“At least we know he won’t go after that cow penned up in his office. Who did she kill to get that spot?” Charlize asked, seething.
Hey!
“She’s not a cow . ”
Yeah, I’m not a cow! Gwen only wished she knew who this voice of reason was. Someone deserved a nice souvenir from L.A.
“Charlize, I think you need a macchiato or something. You’re out of control if you think Gwendolyn is fat.”
Hearing her name unsettled her stomach enough, but taking in Andrew’s dating habits prior to Cate made Gwen stop and think for a moment. Had he truly only dated models? And now, with all the fashion shows coming up...
“Anyway, that cow is not a threat.” Charlize sounded overly confident.
“I don’t know. She’s gorgeous, if you ask me.”
Gwen sucked in a deep breath and in a bold wave of confidence flushed her bowl. The chatter by the sinks came to a screeching halt. Upon reaching the women, Gwen focused her glare on Charlize, who turned white. The other woman, someone Gwen didn’t recognize, cringed—perhaps in solidarity for her friend.
Gwen rinsed her hands, her eyes locked on Charlize through the mirror. She wrung the loose droplets into the sink and stepped to the paper towel dispenser. She winked to the other girl before walking out of restroom, feeling victorious. Little Charlize and her friend might be right about Andrew only wanting to date models.
Before.
The way he’d been looking at her lately hinted Andrew Morgan may want something different this time around.
His tone asking about Dan, worrying if the slime ball had been bothering her and how he’d sneered often at Salvatore, tipped Gwen off on the key ingredient to prod Andrew out of his shell.
Jealousy.
“ON BEHALF OF MYSELF and your Atlanta-based Delta crew, welcome to Los Angeles.”
Fucking finally! Andrew hadn’t felt six hours take so long since he’d been in middle school waiting for the bell to ring on the last day before summer vacation.
Other planes were fuzzy visions in the distance while his sat on the runway for yet several more excruciating minutes. Oil sizzled on the tarmac, blurring the departure line into a rainbow of colors.
His ire fumed hotter than the ninety-plus degree temperature outside the little window to his left.
For the entire flight, all Andrew had heard was Gwen’s laughter. From four goddamn rows back.
Nothing could get her voice out of his head, not listening to music with his headphones on, not watching the movie he’d been dying to see, not reading the book he’d been so drawn to at home in New York. Nothing.
All he heard was Gwen. Talking and laughing. How Salvatore wrangled a seat next to her infuriated him. Why had the company travel agent randomly paired them up? Enrico lounged in first class, while Thalia sat alone in the row behind him. Even her snoring couldn’t distract him. Or the little kid next to her who kicked his seat most of the flight.
From the moment Gwen re-entered Andrew’s life three weeks ago, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. He’d played it cool. That’s where guys got into trouble and good women got away.
Still, he didn’t want Gwen to grow attached to Salvatore. The business constantly evolved from one extreme to the next. The most beautiful, praised, and famous dress had a short shelf-life. There was always another beautiful and praise-worthy dress ready to be celebrated.
There would be other shows and other designers. Gwen would be promoting not just clothing, but also the accessory lines. Even shoes were a different animal. Showcases were not the same as fashion shows. They were more business-oriented and less glamorous. Gwen might find herself sorely disappointed when the Miu Miu line released their spring handbags.
Okay, not really. He’d seen the sketches and some of the samples with his own eyes. Gwen would love them. He imagined her face lighting up, handing her that white bucket bag. It brought a small smile to his own mouth. Until he heard that cackling laugh of hers. Again.
The plane finally parked at the jetway. Thank God! He hoped Salvatore enjoyed these six free hours. Designers put in eighteen-hour days before shows. “Soak her up, buddy. You won’t have time to take a piss once you get off this plane,” Andrew muttered to himself.
Salvatore’s phone had not stopped ringing, and messages started dinging as soon as he turned it back on. He and his team of design assistants had to pick up trunks of clothes, shoes, and bags for the show from the cargo area.
“Hey. Where were you all this time?” Gwen asked in a cheery voice getting off the plane.
“In my seat.” He shook his head, not meaning for that to come out so gruff. How could she have not noticed him? Salvatore must have engrossed her in one of his outlandish stories. “Did you check a bag?” he asked.
“No.” She removed her suit jacket, exposing toned arms in a sleeveless top. “Just this bag right here.”
His gentlemanly upbringing kicked in and he took the handle from her, their fingers tangled for a moment. “I got it.”
“Thanks.” She draped her jacket across her arm and followed closely as they made their way to the exit.
A few times, her hand rested on his back or tugged his suit jacket so they wouldn’t become separated. After each touch, he turned to find a soft smile on her lips.
In the limo, Gwen huddled close and with every sharp turn, leaned against him. He could feel the moisture on her skin from the L.A. heat simmering beneath her blouse. It would have been cozy if Enrico and Thalia weren’t there. Enrico’s assistant drained her battery by taking pictures and posting to Facebook and Instagram, announcing all the likes she’d been getting.
Gwen snapped a few photos as well, but instead of sharing them with so-called ‘friends’ and
‘followers,’ she showed each one to Andrew.
“Look!” she said with excitement and intimacy, like he was the only person in the car. The only person who mattered. He’d not realized how he craved that type of attention. Getting it from Gwen felt...amazing.
The JW in Downtown L.A. was Andrew’s favorite hotel of all the Marriotts. The side facing the Nokia Theater was sheathed in glass. Inside that wing, the ceilings were three stories high. And the roof deck beat the crap out of any chic Manhattan night spot. Some idiots on Yelp had remarked the decor looked dated, but Andrew appreciated the Old-Hollywood glamorous feel.
With their sleek charcoal Prada suits, sunglasses, and high-end luggage, he and Gwen could have been mistaken for FBI agents. She sauntered to the line forming at the front desk, but Andrew cupped her elbow.
“We have priority check-in,” he said.
“I feel like a celebrity.” She squeezed her shoulders and beamed.
“The way you’ll get swarmed at the show, you’ll probably decide you don’t like it very much,” he said.
Behind them, a raucous scene took shape. Someone ran away from the lobby bar with a pack of photographers yelling and snapping pictures. As the crowd rushed past them, Andrew thrust himself in front of Gwen.
From over his shoulder, she rested her chin against his ear and said, “I think you’re right.”
GWEN LOOKED AT HER hotel room and let out a squeal of delight. OMG, it was a suite! She rushed to the full-length window and pressed her hands against the glass. The skyscrapers towered around her like columns in a cluster while the rest of the city was mostly flat. Many of the taller buildings had branding logos: Bank of America, Wells Fargo, and Citigroup. In the distance, a line of bronze mountains kissed the blue sky. The tips coated in white looked like they’d been topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.