Prada Me Quotes

The polite thing would be to go back inside, give you privacy when you read it. But, I’m just not that mature.' 'It’s nothing. Fine.' Feeling foolish, Laurel opened the envelope. You might think this is over, but you’d be wrong. I’ve taken your shoes hostage. Contact me within forty-eight hours, or the Pradas get it.

When I came in this morning, I'd had a plan. I was going to walk in there, throw that receipt in his pretty little face, and tell him to shove it. But then he'd looked so goddamn sexy in that charcoal Prada suit, and his hair stuck up like a neon sign screaming, Do Me.

Travis punched his palm. “Do you want me to go beat the piss out of Finch? Teach him a lesson? I’ll take him out.” I couldn’t help but smile. “If I wanted to take Finch out, I’d just tell him Prada went out of business, and he’d finish the job for me.

For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, to say hello, ask about their well-being, or make plans. For me, it triggered fear, intense anxiety and heart-stopping panic.

If I had a dollar for everytime my mother told me god had a plan I'd probably buy a new prada bag.

So now I'm getting my gown made by an exclusive seamstress, and all thos anorexic whores on Michigan Avenue and Oak Street who made me feel like the Goodyear blimp can kiss the very fattest part of my ass.

I've determined the ideal job for me is one where I can write clever essays about my life and my employer will give me enough money not only to live a comfortable existence, but also to buy many, many new pairs of shoes.

As I raced out of the office, I could hear Emily rapid-fire dialing four-digit extensions and all but screaming, 'She's on her way-- tell everyone.' It took me only three seconds to wind through the hallways and pass through the fashion department, but I had already heard panicked cries of 'Emily said she's on her way in' and 'Miranda's coming!' and a particularly blood curdling cry of 'She's baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!

I couldn’t help but smile. “If I wanted to take Finch out, I’d just tell him Prada went out of business, and he’d finish the job for me.

—Eso ya da igual. Voy a quedarme durmiendo en el sofá, porque está claro que tú ya tienes quien te caliente la cama. —Por supuesto que tengo quien me la caliente, pero a la única a quien me gusta ver dormir a mi lado es a ti.

The living room is a monument to my impulsive spending habits. I've got more than two hundred DVDs, including cinematic greats such as Monkey Bone, Corkey Romano, and A Night at the Roxbury, leading me to believe not only do I have awful taste in films, but I also have a Chris Kattan fixation. What I don't have is $4000 earing intrest in a money market account.

If I were a lesbian and had a thing for narcissistic ex-sorority girls? I’d totally do me." Bitter is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, or Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office: A Memoir

girl, before you say "what are those" to me, make sure you can afford the shoes i'm wearing. i'm gucci, you're walmart. i'm prada, you're nada.

This is a Lucent PBX with Audix voice mail, right? I used this kind at all of my old jobs, so I'm pretty familiar with them." Completely ignoring me, Pat continues to demonstrate every single one of the phone's features, half of which she describes incorrectly. I don't bother taking notes because I've used this system a thousand times. I have no need to transcribe an erroneous refresher course. "Hey, you should be writing this down." Like I said, I've used this system extensively and--" WRITE IT DOWN," Pat growls. "If you screw up the phone, Jerry's gonna be on my ass." No problem." I'm slowly learning to choose my battles and figure this isn't the hill I want to die on. I pull a portfolio out of my briefcase and begin to take notes. When the phone rings and Jerry isn't there to answer, you pick it up and hold it to your mouth like this. You say, 'Hello, Jerry Jenkins' office.'" I write: When phone rings, place receiver next to your word hole and not your hoo-hoo or other bodily aperature, and say, "Shalom.

At one point I was climbing off the bus and I bumped into a woman in a crisp black blazer and pointy, witchy shoes. She had a bulky cell phone pressed against her ear and a black bag with gold Prada lettering hooked around her wrist. I was a long ways off from worshiping at the Céline, Chloé, or Goyard thrones, but I certainly recognized Prada. “Sorry,” I said, and took a step away from her. She nodded at me briskly but never stopped speaking into her phone, “The samples need to be there by Friday.” As her heels snapped away on the pavement, I thought, There is no way that woman can ever get hurt. She had more important things to worry about than whether or not she would have to eat lunch alone. The samples had to arrive by Friday. And as I thought about all the other things that must make up her busy, important life, the cocktail parties and the sessions with the personal trainer and the shopping for crisp, Egyptian cotton sheets, there it started, my concrete and skyscraper wanderlust. I saw how there was a protection in success, and success was defined by threatening the minion on the other end of a cell phone, expensive pumps terrorizing the city, people stepping out of your way simply because you looked like you had more important places to be than they did. Somewhere along the way, a man got tangled up in this definition too. I just had to get to that, I decided, and no one could hurt me again.

I lied quickly, remembering a Cosmo article I'd read that had exhorted me to “keep it light and airy and happy” when talking to a new guy because most “normal” guys didn't respond so well to hard-bitten cynicism.

Her mental list of items she’d need from her apartment was growing. There were things a girl just couldn’t live without, so Keegan would have to get them when he retrieved Muffin. “I need another purse. Can you get me my Prada knockoff? It’s in my closet on the shelf. Pink. It’s pink. I got it from a vendor in Manhattan. Jeez he was a tough negotiator, but it was worth the haggling. It’s soooo cute.” Keegan sighed, raspy and long. “Okay.” “Oh! And my nail polish. I have two new bottles in the bathroom under the sink in one of those cute organizer baskets, you know? Like the ones you get at Bed Bath and Beyond? God, I love those. Anyway, I need Retro Red and Winsome Wisteria.” Another sigh followed, and then a nod of consent. “My moisturizer. I never go anywhere, not even overnight, without my moisturizer. Not that I ever really go anywhere, but anyway I need it, or my skin will dehydrate and it could just be ugly. Top left side of my medicine cabinet.” “Er, okay.” “My shoes. I can’t be without shoes. Let’s see. I need my tennis shoes and my white sandals, because I don’t think there’s much hope for these, wouldn’t you say?” Marty looked up at him and saw impatience written all over his face. “And my laptop. I can’t check on my clients without my laptop, and they need me. Plus, there’s that no-good bitch Linda Fisher. I have to watch that she’s not stealing my accounts. Do you have all of that?” He gave her that stern look again. The one that made her insides skedaddle around even if it was meant in reproach. “I’m going too far, huh?” His smile was crooked. “Just a smidge.

