothing. The poster on the right is of a guy I did the shoot with, modeling a suit. The one on the left is me. Wearing the exact same clothes Toby's got on tonight.

“Holy shit…” I mumble. I lean in to whisper to Finley again. “You don't think that'll end up—”

“In Times Square?” she teases and then turns serious when she sees my face. “It's blown up from the catalog. I'm sure it won't make any billboards. Just the website, and that's only seen by people shopping for clothes by Alexander Wang.”

I release a sigh of relief. Me on a billboard is the last thing I need right now. Toby sends me a text that says #twinning, and when I look up from my phone, he's taking a selfie beside the poster of me. Is he planning to post that online?

Finley turns her head to whisper, “Are you okay?”

I nod, forcing down the bubbling anxiety. It is what it is. Eventually, I'm not planning on hiding anything from anyone. “Have you two ever shot together as a couple?” the
Cosmo
editor asks.

Since I'm not sure exactly what she means, my response is vague. “What did you have in mind?”

“Not a specific piece at the moment, but sometimes, I get inspired to work in reverse,” she explains. “We take some shots and let the article emerge from that. I've got a Columbia student shadowing me this month, and she's itching for her own project. I'd love to turn her loose with a camera on you guys.” The woman stands, turns around to talk to someone at the table beside us, and then returns with the Ivy-League girl from Dima's party. “This is—”

“Eve,” Finley says, grinning. “
Cosmo
now, huh?”

“I take it you know each other,” the woman says. Then she catches Eve up on our Prada ballet shoe discussion.

I almost don't recognize Eve. She looks very different than she had at Dima's party. Instead of casual jeans attire, she's wearing a business suit, her hair up in a bun.

“Eddie, right?” she says to me, and I nod. She and Finley seem to share some silent conversation, but eventually, Eve turns back to the
Cosmo
lady and says, “Did you have any concept in mind for the photos?”

The woman studies us in a way that's too intrusive for my taste. “Might be fun to turn you loose with them. Especially going with the ballerina theme. We haven't done that in years.”

Eve lifts an eyebrow at the ballerina mention. “So something couple related, coupled with dance…sexy, yet artsy…”

The
Cosmo
woman beams at Eve. “Are you sure I can only have you for a month?”

Eve turns a bit pink but doesn't respond to that comment.

“Let's get them into a studio soon,” the woman says. “Just take it and run, see where you end up. You know my rules: give me something good, and whatever else you get for yourself is fine by me.” She flashes us a diplomatic smile. “I always support educational pursuits. How do you feel about this project?”

Finley is sharing some inside joke with Eve and trying not to smile. “I would be up for that if Eddie agreed to it.”

Cosmo
. That's pretty much as safe as it gets for me. “Yeah, sure.”

“What about pointe shoes and sex for a concept,” the Prada guy suggests, butting in.

I scratch my head, trying to get a visual for that. Yeah, nothing. But then I remember being alone with Finley in her parents' studio. “Private lessons?” I suggest.

“Oh, that's good,”
Cosmo
lady says.

Eve doesn't respond, but she seems to be deep in creative thought. The
Cosmo
lady wants to introduce her to someone, so she mouths something to Finley that I can't decipher before taking off.

“
Cosmo
usually uses couples in their shoots, so I've never even been to a casting for them,” Finley explains once we're alone again.

I turn her around to face me. “Are you as distracted by you as I am?”

She closes her eyes and groans. “Worst line ever.”

“I'm sorry. I kind of wish I was joking. Especially with all the networking potential.”

“So unprofessional,” she says before pushing her hands into my hair and bringing my mouth so close to her that I can barely hear above the rush of blood to my ears. “Want to leave?”

“Yes, so much,” I say, earning more blushing from Finley.

I wait by the bar while she leaves to retrieve her purse and goodie bag. While I'm standing there, Toby appears beside me.

“Here I thought I was being nice, scoring you an invite to the hottest party, and you're the fucking poster boy.”

I laugh, but when I look at the giant picture again, my stomach turns. “Yeah, I wasn't expecting that.”

“So not a good surprise?”

I tug at my shirt collar, not sure how much I want to divulge. “Not so much. It's complicated. Family shit.”

“Right. I get it.” He nods like maybe he does get it. “And modeling…isn't it usually a bridge to somewhere else? What do you do in real life, Eddie Wells? Besides stalking pretty blonds who are obviously too good for you.”

I laugh at that. “You have no idea. And what do I do? Not sure, but so far, I've ruled out being a Princeton grad. I considered subway musician, but I only play piano, so that gets tricky, hauling that instrument around.”

“You'll figure it out,” he says. “There are literally a hundred ways to do everything. No one ever talks about that—it's always about finding the one best way—but there are hundreds of ways to do shit.”

Finley returns to my line of sight, still a distance away from us. Toby adds, “Even falling in love. One day, you're trying to hook up with a stranger, and the next…”

Finley appears in front of us, and Toby changes topics, pointing to an older man several feet away. “Scored you guys a spot on
Good Morning America
when the book releases.”

“Great,” I say. “What exactly are we writing about?”

He holds a hand to his chest. “Meeting me, of course. How I've changed your lives already.”

“Totally,” Finley agrees. “We've already booked a gig with
Cosmo
.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “
Cosmo
? I've got a stack of those in my bedroom. I'll be looking for you two.” He gives me another nod. “Dude, give me a call, and we'll hang out sometime. I've got a decoy house uptown.”

“A decoy house?” Finley and I ask together.