Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
My date moves a few feet ahead, leaving me to stand alone, a lightning rod in the storm of flashing bulbs and the chaos of shouts and snapping shutters. A carnival of exhibitionism, and me the main attraction. Red carpets and runways. There’s no place like home.
I stop and strike a pose. Body in profile. Face front. Breasts up. Hips forward. Knee bent. Head high. Like a horse, I could fall asleep standing this way. A very well-bred, expensive horse, and I dare anyone to bet against me.
“Who are you wearing tonight, Sof?”
God, who did I settle on? Several of my favorite designers sent dresses over, and for the life of me…I glance down at the clover green shantung sheathing the long line of my body as if the designer’s name might be emblazoned there. Cardinal rule of red carpet—never forget who you’re wearing.
“Elie Saab.” I lift the hem of the dress mere inches to reveal the glittering glory of my shoes. “Giuseppe’s.”
I nod my head once and offer a smile before moving down the carpet to join my date.
Michael “Rip” Ripley. Last year’s MVP, former Heisman winner and my future ex-boyfriend. This may be the last night we’ll share the spotlight. He won’t see it coming, but it needs to come.
Actually, so do I. Maybe it won’t hurt to wait just one more night before I cut him loose. He is brilliant below the belt. He has this thing he does with his fingers and his tongue while managing to look right into your eyes. Part creepy, part perfection. He is a quarterback, so I guess excellent hand-eye coordination should be expected.
“You think there will be more press inside?” That eager light in Rip’s eyes reminds me why it has to be quits. Probably tonight. Sadly, not even one more visit below stairs.
He wants all of this more than he wants me. I get it. I grew up in a world of calculation, and the most calculating player of them all stares back at me from the mirror every morning. I look her right in the eyes with no regrets, but this—all of this—doesn’t feed me. I suspect Rip has quickly become addicted to the spotlight, to the attention. He needs it, and I’m allergic to needy. I feel a breakout coming on like a dreaded pimple knotting below the surface of our brief and very public relationship.
We’ve been going out for less than a month, and he’s already shipping us. Looking for ways to combine our names. To Brangelina us. Like he’s the Tom Brady to my Giselle, but if he ends up modeling UGGs, I won’t be held responsible.
“There may be some press inside,” I finally respond to his question. “But the worst of it’s over.”
“Worst?” Rip frowns, a quick bend of his dark blond brows. “This is what you do, Sof. I thought you loved it.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been doing it half my life. It gets old.”
“Not for me. Not yet.” He flashes his Colgate smile—literally, he just signed the contract today—and takes my hand. “I’m just getting started.”
And I’m ready to stop. Oh, there will still be red carpets at fund-raisers like these, and endorsements and the occasional show, but I’ve been modeling since I was eighteen years old. In fifteen years I’ve scored every major cover. Worn all the elite designers. Been through every Fashion Week on repeat year after year. The catwalk is littered with kittens, girls still in high school. It’s a girl’s game, one that requires constant vigilance. Too much vigilance for something I find means less to me than it ever has before.
My mind wanders to the meeting scheduled with my team tomorrow to strategize the next phase of my career. My first natural smile of the night moves my mouth from the plastic facsimile I offered the cameras to the closest thing to real I’ll show in public. My plans for this next stage of my life are completely my own, and they excite me. Maybe I’m jaded, but it takes more and more to excite me these days. That’s probably why I’ve kept Mr. Hand-Eye around for the last month.
Once inside Cipriani, I glance around one of New York’s most elegant ballrooms, its Greek revival columns studded with muted lights. Floral arrangements of gold, cream, and rose serve as elaborate centerpieces for each table. The seventy-foot Wedgewood ceiling hovers over the scene like an elegantly painted sky.
“I know I should know.” Rip bends his head, the warm breath of his words at my ear. “But what is this event for again? They kind of all run together after a while.”
“Uncle Martin is honoring some entrepreneurs for their philanthropic efforts. An excuse for rich people to dress up and eat and have their pictures taken.”
“Martin Bennett isn’t actually your uncle, though, right?”