He sighs exaggeratedly. “Come on then. Let’s introduce you to some of my friends.” Pulling me across the room, he leads me to a group of people talking and laughing over drinks and finger foods.
“Guys, this is Rachel,” Chadwick announces, “into whose panties I’m trying to get.” He winks at me, unrepentant, as his friends hoot.
Someone pulls at his sleeve and whispers something in his ear. “I’ll be right back,” he tells me before leaving to take care of whatever he’s needed for.
One of the friends, a guy with messy brown hair and an unshaven face, tells me his name in a crisp British accent. He also introduces the rest of the group. There’s a painter, a curvy brunette who works at a tabloid, a food critic, and the typical blend of writers, artists, and other creative types. “We mostly went to college with Chad,” British guy says. “How do you know him?”
“He does some work for us…, the magazine where I work.”
“Which magazine?” The question comes from the painter, a petite woman with a pixie cut.
“Gilt Traveler,” I reply.
“That’s a good one.” The tabloid writer, I think her name was Annabel, seems impressed. “What do you do?”
“I’m a features associate,” I tell them. It’s the official title for my real job, which is to write the tiny little articles the real features writers can’t be bothered with.”
“Sounds like a nice gig,” someone says.
“Yeah, it is,” I agree with a shrug.
“I can’t wait for the moment when a bikini-clad model pops out of a cake,” British guy declares, finishing his drink and immediately picking another from a passing tray.
“Is that going to happen?” I ask, interested. I’ve never seen anything like that outside of the movies.
“Not likely. It’s not a frat party.” He sounds wistful.
Chadwick returns. “So have you guys convinced Rachel that I’m worth at least a night of her time.”
“Are you?” One of the women says, tossing her hair. “Not from what I remember.”
The rest of the group bursts into laughter and I join them. Chadwick tries to look annoyed but fails.
“Chadwick, darling!” The soft voice comes from across the room, and we all look in that direction. The speaker is a vaguely familiar woman, tall and slender, with a wild mass of dark-blonde hair, and mile-long legs shown off in a tight jumpsuit.
“Here comes Claudia,” I hear someone say.
But I’m not listening. My heart is hammering, my eyes locked on the man standing beside the new arrival.
Jack Weyland.
What is he doing here? I think, panicked and elated at the same time. He’s supposed to be in England, skydiving with Reese Fletcher, the sixty-year-old electronics billionaire daredevil. We’d spoken on the phone only a few days ago, and he didn’t mention anything about returning to New York.
Yet here he was, with the most beautiful woman at the party, no less.
He hasn’t seen me yet, so I have time to look at him. He’s standing back, watching his date as she throws herself into Chadwick’s arms, his expression, that irresistible combination of boredom and mystery that only some guys can pull off. His dark hair is short at the sides and back, longer in front, with an appealing forelock falling onto his forehead. His body, perfect in a stylish shirt and dark pants, is fit and athletic. My heart catches in my throat, filling with the familiar, bittersweet ache I feel whenever I see him.
“Who’s her companion?” Annabel asks.
“That’s Jack Weyland,” British guy supplies, “Now there’s a guy who suffers from wanderlust. He’s been all over the world. There was a three episode special of his experience at the Spanish bullfights early this year. Never gave a damn before, but now I want to go to Spain.” He stops his narrative to look at me. “He writes for Gilt too, so you should know him.”
“Yes,” I say quietly, still looking at Jack. Sometimes, like now, I still question why I’d agreed to stay friends. At the time, I’d thought that was what it meant to be sophisticated, to be able to act as if I didn’t care, even when my heart was shattered. I’d paid a high price for that sophistication in the last two years. Smiling on the outside, but dying inside while he went from assignment to assignment, writing magnificent articles, appearing on TV, and having affairs with women from all over the world.
He still hasn’t seen me. His eyes are on his date, and I don’t blame him. By now, I’ve placed her face. She’s a famous British model, and she’s beautiful. Exactly his type.
“Chadwick photographed Claudia for some rodeo campaign back when they were both beginners,” British guy is saying. “Made her famous as the ‘risk-taking’ model to watch back then. I think she’s the only woman he never tries to sleep with. No offense to you of course.”
“None taken,” I reply distractedly. I’ve already forgotten about Chadwick. I look from Jack to Claudia. She’s only the latest in a long line of women he’s dated over the year