This is how it should have been that first night down on the sand," he whispered. "This is our beginning Ivy. I want to make it official. I want there to be no doubt, 'cause I'm gonna do stupid shit all the time." I giggled, and his white teeth flashed. "I'm gonna leave the toilet seat up. I'm gonna be overprotective, probably bossy, and my temper is always gonna run hot." "I don't care," I told him, sliding my hands up to rest on his chest. "Tell me you'll be my girl, and I swear I'll love you with everything I got." "I'm always gonna be stubborn. I'm not gonna take your shit. My makeup will be all over the bathroom, and I still don't have a major. Oh, and I want to keep Prada. You have to like her, too." "I already told Rim to get your adoption paperwork ready for that rat." Then in lower tones, he said, "She's grown on me." I smiled. He totally loved Prada. "So what's my answer?" He tightened his arms around my waist. I pretended to think it over. A girl should never sound too eager-even if she was practically peeing herself with glee. "Blondie," Braeden growled. "I'm already yours, B. I have been for a long time.

(Jen gets completely sloshed and it's not her wedding) I was supposed to meet Carol and her family at the aquarium the next morning, and somehow had the presence of mind to leave a voicemail apologizing in advance for not being able to make it. I was please at myself for being so responsible and considerate. After I left the message, I blissfully headed off to bed, wearing a face full of makeup, all my grown up jewelry, and a relatively restrictive girdle. Suffice it to say, yesterday was rough, what with my apartment spinning and all. But today I felt better. That is, until Carol played me the voice mail I left for her at 1:03 AM. Somehow I thought I had been able to hold it together on the phone. Following is a transcript of the message I left: 30 seconds of heavy breathing, giggling, and intermittent hiccups (At first Carol thought it was a 911 call.) Oh, heeheehee, I waassshh wayyyting for a beep. But noooooo beeeeeeep. Why don't you hash a beep on your, your, ummmmmm...celery phone? Noooooo beeeeeeep, hic, heeheeeheee. Um, hiiiiii, itsch JEENNNNNNNN!! It's thirteen o'clock in the peeeeeee eeeemmmmmmm. Heeeeeeeellllllllllloooooooo! I went to my wedding tonight and it wash sooooo niiiiiiiiiice. Hic." More giggling and the sound of a phone being dropped and retrieved Nannyway, I am calling to telllll you noooooooooo fishies tomorry...no fishies for meeee! I hic, heeeee, can't smake it to the quariyummm. Maybeeee you can call me so I can say HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII later hich in the day hee hee hee. Call me at, um, 312, ummmmmmm, 312, uummmmm, hee hee hee I can't member my phone, Hic. Do you know my number? Can you call me and tell me what it isssch? I LIKESH TURKEY SAMMICHES! 10 seconds of chewing, giggling, and what may be gobbling sounds Okay, GGGGGGGGooooooodniiiiiiiiiggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhttttt! No fish! Um, how do I turn this tthing off? Shhhhh, callllls' over. Beeee quiiiiiiietttt, hee hee hee." 15 more seconds of giggles, hiccups, shushing, and a great deal of banging Perhaps this is why most people only have one wedding?

shed his Harvard persona in his late twenties and moved to South Carolina, where he'd immediately made a fortune in real estate. Judging from everything Emily had told me, he'd morphed into a first-class Southern boy, a real straw-chewin', tobacco-spittin' hick, which of course appalled Miranda, the epitome of class and sophistication. B

Hot pink, I’m sure she spent a few minutes debating it—was she tan enough, maybe the navy silky sleeveless top instead, can’t go wrong with navy—and over her shoulder, a cognac Prada the exact same shade as her shoes, the perfect match more age revealing than the skin starting to pucker in her neck. She had at least ten years on me, I determined, relieved.

You are so lost to your higher self that you would resent me for my achievements, rather than celebrate them with me, sexually?

I'm straight; I dont fuck with niggas that dont put me first. Im high maintenance, and it takes a lot of time to please me. I got to be a priority

❝...lleno de odio, deseo reprimido y orgullo malentendido. Me encanta que las mujeres me preparen café por la mañana❞

For most people, the ringing of a phone was a welcome sign. Someone was trying to reach them, to say hello, ask about their well-being, or make plans. For me, it triggered fear, intense anxiety, and heart-stopping panic.

What do you know about 1969, anyway? It was after your time." "I know everything." He gave me that sleepy-eyed smile of his. "Love or money, I'm afraid." "Great," I sighed, unable not to think about Alex and trips to Europe and the Hannandas with their Prada bags. "The two things that show absolutely no hint of ever coming my way. Shoot me now." "I can't, darling girl. No arms. Besides, even if I had the ability, I would never do such a thing. It would be dastardly.And..." "And?" "Ah,Ella.Fond of you as I am, there is no passion in my feelings." "Love or money," I droned. "Love or money," Edward agreed.

I HAVE to stay here. I simply have to. To be honest, too much of my identity comes from possessing this space. As my job used to define me, living here’s all I have left. This apartment makes it OK that I can’t buy Prada’s newest anymore. I can be content going on lousy interviews and begging for positions that pay half of what I used to earn as long as I know at the end of the day my glorious penthouse awaits. The minute I climb into my Jacuzzi tub, all the day’s unpleasantness is rinsed down the drain. When I step onto my deck and survey the city, I feel like anything is possible. This apartment keeps me centered; it keeps me sane. Without this place, I’m just another nobody from Indiana with a worthless state college degree. Before

After a parting eyebrow arch into the mirror, I drift into my room and spend a second staring longingly at a an oversized gray hoodie picturing the cover of one of my favorite books, My Antonia, before tossing it aside and grabbing a boring, cream sweater that hits me about mid-thigh. I have these ridiculously awesome Prada combat boots that would breathe some life into this bleh, but I don’t want to draw that kind of attention tonight, so I settle on a pair of brown Tory Burch riding boots that would only look expensive to the most discerning eye. I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door:

Cope with me, I’m your daughter, not last season’s Prada handbag!

