"A woman who looks like you?" The man standing next to her widened his glass-blue eyes in such a precise measure of faux-despair that Kirsten couldn't help but laugh. Was that what she'd looked like when she was still trying to tell her father that no, there weren't going to be any drugs at the beach party, and why didn't he just trust his darling daughter? It seemed like so long ago; out here in New York, she couldn't help but feel grown-up, sophisticated. It was hard to believe she'd ever been that transparent.
"All right, cut it out," she told him, still smiling. The champagne was silver and gold in her mouth, down her throat, spreading to the tips of her fingers and toes. "You don't have to put on the act for *my* benefit. I'm an old hand at it."
"And I'm Warren." The man bent his blond head, smiling back, and shifted against the balcony railing. "So, if you don't mind me asking...."
Kirsten politely tipped her head for him to go on, and he continued, "..if you gave up all this before New York —" he gestured back in at the party that was still in progress, swirling chaotically around inside the ballroom, "— why are you putting yourself through the song-and-dance? You must have plenty of other options for how to spend a Saturday night." His voice dipped a bit lower on that last part, smooth and woody, and Kirsten felt the bubbly excitement of a good unabashed flirt glitter up inside her. She let her hair sift in front of her face and felt a decided lack of embarrassment about the coquettery of the motion.
"Well, you know...every once in a while, you do a friend a favour —"
"Ah." Warren nodded knowingly, leaning back on his elbows against the stone rail. "Keeping your ugly friend company at a fancy party. I get that."
Kirsten rolled her eyes and leveled a stern gaze at him. "Actually, I'm the ugly friend in this situation. Betsey's a model."
Warren shrugged, his shoulders moving under the expensive cut of his suit with a curiously strong, emphatic grace. "Models aren't too interesting," he announced airily. "I've had my share and they're usually too concerned with themselves to even be fun." He studied his impeccable nails and Kirsten put on a sugar-sweet smile and shifted her legs, tilting her hips out a bit more.
"You could be a model, easy," she murmured, demure as a schoolgirl. Warren paused and glanced up at her; he didn't even look abashed, the cocky bastard.
"I could," he said. "But I'm fun when it counts."
He wasn't her type, not even close; she'd never gone for the big blond guys back home. But Kirsten was a New Yorker, now, and maybe she needed to start giving new things a try. "Betsey usually leaves without me, anyway," she said, fingernails gleaming on the stem of her champagne flute. Warren smiled, moved closer, his hand sliding to press against her hip, just the fingertips, and she shivered.
"Never mind Betsey," he said. "And never mind California."
He didn't taste anything like sunshine and surf, but Kirsten found she didn't miss that at all.
"You know," she said into her champagne flute, "I gave up the whole party scene when I moved from California."