“Hey!” he exclaimed, loudly and enthusiastically, as if he were more than pleasantly surprised to see her. She glanced up, planning to keep a cool, disinterested look on her face, but as soon as she saw him, her heart started beating and she was sure her smile resembled that of a sappy schoolgirl.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, taking the seat next to her. The seats were crammed tightly together, so there was almost no way to sit next to him without their arms touching. She felt giddy with excitement.
“Victory Ford is one of my best friends.”
Kirby nodded. “I wish I’d known that. I can’t believe I’m sitting next to you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
This was so astonishing that Nico didn’t know what to say. And looking around to see if anyone was observing them, she decided that given the circumstances, it was probably best to say nothing at all.
She nodded, and sneaking a look at his face was immediately reminded of their kiss. She recrossed her legs, beginning to feel aroused.
“You never called me,” he said simply. The tone in his voice made her think that he was genuinely hurt. “And I couldn’t call you.”
She turned her head away, hoping to make it appear as if they were merely having a casual conversation. “Why not?” she said.
He leaned a little closer and touched her leg. “Get this,” he said. “It’s so stupid. I knew who you were—I mean, I knew you were famous and everything—but I couldn’t remember where you worked.”
His expression was partly embarrassed and partly amused, as if he had no choice but to be entertained by his own stupidity, and hoped she would be too. Nico smiled, suddenly feeling a fluttering of hope. If Kirby really didn’t know who she was, maybe he was genuinely interested in her after all.
“Bonfire magazine,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.
“Right. I knew that,” Kirby said. “But I couldn’t remember. And I didn’t want to ask anyone because then they’d think I was really dumb.”
Nico found herself nodding sympathetically, as if she was often in a similar situation and completely understood his feelings.
A photographer jumped in front of them and snapped their picture. Nico quickly turned her head away. That was the last thing she needed—a photograph of her and Kirby Atwood. She must stop flirting with him, she reminded herself firmly. But Kirby wasn’t the kind of young man who was good at hiding his feelings. He casually touched her leg again to get her attention. “I kept thinking I would run into you,” he said, continuing his story. “And then we could . . . Well, you know,” he said, with a seductive shrug. “I mean, I just met you and I liked you, you know? And I never like that many people. I mean, I know a lot of people, but I don’t really like them . . .”
She glanced over at Lyne Bennett, who was staring curiously at her and Kirby, probably wondering what she had to talk about with a male model. She had to stop this.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she whispered, keeping her eyes forward.
“And now, here I am, sitting next to you at a fashion show,” Kirby exclaimed. “It’s that word . . . what is it? Comet?”
“Kismet,” Nico said. She shifted in her seat, the word suddenly causing her to see the inevitable. I’m going to sleep with Kirby Atwood, she thought wildly. She didn’t know when it would happen, or where. She only knew that it would happen. She would do it once and not tell anyone and never do it again.
“That’s it. Kismet,” Kirby repeated. He smiled at her. “I like that about you,” he said. “You’re smart. You know words. Most people hardly know words anymore. Have you noticed that?”
She nodded, feeling flushed. She hoped no one was paying attention. Luckily, it was hot in the tent, so her distress wouldn’t appear unusual. She wanted to fan herself with her program the way several other people were—pointedly, to indicate their annoyance at the show being late—but she decided it would be too undignified.
As if sensing the restlessness, one of the drummers began striking a beat, which was taken up by the other drummers positioned in the front row on either side of the runway. There was a small commotion, and Jenny Cadine, surrounded by four security people, came out from behind the scrim that separated the runway from the backstage area, and took her seat, with Wendy following behind.
The drumming got louder as Wendy sat down and began telling Nico about the mosquitoes in Maine. Two workers quickly rolled up the plastic lining. The blinding white runway lights came up, and suddenly, the first model appeared.
She was wearing a sharp-collared short fuchsia jacket paired with a long green skirt that ended just above the ankle, and Nico’s first thought was that the effect of those two colors together should have been jarring. But instead it looked just right—daring, but subtly so—as if it were perfectly natural that everyone would put these colors together. But after that, she was lost. Nico always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalize, to control the focus of her mind and hone it intently on the matter—or person—at hand, but for once, her famous concentration seemed to be failing her. She stared at the model as she strolled past, trying to remember the details of the outfit so she could talk to Victory about it later, but her brain refused to cooperate. The beating of the drums was pounding away her resistance, and all she could think about was Kirby and that glorious feeling of being overcome.
Chapter 2
THE SPLENDORS OF FASHION WEEK HAD COME AND gone, the tents were folded up and stored away somewhere in the garment district, and the city had settled into its usual routine of work, work, and more work.
In a former warehouse section of Manhattan on Twenty-sixth Street just off Fifth Avenue, the Healy household was in its usual state of chaos. In the not-quite-finished loft that had been home to Wendy Healy, her husband Shane, their th
ree children, and an assortment of fish, turtles, and hamsters for the past three years, multicolored streamers from last week’s birthday party still hung from the ceiling in the hall. The floor was littered with the shriveled remains of helium balloons. A red-faced toddler, as yet indistinguishable as either a boy or a girl, stood screaming on the couch; crouched below, a little dark-haired boy was trying to destroy a red metal fire truck by banging it repeatedly onto the scuffed hardwood floor.
The bathroom door flew open, and Wendy Healy, glasses askew and clutching a Japanese kimono around her torso, came running into the room. She picked up the toddler with one hand and snatched up the red fire truck with the other. “Tyler!” she scolded the boy. “Get ready for school!”
Tyler lay down on his stomach and put his arms over his head.
“Tyler . . .” Wendy said warningly.