I immediately freeze at the question, like it’s somehow too personal. Also, his gaze feels too intense. I’ve practiced my elevator pitch with Nate the entire ride out here, but all the words have evaporated into the ether when I part my lips. I take a beat to gather my thoughts and am ready to go for it, but the words stutter to a stop when I lift my eyes back up to meet Simon’s. His gaze is still hyper-focused, but it has slipped about a foot, down to the neckline of my dress. I expect him to blush or try to make a joke when he realizes he’s been clocked, but Simon Van Doren does not even flinch. He doesn’t mind having been caught. He doesn’t address his unprofessionalism, as if his blatant admiration of my cleavage is inconsequential, like it is just a little something he was entitled to admire because it was within eyeshot, just like he would any of the lavish floral arrangements around the room.

I smile to keep from saying what I really want to say, then recite my pitch. Halfway through, I feel something else, someone else. Watching me. I flick a glance over Simon’s shoulder as he absorbs what I’ve said and catch the girl in the red dress hawking me like I am vermin scurrying for cover in the black of night.

4

TAYLOR

If I would have known he’d bring this Bratz-faced bitch here, I never would have invited him. He never said she was his girlfriend.

I’m so stupid. I should have known. Of course he’s moved on by now.

“I’m getting something stiff,” Mei says, interrupting my thoughts. “Want one?”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

I’m not. I’m pissed.

Mei slinks away, and I glance down at my phone, checking to see if WWD posted their weekly red carpet roundup yet. Nothing. When I look back up, Nate is heading straight for me. I’m suddenly rooted to the ground like a centennial yew, and then we’re eye to eye before I can even think of what to say, him all broad shoulders and white teeth.

“Just wanted to say thanks for being so cool about all of this. Brandi’s really psyched about this gig.”

As he speaks, I study the symmetry of his face, his wide neck, his pillowy mouth. A new scar cuts across his left eyebrow, and I want to kiss it and ask him if the stitches hurt. He looks bigger than I remember—not just his arms. He seems taller, more confident.

“It’s nothing,” I say, keeping my tone light, like no time has passed at all.