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

Victoria’s hands are still and she’s staring back at me. Is she actually chewing on the edge of her bottom lip? Surely she’s not. Victoria is poised and perfect at all times. “I did love him. But I tried not to. For years, I tried not to. And now I think of those wasted years and I wish I could have them back.” All I can do is stare. I’d been so sure she was grumpy for no reason at all. That she just thought she was better than everyone else. But in reality she’s lived the most twisted and tragic love story I’ve ever heard. Way worse than Shakespeare. So she’s hiding behind all her perfect etiquette and all her rules. “There are few who fall in love, Rebecca. Even fewer who stay in love. Emily has no better idea what she wants than I did. She will marry Lord Denworth, just as I married the duke. It is to be expected.” Oh, but it’s not. She has no idea what is going on just a few miles away. No idea at all. She got lucky with the old duke. She fell for him. But I refuse to believe that some fifty-one-year-old guy has as much in common with Emily as someone her own age. Someone who might already be in love with her. “Don’t you think it’s Emily’s choice to make?” Victoria’s voice softens a little. “It will never be her choice.” And for approximately one second as she looks at me, I think Victoria is trying to tell me that she agrees. That it should be Emily’s choice, even if it isn’t. But then she ruins it. “Your elbow is on the table again.” I roll my eyes but I pull my elbow off the table and sit back in my chair. I guess some things never change.

And if I pop back up and I’ve been missing for a month, what am I supposed to tell them? Oh, sorry, I took a vacation in 1815. I got a little sidetracked with this whole arranged marriage problem. You know how that works. And I went to a few balls, and I wore corsets and stuff. Actually, the whole thing was sort of fun. So don’t you worry about me! Really!

This feels decidedly uncool, to be traipsing through mud puddles and squeezing past overflowing dumpsters, but whatev. It’ll keep my mind off Alex. Alex. God, I wish I could have brought him with me. Put him in a pair of jeans. I need to stop thinking of him. Stat. It makes my chest ache.

Oh. My. God. I’m a walking disaster,” I say to Emily. She’s sitting on a stool, wearing a gorgeous yellow robe, and spins around to look at me. A robe. Now why couldn’t I have had one of those? “What is the matter?” She’s wearing little rag-curlers, like me, but on her they look cute and perky. The white cloth contrasts with her dark locks, like some kind of fashion statement. Somehow I doubt I look quite as charming. I walk over to her bed and throw myself on it with a heavy sigh. “I just walked around wrapped up like this and ran into Alex. God, I’m lucky I didn’t see anyone else. I bet Victoria would have just loved seeing me like this.” Emily giggles. “You do look quite silly.” “Thanks,” I say, rolling over on the bed. “I can’t believe he saw me.” Emily sips at a small glass on her vanity and then turns and stares right into my eyes. “I had believed you had no interest in my cousin.” I snarl my lip at her in disgust. “Oh, I am so not interested in him. He is only interested in himself. I mean, really. Could he show some interest and compassion for the people around him? He’s totally self-centered. And on top of that, he thinks I should censor everything I say and be a docile little girl or something. I mean, really.” Her grin widens. “There is no need to sway me. I believe you.” “Oh.” So then why is she grinning at me like that? And more importantly, why doesn’t she hate him like I do? I mean, she might not know about the secret kid, but she knows he’s all for her marrying that Denworth guy because he’s done nothing to help her get out of it. Shouldn’t she resent him, even if he is her cousin? “Now, let us talk of more important topics: our attire for tonight’s dance.” And now I grin back at her and all thoughts of Alex disappear. This is going to be so fun.

Could this be a dream? Maybe I was knocked unconscious and I’m really sitting in a hospital bed coming up with this whole crazy story. That’s plausible. Sort of. Argh! I can’t believe this. Tears spring to my eyes again, only this time, I let them roll down my cheeks. This isn’t fair. I didn’t do anything to deserve this. Angela should be the one showcasing her survival skills. She made fun of me. Karma is supposed to catch up with things like that, not kick me when I’m down. Today is officially the worst day of my life.

His stare shifted to the Prada-wearing prick whose fingers were caressing her wrist. Hudson was already in a foul mood, and the more Mr. Touchy got feely, the more he wanted to cut the guy’s hand off with a butter knife. Slowly. Painfully. Hudson’s body warmed and he grounded his weight to keep from hurdling over the tables to do just that. Christ, he was acting like a jealous boyfriend.

The hallmark of originality is rejecting the default and exploring whether a better option exists. I’ve spent more than a decade studying this, and it turns out to be far less difficult than I expected. The starting point is curiosity: pondering why the default exists in the first place. We’re driven to question defaults when we experience vuja de, the opposite of déjà vu. Déjà vu occurs when we encounter something new, but it feels as if we’ve seen it before. Vuja de is the reverse—we face something familiar, but we see it with a fresh perspective that enables us to gain new insights into old problems. Without a vuja de event, Warby Parker wouldn’t have existed. When the founders were sitting in the computer lab on the night they conjured up the company, they had spent a combined sixty years wearing glasses. The product had always been unreasonably expensive. But until that moment, they had taken the status quo for granted, never questioning the default price. “The thought had never crossed my mind,” cofounder Dave Gilboa says. “I had always considered them a medical purchase. I naturally assumed that if a doctor was selling it to me, there was some justification for the price.” Having recently waited in line at the Apple Store to buy an iPhone, he found himself comparing the two products. Glasses had been a staple of human life for nearly a thousand years, and they’d hardly changed since his grandfather wore them. For the first time, Dave wondered why glasses had such a hefty price tag. Why did such a fundamentally simple product cost more than a complex smartphone? Anyone could have asked those questions and arrived at the same answer that the Warby Parker squad did. Once they became curious about why the price was so steep, they began doing some research on the eyewear industry. That’s when they learned that it was dominated by Luxottica, a European company that had raked in over $7 billion the previous year. “Understanding that the same company owned LensCrafters and Pearle Vision, Ray-Ban and Oakley, and the licenses for Chanel and Prada prescription frames and sunglasses—all of a sudden, it made sense to me why glasses were so expensive,” Dave says. “Nothing in the cost of goods justified the price.” Taking advantage of its monopoly status, Luxottica was charging twenty times the cost. The default wasn’t inherently legitimate; it was a choice made by a group of people at a given company. And this meant that another group of people could make an alternative choice. “We could do things differently,” Dave suddenly understood. “It was a realization that we could control our own destiny, that we could control our own prices.” When we become curious about the dissatisfying defaults in our world, we begin to recognize that most of them have social origins: Rules and systems were created by people. And that awareness gives us the courage to contemplate how we can change them. Before women gained the right to vote in America, many “had never before considered their degraded status as anything but natural,” historian Jean Baker observes. As the suffrage movement gained momentum, “a growing number of women were beginning to see that custom, religious precept, and law were in fact man-made and therefore reversible.

