Page 4 of Blurred Lines

"Try me." He pauses for a beat.

I merely watch his expression.

"I mean," he clarifies, "I'm going to hunt down your socials and be one among the million fans you already have, but it doesn't hurt to shoot my shot."

"I think," I laugh. "We're a little past that stage. But let's see."

He nods slightly. "Let's see."

I want to say something else, but my phone rings. I fish it out and look at the number. It's my sister, Flora.

"Hey, Flo," I answer. "I just finished my show."

"I have news," her voice replies, tight and strained. "It's about our dad."

2

CAELEB

"Excuse me," Emily whispers, her fingers brushing against my wrist with the delicacy of a feather. "I have to go." Her words float in the air, as ephemeral as the evening breeze.

Rejection clings to me like the smoke from this stale cigar, acrid and unwelcome. "Silver-fox," they call me, with that knowing wink and nudge-nudge, but this evening, the only sheen I feel is the oily film of sweat beading on my brow.

I watch her, my brow arching in disbelief. There she goes, her hips swaying deliciously like pieces of a puzzle I can't solve, as if the sparks we just shared were figments of my imagination.

She did say she didn't want to make a big deal out of this.

I smile sardonically. Guess we all know who's the fool tonight.

Emily darts through the grand doorway leading into The Presidency's opulent dining room, leaving me momentarily transfixed. My eyes linger on the spot where she disappeared, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips despite the sting of her abrupt exit.

Turning my attention back to the surroundings, I can't help but admire the hotel's grandeur, a fitting backdrop for Cristina's fashion showcase. Cristina, with her passion for weaving nature and sustainability into every thread, has a knack for choosing venues that echo her ethos.

The Presidency, with its lush gardens and eco-friendly practices, mirrors her style perfectly—a symphony of elegance and earth-conscious design.

I remember the call from Cristina, an old friend whose requests are impossible to refuse. "I need you to work your culinary magic at my fashion show's afterparty," she had said, her voice a mix of excitement and desperation.

How could I say no? Especially knowing that the event would be a confluence of high fashion and high cuisine.

Now, standing outside, I'm grateful for my decision.

I knew I was a goner the moment I laid eyes on her earlier in the evening. She was an absolute vision in her shimmering viridian skirt, the fabric catching the light as if holding onto the last rays of a setting sun.

"Looks like fashion isn't the only thing Cristina has an eye for," I mutter to myself with a wry grin, thinking of how Emily's earthy beauty is just right for the show.

It's amusing, in a way, how a twist of fate, a call from an old friend, and a fashion-forward venue have conspired to bring such an unexpected highlight to my evening. Emily's like a modern-day Cinderella, indeed. But, unlike the fairy tale, I'm left without even a glass slipper to remember her by.

I sigh heavily. I think the only thing left to do right now is resort to a simple plan: go home, crash, forget.

It takes me an hour to get to my little studio apartment in the heart of NYC. A quick shower and a bowl of fettuccine later, I'm ready to call it a day.

Just one more thing left to do. I fish my phone out and type a quick message to Fred, one of the best chefs at my little bistro in Manhattan. How's Brian doing?

My son is at a sleepover with his kid.

His reply comes a second later. He's in the middle of a fierce pillow fight. All good here, C. See you at work tomorrow.

I sigh as a narrow spear of contentment enters my soul. I'm glad Brian is having a good time.

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