“And who’s the handsome hunk with you?”
Brie warned me about this. Not the objectification. Although she warned me of that, too. Of getting hit with variations of the same question, over and over.
And this particular question isn’t exactly surprising. It’s my first “official” appearance with Brie, and it’s only natural that people are going to wonder about our relationship. I’ve got no problem setting the record straight.
“Connor Dow.” I’m not sure whether it’s proper protocol to shake hands with a reporter your date didn’t go to college with, so I avoid the issue by sticking them back in my pockets. “Brie’s significant other.”
Irene tilts her head and squints at me behind her glasses. “You look familiar to me. Have we met before?”
“Connor owns Top Shelf,” Brie says, jumping in. “The nightclub in Chelsea. Maybe you’ve seen him there.”
Not likely, seeing as I spend most of my time at the club upstairs, out of sight. But it’s a shot.
Irene taps a finger thoughtfully on her cheek. “I don’t think so. But I’m sure I know you from somewhere.”
“I’m sorry, Irene.” Brie looks past the reporter, down the red carpet, and up the stairs leading to the main entrance of the Academy of Visual Arts, the venue for tonight’s event. “You’ll have to excuse us. The ceremony is starting soon, and we have to get inside.”
I lift the cuff of my dress shirt and casually check my watch. We’ve got plenty of time to find our seats. I’m guessing Brie knows that. And Irene, too.
But if she’s aware that Brie’s bullshitting, the reporter doesn’t call her on it. Instead, she pastes on a smile as fake a Brie’s and reluctantly steps aside. “I’ll remember eventually. I always do. I never forget a face.”
“That woman gives me the creeps,” Brie mumbles when we’re inside and out of earshot of the press corps.
“That makes two of us.” I put an arm around her as we follow the crowd up the split staircase to the second floor, where the theater is located. “I’m glad that’s over.”
“If only it were. I’m sure we’ll see her at the after party. And if I know Irene—and I do, unfortunately—she’s frantically Googling you on her smart phone as we speak, trying to figure out where she’s seen you.”
I don’t like the way that sounds. The thought of that Rita Skeeter wanna-be searching the internet for dirt on me makes my skin crawl, even though, aside from the fact that I’m the son of the literary world’s most notorious playboy, there’s not much to find.
“This is us,” Brie says when we reach our seats. Down front, on the aisle so she’s got a straight shot to the stage when it’s time for her to present the award for best actor in a narrative feature film, whatever that means.
The ceremony itself is kind of dull except when Brie takes the stage. Which, unfortunately, gives my mind plenty of time to dwell on Irene and her smart phone. What if she’s already connected me to Vincent Dow, king of the modern mystery/thriller? Hell, what if she’s already posted her scoop on line, and it’s gone viral?
I can see the headline:Rising TV Star Seen With Son Of Renowned Author And Philanderer.
I’ve run far and fast from my past, and for good reason. I didn’t want my success—or failure—to hinge on my parentage. I’ve worked hard to build a business with my best friend on nothing but sweat and determination. I knew dating Brie would put my personal life under a microscope, but until tonight I never fully considered what that might mean for Top Shelf.
“What’s wrong?” Brie asks three too-long hours later, when we’re in a cab on the way to the rooftop after party.
“Nothing. Just tired, I guess.” I mentally smack myself for the lame-ass excuse.
“We don’t have to stay long. Just enough to make the rounds and touch base with Miriam.”
“Miriam?”
“My agent. She wasn’t able to make the ceremony, but she’s meeting me at the party. Fair warning, I’ve told her all about you, and she’ll probably grill you even worse than the vultures on the red carpet.”
“If you’ve told her everything, what’s left for her to grill me about?”
Brie looks up at me through long, dark lashes, a flirtatious grin parting her lips. “Well, maybe not everything.”
“Don’t look at me like that,” I growl. “Or I won’t be able to stop myself from taking you right here in the back of the cab.”
“Is that supposed to be a deterrent? Because it sounds pretty good to me. Too bad this cab ride will be over in a few minutes.”
She’s not kidding. We probably could have walked to the damn party if Brie wasn’t in heels higher than the Empire State Building. In less than ten minutes, we’re in the middle a rooftop garden, surrounded by some of the most beautiful flora and fauna—and people—in Manhattan.
The night is chilly, even for late October, but the space heaters strategically placed around the terrace keep it nice and toasty. I snag a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and hand one to Brie.