I must have fallen asleep on a rock. It’s digging into my shoulder blade. I scrunch up and start to roll over, but then freeze. It’s not just a single rock. It’s a giant one. Like concrete. I go numb as I realize what this means. It can’t be…I ease open my eye, and then in an instant I’m sitting upright and looking around. And all I see are cars. And people in blue jeans. And street signs. And I smell smog and I hear radios crackling in the passing cabs. I close my eyes for at least ten seconds and then open them again, but it’s all still there. The twenty-first century. I can’t stop my face from falling. I’m back. Just when I’d realized I don’t want this at all, I’m back. My shopping bags are strewn around me. I’m wearing jeans. A T-shirt. My heels. I glance back to realize the Prada shop is still a few yards behind me, just where I’d left it. I’m sitting in the exact spot I’d fallen down. I never left at all. I stay put for a few moments as a pounding headache fades. Alex. Emily. Even Victoria. They were all make-believe. Some figment of my banged-up brain. That means the kiss…God, I made it all up! Every single thing! I want to lie back down, close my eyes, and go back. I want horrible soup and stiff corsets and lump mattresses. I’ll trade it all to see Alex again. To go to Emily’s wedding. A man trips on my foot and then has the nerve to glare at me, even though he basically kicked me in the shin. Yes, I’m definitely in the twenty-first century. I scramble to my feet and wipe the dirt off my jeans and lean over to pick up my bags. And then I notice them. My heels. My beautiful, damaged heels. I glance over my shoulder. Yes, the Prada shop is definitely still behind me. I’ve gone maybe four steps from the door. Nowhere near enough to ruin the heels like this. They’re scuffed, dented, and scratched. I gather up the rest of my bags, my grin in full-force. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t make-believe or a dream or anything. It happened. As sure as the mud on the heels, it happened. There’s even a dent where the front door of Harksbury bounced off the toe. I don’t know how or why or anything, but somehow, I was there. I danced with Alex and helped Emily. I played a piano for a duke and a countess, and I ate more exotic animals than I ever wanted to. But it happened. I don’t understand it; I only know that the last month was real, and it was the best of my life. I sling the bags over my shoulder and practically skip down the block. No matter what happens next, no matter what happens for the rest of my life, I have something no one else will ever have. An adventure to rival Indiana Jones. A crazy month that can never be replicated.

Two hours later, we pause along the road, in the midst of cornfields. Alex turns his horse away from me and stares toward the crops for a long silent moment, and all I can hear is the distant sound of a cow mooing. And then he turns his horse around and heads back in the direction we came from. “Are you supposed to…I don’t know…see anyone today?” He cocks his head to the side and smiles at me, like he knows he’s been caught, but like he doesn’t care. “Not entirely. There are days I simply want to ride and see the land that has been left to me. I fear I may never see it all.” “Oh.” We turn our horses and head back in the direction of Harksbury. I like the way he relaxes when we’re this far away from it all. I’m starting to realize where he gets his attitude. Why he’s so uptight. The world rests on his shoulders. But out here, it’s just us. A guy and a girl. Riding horses. Hanging out. “Thank you,” he says. Huh? “For what?” He twists his reins around in his hands for so long I think he hasn’t even heard me. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him fidget. The only sound is the crunching of the horses’ shod hooves over compact dirt and loose rocks. “For being who you are,” he says. “You don’t accept anything as it is. Not if you don’t agree with it. You see things the way they should be and not the way they are…and it makes me want to do the same.” I just stare at him. Where’s Alex and who is this guy? “I’ve never met a girl who…challenges me as you do. I find I’m seeing things differently.” He exhales slowly. “I should not have raised my voice to you earlier. I am sorry.” I almost choke on my own spit. First a compliment and then an apology? And yet his apology is for yelling. Not kissing me. So what does that mean? He’s not sorry he kissed me? Something warm spreads through me and makes it impossible not to grin. Somehow, after all those confrontations, I earned his respect. By standing up for something. For someone. “Oh. Um, thanks,” I say. “Does this mean you think I might know a thing or two you don’t?” I smile at him and stare straight into his eyes. Is this flirting? “Perhaps,” he smiles back at me, his eyes sparkling with amusement. I wish this moment would last forever. But it can’t. He reaches down to run a hand over the glossy white coat of his horse with one of his doeskin-gloved hands. Say it. Just tell him you like him. He looks up at me, and I dart my eyes away and stare straight ahead. I like you. But I can’t do it. The words are caught somewhere at the back of my throat.

Look, Victoria wants us,” she says. I cringe when I realize Victoria is the grouchy old lady. Oh, joy. I follow Emily over to where Victoria is standing. Emily bobs into a curtsy and I awkwardly follow, and then trip on the skirt and have to grab the elbow of a random guy to stop myself from falling. Victoria stifles a laugh and I want to punch her for it, but the guy distracts me. “You must be Rebecca,” he says, in a voice that sounds sweet and intelligent, if a voice can be intelligent. “Yes, please, uh, excuse me for my clumsiness.” Poor Rebecca. I’m going to single-handedly ruin her reputation before she even gets to England.

But when I turn around, Alex is standing in front of me, an older guy trailing behind him. I’ve landed myself in the midst of two strangers and a guy I wish was a stranger. I so should have stayed hidden in the curtains.

He holds his hand up, palms facing me, so I push my hand against his and we sort of walk in a circle, our gloved hands palm to palm. Thank God we’re wearing gloves; I don’t want to touch this jerk.

Might you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?” I smirk. The guy just called me a lady. I guess he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. “Certainly. Might I introduce you to Lady Everson and Miss Rebecca Vaughn.” It’s hard not to scowl at his continued snub. “So lovely to meet you, Lady Everson, Miss Vaughn. Do you suppose you might like to dance?” When I come up from my curtsy, I realize he’s looking at me. I think I stop breathing for a second, because every muscle in my body freezes. I don’t even blink. This guy wants to dance with me instead of this “lady.” It’s exactly what I wanted, and yet I’m paralyzed with terror. I don’t know how. I’ve never even been asked to dance. Ever. Equal parts of anxiety and elation race through me. “Wouldn’t you prefer to dance with Lady Everson?” Alex says. And then before I know what he’s doing, he’s gently pushing Lady Everson forward and stepping in front of me, blocking my view of Brimmon. “She is a peer, after all.” I’m so stunned; the two disappear before I can even more. When Alex turns to me, I come unleashed. “You are the rudest, most ridiculously arrogant person I have ever met in my life!” I say, and then spin on my heel and stomp away. I’ve gone less than two yards before he stops me, a hand on my shoulder. “Miss Vaughn. As you are my guest, it is expected that the two of us shall dance.” I snort. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary. I won’t be your charity case. Wouldn’t you rather--“ But he grabs my hand, places it on his elbow, and starts pulling me toward the floor just as the music transitions. Half the guests are looking at us. I can hardly rip my arm away and stomp on his foot without looking like a total freak. Not if I want a nice guy to ask me to dance later. Besides, if Emily’s right, I can’t decline the first guy to ask me, or it will signal that I don’t want to dance all night. I hadn’t imagined the first guy would be Alex. Argh. We take our places in the middle of the line up. He bows, and so I curtsy, and then follow his lead as we walk forward and back a few times, standing on our toes when we’re close, and bowing down a bit as we step away. Everything I do is a half step behind him, but we’re managing. My anger still simmers below the surface. This is preposterous. He’ll dance with me because he has to, but he thinks I’m not actually good enough for him--or for anyone with a title. I knew my first impression of him would prove correct. I knew he wasn’t worth the ground I spit on! Talk about insulting! He holds his hand up, palms facing me, so I push my hand against his and we sort of walk in a circle, our gloved hands palm to palm. Thank God we’re wearing gloves; I don’t want to touch this jerk.

