“Spill.” Elisa tipped a handful of Cheetos into her mouth, then brushed her palm against her jeans. That right there was the difference between them. The day Haven wiped orange cheese powder on any article of her clothing would be the day hell froze over.
“I have this client—”
“A male client?” Elisa’s eyes had lit up.
Haven nodded. “You sound gleeful.”
“Because the way you said ‘I have this client’ is so different from the way you said, ‘He’s great’ when I asked you about Greg. You said ‘He’s great’ like you were talking about a new kitchen tool that helps you open jars more easily. You said, ‘I have this client’ like you’d just discovered sex.”
Haven bit her lip.
“You just discovered sex!”
“No. I mean, it didn’t go that far—”
“How far did it go?”
Haven gave up all attempts at dignity, fell back against the couch cushions and moaned.
“Use your words,” Elisa teased.
So Haven went back to square one and explained about Mark Webster, the circumstances of the reunion tour, the barbershop, the department store, the meeting with Pete, Pete’s proposition.
“And then...” She trailed off, remembering how frustrated she’d been with Mark for losing control of the situation, of the image she was trying so hard to craft for him—and then she’d done exactly the same thing, only with even worse potential consequences.
“And then?” prompted Elisa.
“He— I...” All Haven could do was blush furiously. The recollection of Mark’s assault on her senses was as fresh as it had been two days ago.
“Oh, my,” said Elisa. “I never thought I’d see the day. Remind me again why this is a problem?”
Haven reached into her handbag, pulled out a copy of Celeb! and laid it on the table in front of Elisa. Bennie had given her the magazine shortly after Mark left her office the other day, and it had sealed Haven’s conviction that she had to be very, very careful about herself around Mark Webster. For both their sakes.
Elisa smoothed the page down. There, in color, were photographs of Haven and Mark in the barbershop, in the department store and walking up the street, laughing. Haven didn’t remember what they had been talking about, and it had surprised her to see how happy they both looked. And it had made her incredibly nervous because Haven didn’t remember ever seeing a photograph of herself looking that happy. Worse, she and Mark didn’t look at all like an image consultant and her disreputable client. They looked like a couple.
“Oh, my God, he’s hot,” Elisa said.
Haven’s nonchalance failed her, and she collapsed over her own lap and buried her face in her hands. “Yes, yes, he is.”
Elisa read the text that appeared alongside the photos. “‘We spotted hottie guitarist Mark Webster out and about with one of New York’s most desirable image consultants, Haven Hoyt. The two were having a grand old time giving Mark a makeover that included a trim and shave at posh Caruso’s barbershop and a new wardrobe, courtesy of Saks Fifth Avenue.’”