Chapter 76
1223words
In Brooklyn, you could never be too careful.
'It's Stacy."
Stacy?
To say that Stacy Heathrow was a stylist, was like saying that Michael Phelps liked to play in the pool. The woman was a fashion goddess. A true icon. It was as if all of Manhattan had gotten together and compiled all their beauty standards into this one, bionic woman. A woman who somehow managed to encompass them all.
Tall, gorgeous, and with so little body fat I was amazed she wasn't seasonally restricted indoors, she stopped the conversation of every room she walked into. Turned every head, unhinged every jaw. It was for this reason that Mitchell Huntington had hired her seven years ago.
That and the fact that she was one of the only women in the world who was impervious to his son's devilish charms.
'Stacy—hey!" I yanked open the door, terrified to keep her waiting even a second longer than was necessary, 'is everything okay? Did you and Lily have a fight?"
She swept inside, drenching me in a cloud of Chanel No. Five. Sure enough, despite the icy sidewalks, she was wearing a miniature cocktail dress paired with eight-inch heels. She had to bend down almost a foot to do her obligatory double-cheek-kiss.
'Lily—gosh no. Everything's fine. She's off in France or Spain or something—fighting against corporate interests with the rest of her little friends."
(Lily's ‘little friends' happened to be a United Nations Human Rights Commission.)
'Oh, well that's—"
'You know, this is actually a cute place." Her ice blue eyes swept around appraisingly, as she shed her coat on a hook by the door. 'Even if it is in Brooklyn..."
Knowing Stacy, that was as much of a compliment as I was ever going to get. At any rate, it was certainly as kind as she was biologically capable of.
'Uh...thanks."
Now that she mentioned it, it was bizarre seeing her in a place like this. Was this her first time venturing over the bridge? I imagined her circuitry turned off once she left Manhattan. Like a broken robot, leaving her frozen and twitching on the far shore.
Wisely deciding not to ask, I quickly navigated back to my original question. 'So, uh, not that it's not great to see you and everything, but..."
I had hoped that would do it, but she returned my questioning gaze with a blank stare. I'd have to be a little more direct.
'It's still like six in the morning..."
Still nothing.
'A little early to come calling..."
Silence.
Oh for fuck's sake.
'What the hell are you doing here?!"
'Oh!" Her face brightened cheerfully, as she set her gigantic bag down in the middle of the living room floor. 'Nicholas sent me. He didn't tell you?"
Why the hell would he tell me? It's not like it was my apartment or anything.
I shook my head quickly, trying to catch up.
'I'm sorry...Nicholas sent you?"
Why the hell would Nicholas send his stylist to Brooklyn? At six in the fucking morning?
'He called me about twenty minutes ago." She poured herself a mug of coffee from the kitchen, before ripping open the curtains to let winter daylight spill into the room. 'Said that we needed to get an early start if we were going to be ready for the event by tonight."
'Ready for the—"
In an act of sheer desperation, I threw caution to the wind and actually snatched the coffee mug right out of her hands. Anything to stop her perpetual motion.
'I'm sorry, but you need to please tell me what's going on." I held the caffeine just out of reach, trying to ignore the way her eyes were dilating like an angry cat. 'Nicholas sent you over to my place to help me prepare for an event? What event? And if it's at night, why the hell do I need to start getting ready right now? And why would he send you here to help me?"
My voice rose in panic with each question, flailing as things spiraled further and further out of my control. By the last one, I was nearly shouting—sending little drops of coffee flying in every direction.
'And...and how the fuck does everyone know where I live?!"
Most people would have cringed to be on the receiving end of such a tantrum. Most people would have had the good sense to avoid the scalding drops of liquid shooting like shrapnel through the air.
Stacy simply looked bored.
'Are you finished shouting?"
I sucked in a quick breath, considering the question.
'For now."
Her lips twitched up in a rare smile.
'Good. Then I'll tell you what I know." She ticked things off her fingers, one by one. 'To start, Nicholas sent me over here because you're no longer ‘Avery Winchester his publicist,' you're now ‘Avery Winchester his girlfriend.' That means you're not a behind-the-scenes puppet-master anymore, you're center stage. The leading lady. And in this town, at Nicholas's level, that means you officially relinquished the right to dress yourself. That's where I come in. With me so far?"
Strangely enough, I was. When Nicholas had first proposed the idea in Barcelona, it hadn't really occurred to me that I would have to look the part if I was to play it.
'Yeah...I guess."
'You're going to be on breakfast television. You know, Good Morning America."
My jaw dropped. 'Say what?"
'It's just a little segment. Not long at all. A few minutes tops."
I let out a long breath. 'Okay, I can do this."
'Yes, you can. So make our Nikey look all shiny and clean."
A few women burst out in laughter.
'As if that's possible," one muttered.
I chuckled. 'I work in PR. I know how the game works."
'Great, then let's get started, shall we?"
I glanced down at the bag she'd brought with her, suddenly seeing it in a whole new light. For the first time in my entire life, someone was here to do my makeup. They were here to curl my hair and pick out clothes. For the first time ever...that bag was here for me.
But Stacy was just getting started.
'As for the rest of it, I don't know what the event is. Rumor has it that Nicholas planned the whole thing out himself—and you know how secretive he gets when he's planning a surprise."
I didn't, actually. Most of the time, I was planning it with him. Going through all the logistics while he monologued excitedly from the sofa. Never once had the surprise been for me.
A sudden stir of excitement fluttered in my stomach, but it was instantly countered with a wave of nerves. I might not know exactly what Nicholas was up to—but I did know Nicholas. The man was a fucking poster boy for the perils of ‘getting a little carried away.'
Case and point: he had once launched a hot air balloon off the top of the Empire State Building, just because his friends bet that he couldn't land it in the Hudson. (He couldn't.)
Without me there to rein him in...who knew what the lunatic was planning.