The next day, Emily is doing her best to show me one of her finer skills: needlepoint. I suck at it. It took me ten minutes just to get the needle threaded, and then it promptly fell off. I’m pretty sure this means I’d make a terrible wife in the 1800s. Needlepoint is like the ABCs of wifery or something.

He bows to the two of us, and when he speaks, his voice fills the room, far louder and more booming than a voice should be before noon. “I intend to ride the estate today, if you two would like to join me.” I open my mouth to give him a quick, No thanks, I’d rather pull out my own hair, but Emily beats me to it. “How kind of you to offer! We would love to.” Huh? I can’t figure out why Emily doesn’t hate Alex. He’s a jerk and he’s done nothing to help her out of her engagement. And now she’s volunteering to hang out with him? An excuse…I need some kind of excuse to get out of this. Alex walks to the window and looks out, offering a rather flattering view of the back of his riding pants. “Did you enjoy the dance last evening?” Is he making small talk? That’s a first. “Yes, very much so,” Emily says. “It was delightful.” I nod. “Yeah. I guess so.” I won’t say I had fun because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea. I don’t want him to know dancing with him was the most exciting part of my evening and the most agonizingly long half hour of my life. Alex looks at me for a long silent moment. You’d think he’d bring up the big “lady” versus “miss” debacle. Or just that we’d danced. But he doesn’t. “Yes, I rather enjoyed myself as well,” he says. Seriously, what does that mean? I was the only girl he danced with. The entire night. Is he trying to tell me something? Ha. Right. He probably means that it was all sorts of fun to insult me. And that’s when Emily starts rubbing her temple. She sets her needlepoint down and frowns, massaging in circular motions on the side of her face. Oh, no, she’s not-- “Dear cousin, I am coming down with a headache. Perhaps you and Rebecca ought to ride without me.” I get a twinge when I hear Rebecca. Every day it feels more like we’re friends--and more like I’m betraying her. And then she turns to me, knowing Alex can’t see her, and winks. “Oh, no, I--” I start to say, because I suddenly realize what she’s trying to do. This can not happen. A horseback ride alone with Alex? No thank you! But Alex cuts in before I can stop her. “Yes, I would not have you overexerting yourself. We shall check on you when we return.” Okay, this is not how I want to spend my afternoon. Alone with Alex? I’d rather get a root canal. But…maybe it’s my chance to talk to him about Emily. Maybe he doesn’t know about Trent. Emily said Trent was wealthy, right? He’s not titled, but he has money. If Alex knew about him…maybe he would get Emily off the hook with Denworth. Maybe that’s why Emily is trying to arrange for me to spend time with Alex. She so owes me after this. I can do this. I can hang out with him for a couple hours--long enough to talk him into helping us. Emily jumps up from her chair far too quickly for someone with a headache and leaves the room before I can do anything. I rub my eyes. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

Alex is standing so close I can smell him, this masculine musky scent that makes me want to rest my head on his chest and breathe in. Which is absurd, and I need to stop thinking about it. Wretched human being. Remember that.

I can feel the spot where his fingers touched my hips like they’re still there, holding me. Not cool.

I knew you would help me. When I realized you’d arrived so early, I thought you were a gift from God. And now it seems I was right.” She grins again as she resumes her packing, and I smile weakly at her. What if this falls apart? She’s already writing her Academy Award thank you speech and nothing’s fixed yet. If she knew my track record for screwing everything up…

His eyes never leave me. He’s tall enough to see over the heads of most of the other guys in the room, and as we twist and twirl and bob and bow, he never stops watching me. And instead of feeling gawky and clumsy, it gives me the strangest boost of confidence. I am flooded with adrenaline and energy. It runs up and down my arms and legs, and I want to grab his hand, gather my skirts in my free hand, and run away from the crowds so I can be with him. But I know it wouldn’t be proper, and so we simply dance. With every twist and dip, my smile grows. This must have been how Emily felt at the last dance. The reason she was glowing. And yet my brain keeps battling with my emotions, willing me to tell him who I am, to unload the truth. I know the clock is ticking. I know at any moment I can have everything yanked from me--yet another way I’m like Cinderella. Every time we stand closely, every time he’s looking at me, I try to tell him. I try to say I’m not Rebecca, try to say that I need to talk to him in private, but I can’t get the words out of my mouth. The song changes. The dance changes. But we don’t leave the floor. We dance through three songs. It must be at least an hour’s worth of dancing. I give up on the idea of telling him anything tonight. It can wait. It has waited thirty days; it can wait another. I’ll find him in the morning, before Rebecca arrives. I’ll explain it all. It’s not until I’m entirely too short of breath and dizzy--I blame it on the corset--that I have to bow out. Alex tries to follow me, but he is quickly swarmed by girls in fancy dresses and thick gemstones, and I can’t help but smirk at the look on his face. I’m starting to think he doesn’t want to be a duke at all, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. There are whispers as I leave the floor. All eyes are on me. I need fresh air, so I leave the room and find the courtyard, where several ladies are milling about. Emily is one of them. “I was beginning to think you’d simply keep dancing until the guests had all gone home.” I laugh. “I was a bit short of breath.” “I’m sure the young ladies in attendance thank you.” “Was it that obvious?” “His Grace would not have noticed if the ceiling had fallen in.” I know I should be embarrassed, but I just keep grinning. “I’m sure he was just being polite.” “A single dance would have sufficed. Three means he’s taken an interest. Tongues will wag. You, my dear, have just become the belle of the ball.” “Oh, I didn’t mean to steal your--” Emily laughs. “Not at all. I owe my engagement to you. You may take all the attention you want.” I smile at her and try not to notice that what she’s saying is true. People are watching us. She’s so sweet not to care that I’m stealing her limelight. She’s just that kind of person.

