Malone: On a scale of one to ten, how easy was it tonight to fool everyone into thinking you and Truly were a thing?
Ten, I want to say, but not for the reasons he thinks.
Ten, because one of the things men will do to impress a woman is listen to her.
Only, I didn’t just talk to Truly. I didn’t just listen to Truly. I didn’t ask questions about her work just to impress her.
I didn’t do any of those things to woo her or win her.
I did it because I want to understand her deeply, inside and out.
And that’s getting to be a problem.
I don’t reply to Malone. I don’t know what to say.
27
Truly: I suppose this is where I say you were right.
Charlotte: But what was I right about? Was it that a wedding would make you relapse? About the number of days it took? Or how hard it would be to resist him?
Truly: All of the above. And it was out of this world. We’re talking mind-bending Os.
Charlotte: Mmm. Best kind to have. Also, I’m shocked. So shocked. Here’s my shocked face. *sends selfie of shocked face*
Truly: Yes, I can see from the blank expression that it’s a HUGE surprise to you.
Charlotte: You’re into him, you went to a wedding, you were in a limo. Doesn’t take a world-class detective to add up the clues. But I suppose it’s sorta maybe kinda cool to know that the second time was excellent? Yay to good sex and all. :)
Truly: I love that you’re trying to see the positive in me breaking a promise a second time.
Charlotte: I’m upbeat like that. Also, stop beating yourself up. You’re still a good person underneath that horny-for-Jason exterior.
Truly: Shut up!
Charlotte: I’m just saying. I still love you.
Truly: And I still love you . . . but it would have been nice if the sex was terrible.
Charlotte: Really? Would it really have been nice to have awful sex?
Truly: YES! Because if it had been terrible, I wouldn't be thinking about him all the time. I wouldn't want to do it again or have wanted to invite him over to my house last night. If it were terrible, I wouldn’t be wide awake at seven in the morning wishing that things were different.
Charlotte: What exactly do you wish were different?
Truly: That’s what I’m trying to figure out.
28
“How do I look? As good as, say, when I did the Gigante ad?”
I draw a blank as I consider Enzo’s reflection in the mirror at the tuxedo shop. Gigante—what the hell is that? A Spanish brand of tequila? Some new make of cigarettes from Barcelona? Or perhaps condoms for the fellas for whom jumbo is a tight squeeze?
I finesse my answer. After all, he is a supermodel, so I’m sure there’s only one answer to his question. “Better. You look even better.”
He arches a brow, giving me a come-hither look that I don’t think contains any emotion but is, rather, one of his cache of expressions. Open a bureau, pick a look from a drawer. “Excellent. Then I’d say I look pretty fucking fabulous. At least, that’s what they all said when I posed in my underwear for Gigante. You should have seen the billboards. But the traffic accidents. I still feel terrible for all the accidents caused when people stopped to stare.”
Ah, Gigante is underwear. I should have known that. I’ll berate myself later for not prepping with a complete list of underwear brands worn by supermodels.
“That’s a shame,” I say. “But hey, hazard of the job, right?”
“My God, yes. One time when I was crossing Fifth Avenue, a woman tripped and nearly fell into a manhole from ogling me.”
“Who knew the risk to society you could be as a superstar model?”
“I caught her just in time though. I didn’t want to have that on my conscience.”
“I bet you made her swoon when you caught her.”
He flashes his ten-million-dollar grin. “I did. But I’d already met Valerie, so I was a taken man. Valerie and I met on my undies shoot. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Yeah, about that. Can I give you a tip about undies?”
“Of course.” His brown eyes go wide and earnest. Enzo contains an interesting mix of Royal Caribbean cruise ship–size confidence and a doe-eyed desire to learn. Then again, anyone who looks like this man really ought to have universe-level stores of bravado. I don’t care for lads, not one bit, and I never have. But I can tell he’s not made like the rest of us. He’s not even in the top one percent. He’s the one percent of the one percent of the one percent, with cheekbones carved by a hundred vestal virgins and eyes that would Svengali anyone into anything. I bet he could even charm a lion into becoming a vegetarian with a single smoldering look.
Or convince men to buy skin-tight briefs. Come to think of it, the way his backside looks in those trousers, I bet his ass was sculpted by the same crew who did his cheeks. But there’s still one thing about this man that is not going to make women swoon, no matter the firmness of those abs.
“Here’s my tip: don’t call them undies. You’re in America now, and clearly you’re a rock star at the language. But sometimes we need to master the lingo too. Even I’ve had to adapt. All I want to do is call them pants, but no one would understand me. It’s either boxers or briefs here.”