It’s Alex. He stands at the entry and looks straight at me. He’s not wearing a jacket or cravat, just a snowy-white shirt left loosened at the collar. It’s the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. For a long time, we just stare at one another. There’s an invisible barrier between us, and I don’t think he’ll break it. But then he does. “Might I join you?” “By all means.” I gesture to the lawn as if I’m Vanna White, and he walks over and takes a seat beside me. For a second, I think he’s going to say something about my clothes. He stares for a long moment, his lips slightly parted, but then he just closes them and doesn’t say a word. He’s finally figured out I’m always doing the unexpected. I lie back down and stare into the sky. “It’s a beautiful view, if you lie back. If, you know, that’s proper or whatever.” I silently curse myself for reminding him of etiquette, because we both know this doesn’t fall under Things A Duke Can Do With A Girl He’s Not Married To. He smirks, those perfectly full lips curling up on one side, but does as I say and lies down beside me. As soon as his arm brushes mine, my heart beats triple time. His fingers find mine and he interlaces them, until we’re holding and staring upward. I fight the urge to glance at our hands to see if the moment is real. I close my eyes and lose myself in the feeling of his bare skin on mine for the first time. He brushes my finger with the pad of his thumb, little circles that make my skin tingle and jump. I can’t believe all those times and all those pairs of gloves, and finally, it’s just him. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” I open my eyes. “Yes,” I say, barely above a whisper. I’m afraid to break the moment. It’s too perfect. “You looked beautiful,” he says. I smile. “You did too,” I say, and then cringe. “I mean, handsome.

I knew the instant I saw you that you were not her.” “But you didn’t say anything!” He smirks. “To be honest, I was intrigued. I intended to question you in private, so as not to alarm my mother or Emily. But then I saw the change in my cousin. She had been quite despondent over her impending marriage--until your arrival. I admit I had no intention of interfering in her engagement, yet I could hardly take away what happiness you brought. Perhaps it was a way of alleviating my guilt for not helping her. And aside from that, you seemed to be doing no harm.” He grins at that last statement, as it’s obvious I was up to far more mischief than he realized. “You mean all this time I’ve been freaking out over you hating me and you knew?” He smiles sheepishly. It’s the closest thing to embarrassment I’ve ever seen on his face. “Yes.” I groan. “I guess I deserve that.” I turn back to the sky, and for the first time, an odd sense of peace washes over me. I want to stay here. I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, I want to stay here. Those mixed feelings have been replaced by something else: fear. Fear that it’s not really my choice to make. His thumb picks up its soft circling on my hand. “What will you do now?” “I don’t…I don’t know. I mean, I’m so lost I can’t find my way home. And maybe that sounds weird, but it’s true.” “You may stay here. As long as you need to.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you. I’m not sure if I should, though. I belong somewhere else, and there may come a day when I need to go. When I…have to go. And I don’t want you to…I don’t want you to put anything on hold because of me.” I can’t believe I just said that. I can’t believe I implied he’d be so stuck on me that he wouldn’t pay attention to the other girls and his supposed duty to find a wife. A Duchess for Harksbury. “I would not wish you to leave if it is not your desire.” I nod and swallow the boulder-sized lump forming in my throat. I don’t know if he feels quite as strongly for me as I do for him, but he does care about me. And it feels good. “Thank you.” We turn back to the sky again, and I edge closer to him. I feel strange, dressed in my jeans and T-shirt, while he is still dressed as he always is. It makes it so painfully obvious that we’re from different worlds. Worlds that will never see one another. Worlds much too far apart. I turn toward him, so my cheek is resting on the cool grass. When he looks back at me, his eyes nearly blend with the blades until all I see is a sea of intense green. And then I do it. I edge closer to him, close my eyes, and kiss him. His lips are as soft and full as before, but I enjoy it this time, because my mind isn’t reeling like it was. I lose myself to the moment as he presses back against me. It is perfect. It is everything I want it to be and more. And then we both retreat, and I open my eyes. He moves his arm so that it wraps around my shoulders, and I have somewhere to rest my head, and then I snuggle up against him and close my eyes again, as the heavy draw of sleep lulls me under.

And then it actually becomes the most interesting thing in the world. A single word is embossed in fancy calligraphy letters. A single word that makes it feel like the whole room is spinning. Harksbury. What in God’s name? “What is this?” I point at it and shout in Mindy’s ear. She scrunches her eyebrows. “A coaster?” I groan. “No, I mean, the name. Harksbury.” “Oh. It’s the name of the club. I don’t know what it means, though.” I do. It’s the name of a dukedom. I wonder if that means some relative of Alex’s invested in this place or something. Or if someone borrowed their name. Or what. But it has to mean Harksbury is real, that it existed. I stare down at the word again. If the shoes weren’t enough…It has to be real. And seeing it like this reminds me of how I felt there. How it felt to be Rebecca. I tuck the coaster into my back pocket and try to ignore the stare Angela is giving me. She probably thinks I’m totally nuts, stealing a paper coaster. But it’s the closest I’ll get to a souvenir of my time-bending trip. And having it on me makes me feel stronger, somehow, like I can always be that girl at the ball. I look up when the boys file in and sit down on a bright orange couch shaped like a slug. “Ladies. This is Grant, Tim, and Alex,” door-boy says. He doesn’t even introduce himself. I guess I’m supposed to know who he is. I smile at Grant and nod at Tim, but when I get to Alex, I only stare. Alex. The Alex. No, no it can’t be. His hair is shorter, his skin smooth and shaven. He’s got on a green button-up, left open at the collar, which brings out the intense emerald shade of his eyes. There’s something different. The contour of his lips, the line of his nose. It’s almost him, but not quite. And he’s staring back at me. Does he know who I am? No, that’s silly. It’s not really him. Not Alex Thorton-Hawke, the Duke of Harksbury. Just Alex, the twenty-first-century guy standing in front of me. In a nightclub. In real life. Mindy jabs me with her elbow. “This is--” “Callie,” I say, standing and reaching my hand out. “My name is Callie.” It feels so good to say that. To be me. I grin involuntarily at the realization. He smiles and shakes it. “Hey.” For a second neither of us says anything else. We just keep shaking hands and staring at each other. My heart hammers out of control. I feel sweaty already. But it’s adrenaline. Excitement. I’m not terrified anymore. Not of Angela, not of Alex. I can do this. “Do you want to dance?” I ask. Did I really just say that out loud? That couldn’t have been me. That was someone else. “Huh?” He can’t hear me over the music. “Do you want to dance?” I say, louder this time, with a little more conviction. For emphasis, I nod my head toward the floor. I’m really doing this. “Yeah.” I’m not sure I’ve heard him correctly, but then he grabs my hand and leads me away, and I risk a glance back at the group. They’re just staring. For once in my life, I’ve upstaged them. I grin back and then turn my attention to Alex. I’ve thought about getting close to him for a month. I’m about to get my chance.

My first kiss. That was my first kiss. And he’s a duke. I just kissed a duke. And I didn’t even see it coming. I’d always imagined this slow-motion, front porch, end-of-the-first-date sort of thing. The anticipation, the nerves. But it was just…sudden and unexpected. This is insane. “Something wrong?” she says, her hazel eyes soft and expressive, as if I’m about to unload the weight of the world and she’ll gladly bear it all. “I--I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with your cousin. Everything he’s done up until now…and then…I just can’t figure out who he is, that’s all.” She just smiles and waits, like she knows I’ll continue once I figure out what I want to say. “It’s just…at the dance at the Pommeroy’s, he tried to tell this other titled guy that I wasn’t good enough to dance with. He told the guy he should dance with a lady instead. Like I’m not worthy or something because I’m just some commoner.” Emily furrows her brow. “That is quite unlike him. I’m sure he meant no harm.” “But it was just so pompous, and every time I think maybe he deserves a chance or something, I think about it again and realize what a jerk he’s been. Why would he tell Lord Brimmon I’m not good enough?” Her head snaps around and she looks at me. “’Twas Lord Brimmon?” I nod and narrow my eyes at Emily’s reaction. “Why does it matter who it was?” Emily hesitates. “Tell me,” I say. “Brimmon’s known as a rake at best and a scoundrel at worst. If Alex was trying to talk him out of dancing with you, it was for the sake of your reputation, not his.” My jaw drops. Could that be true? Could I have been wrong about him? Sigh. I’ve gotten nothing right in 1815. Nothing. I’ve been judging him for that comment since the moment he made it. “So…it had nothing to do with me not being good enough?” Emily laughs. “Oh, heavens, no. You’re his guest. How could that be true?” “Oh…But then he was saying he’d dance with me because it was expected. Because I was his guest, he would do it out of duty. He acted like it was a chore.” Emily looks downright amused. “Harksbury has hosted many guests. Alex danced with precisely one of them: you.” “Oh.” I stare down at my hands and try to suppress the urge to grin, but I can’t stop it. It spreads until I’m beaming. Alex danced with me because he wanted to. Not because he had to. Is it really possible there’s more to him than I thought? “Well now I’ve screwed everything up…” I trail off. I don’t think I can admit to the botched kiss moment with Alex. “He’s going to think I’m a total freak.” She furrows her brow. I don’t know if she’s wondering what’s gone on between Alex and me, or what a freak is. “I am certain he would not think such a thing.” I wish I could believe her. But I know the truth: there’s no way Alex is ever going to kiss me again. No matter how much I want it.

I take one step and my heel catches on a cobble. I barely manage to stop myself before I face plant. Oh God. These shoes! What if it’s the shoes? That’s exactly what happened before. Maybe I could buy a new pair of shoes and wear them, and maybe that would fix everything. I turn around and look up and down the walk. It’s not like I’ll find a Prada shop. But they obviously make shoes somewhere, right? I stalk past several stores, peering in the windows. Someone makes shoes. They have to. “Rebecca?” Emily’s voice calls after me as I pass another shop. The shoes will fix everything. I’ll put on some of those weird slipper-style things and once I walk out of the shop, I’ll be back in London. The Prada heels are just cursed or something. I pass another store. This one has little teacups in the window. This is ridiculous. Don’t girls like shoes here? Oh. Wait. Even if I find a shoe store, how am I supposed to pay for the shoes? Maybe I don’t need the shoes, per se. Maybe I just need to take these stupid ones off. I unbuckle the straps over my foot, pick up the heel, and fling one shoe down the walkway. Liberated, I pull the other heel off and fling it down with its mate. Now what? Should I fall over? On purpose? That’s how it worked before. I had to knock my head on the sidewalk. I eye the big cobbles beneath my bare toes. They look so hard. What if I have a real concussion? Last year, Mike Lange, star quarterback, had to sit out two games because he had a concussion. We lost both games because of it, but supposedly if he got another one within a couple weeks of the first, his brain could swell and he’d get brain damage. Which doesn’t really sound that fun. Emily clears her throat. I chew on my lip and look down the walkway at my shoes. What am I, crazy? I just flung four-hundred-dollar pumps down the street.

The duke raises his arm and sort of flicks his wrist, and they swoop into action, coming at me with a platter full of food. The first guy is holding a tower of eggs. Ew. I don’t do eggs. “Oh, um, no thank you, I’m not an egg person.” All noise stops. Everyone stares at me. Am I not supposed to talk to the servants? I smile weakly at the duke and his mother as the servant walks away, and another approaches with ham. I clamp my mouth shut as he plops a hearty portion down on my plate. My mouth is suddenly very dry. I turn to the servant standing motionless behind me. “Can I get some water?” Yeah. Definitely not supposed to talk to them. The guy’s eyes flicker over to the old lady, as if he needs permission to get me some water. “There is lemonade in front of you,” the old lady says. “Oh.” Is that what that is? I take a quick swallow and try not to choke. This obviously is not Country Time, if you know what I mean. I was starving ten minutes ago, but now that I’m sitting in the same room as these weird people, my appetite is gone. This breakfast needs to be over, stat. I can barely keep up with the glove and servant etiquette; I’m bound to screw something up. I need to maintain my fake identity, wrangle a ride to town, and say sayonara.

I was quite surprised when Emily told me you were wearing trousers when you arrived,” the old woman says. She’s cutting into her ham, her hands delicately gripping the silverware. “How terribly embarrassing.” Wow. Rude, much? Why does she have to talk to me at all? Let’s just shovel a bunch of breakfast in our mouths and get out of here. I need to leave now. But she’s staring at me, waiting for a response. She’s sitting back in her chair, carefully bringing tiny bites of food to her mouth without leaning forward the slightest bit. Well, I might as well stick with my story. “Yes, um, my nicer things were lost. I had no other choice.” The lady takes a bite of food, and for one blissful second I think she’s going to leave me alone. But alas, I am not that lucky. “I trust your father has seen to it that your studies are not neglected?” Another tiny bite. This lady eats like a bird. In comparison, I feel like a caveman with a drumstick. I nod my head, trying to think of something safe to say. “Yes, of course. I’m particularly talented in science and math.” Her mouth curls up in disdain. “Such…masculine topics! Has he not taught you the arts? French? Music?” Masculine? God, who does this lady think she is? She’s lucky I have to be nice to her.

At some point I realize I’ve made it to the opposite wing. I spot the courtyard through a set of leaded glass windows and the view is the opposite of the one I’ve seen from my wing. Thank God. It would have been terrible to wander much longer, looking like I do. I could have run into-- Alex. Alex! Just seeing him makes my anger boil. He’s staring at me, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. Is it me, or is he blushing? Hasn’t he ever seen a burrito-girl before? Or is it these dead-sexy rag-curlers in my hair that only an old lady would wear? Not only am I a burrito, I’m a geriatric one. Fabulous. “Uh, I’m looking for Emily’s room,” I say. I tighten my grip on the blanket, hoping none of me is hanging out anywhere it shouldn’t be. He doesn’t speak, just motions me to follow him. I walk beside him, the blanket dragging behind me. There are about a thousand things I’d like to say to him right now--Eliza’s pitiful schedule, that poor lady’s letters--but I can’t possibly have a serious conversation looking like this, so I don’t say any of them. When we get to the door, it’s open, and he steps aside so I can enter. He’s so close to the door that I end up brushing past him when I go by. “Thanks,” I mutter. As an afterthought I curtsy, but I’m not sure he can even tell because the blanket just sort of mushrooms out. I scurry through the door and slam it behind me, and then fall against it. Alex is probably staring right at the door in his face. Bet he doesn’t get that every day. It almost makes me feel better.

Once Alex enters the room, I forget I’m even hungry and nearly drop my plate. A helpful servant scoops it up from my hands. I see him in profile, his long lean body in stark shades of black and white: knee-high socks, dark, well-fitted pants, a jacket the color of midnight, and a snowy-white cravat as pressed and starched as ever. I’d think he looked entirely too formal, except my own dress is at least as fancy. Today, it’s appropriate. As much as it would be great to see him in a T-shirt, jeans, and ball cap, the formal attire simply suits him. He surveys the room as the others take notice of his presence, but before they can bombard him, his eyes sweep across to me and then stop. His lips give way to the slightest of smiles, and then he’s heading straight toward me, leaving a gaggle of disappointed faces in his wake. “Do I look okay?” I whisper to Emily, unable to take my eyes off of him long enough to check. She squeezes my hand. “You look…” “Stunning,” Alex finishes as he arrives in front of me. “Your Grace,” I say, for the first time, and curtsy. He looks amused that I’ve addressed him so formally. “My lady.” He bows, a deeper bow than I’ve ever seen him do. I rise and look him in the eye again. “I thought you said I wasn’t a lady.” He smirks. “I thought you said you were.” We smile at one another, and the room fades around me. “Save the next dance?” I nod. “Wonderful. I shall find you then.” And then he leaves me with Emily, and I finally know what a swoon is as I grab her elbow. “I thought he might ravish you right here on the floor,” she says with a giggle. “Emily!” “What?” And then I can’t help it; I burst into a fit of giggles with her, until my sides ache and I can hardly breathe. A few guests stare as they pass us--I’m betting such behavior is frowned upon--but I find that I don’t even care. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend who made me feel like I could be myself. Ironic, since I’m Rebecca here, but it’s still invigorating and exhilarating, and all we’re doing is standing here laughing like total lunatics. It’s definitely against Victoria’s Rules for Proper Young Ladies. But I don’t care. I am me. Whether that is someone they like or someone they despise, I am who I am, and that’s the truth. When have I ever been this sure of myself? “Is everything all right?” Emily stops giggling. “Yes. I--” I pause, taking a breath. “I’m…better than all right.” I glance around at the beautiful, sparkling ballroom and then back at Emily’s smiling face. “I’m perfect.

Miss Rebecca Vaughn,” Eliza says, as if to formally present me to Alex. I walk into some kind of parlor, trying to hold my head up high and act as if I’m not at all nervous. I half-heartedly hope Eliza will stay inside the room but she doesn’t; she steps aside and lets me enter. I walk to a high-backed brocade chair with gilded arms and legs across from the big sofa Alex is occupying and sit down. I cross my ankles and carefully spread out my skirts as if it’s the most important thing in the world and requires every ounce of concentration. Victoria would be proud. “Where is she?” His voice comes out firm, demanding. Wow. So much for stalling. I bite my lip. “Who?” “Do not play games,” he says. I study my hands as they wring in my lap. I can play dumb, I can postpone this, or I can just tell him. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “With Trent Rallsmouth,” I say, peeking up at him from underneath my lashes. His eyes fly open and he sits up straighter. “The boy from the dance? Where?” Oh God. He does not look happy. “The gardener’s cottage on the eastern edge of Harksbury.” Alex stands like he’s the incredible hulk--so quickly I’m surprised the whole sofa doesn’t fly back and crash into the wall. Oh God, this was so stupid; he’s going to kill me. Or throw me in that dungeon I’m still convinced he has… “Please tell me they have a proper chaperone,” he says. I purse my lips and shake my head. He sighs, a great drag of irritation, and crosses his arms at his chest. It makes his chest bulge with muscle, and I try to focus on the fact that he seems like he could wring my neck and not on the way he looks today. Which, seriously, is pretty hot. His face is flushed in anger, which brings out his dark eyes… Focus.

Oh God, this was so stupid; he’s going to kill me. Or throw me in that dungeon I’m still convinced he has…

My walk to Alex’s study is like the green mile. I wonder what he’s going to say. This isn’t going to be fun. I step inside his study, but no one announces me, and he doesn’t notice. So I just stare. He’s writing something. With a quill and ink. The well is sitting next to his right hand. He’s so intent on whatever he’s writing he keeps at it for thirty seconds before he sees me. Long enough for me to see the way he narrows his eyes when he’s concentrating and the way he purses his lips. Long enough for me to wonder what it would be like to kiss him. Oh God, where did that come from? I hate him. Hate him. There’s no way I could possibly want to kiss him. He looks up at that instant, and I do my best to just smile right at him and not give away my thoughts. “Please sit,” he says, rising. I nod and sit down in the same fancy chair as before. The door stays open. I sit as erect as possible, my hands in my lap, my ankles crossed beneath me. Victoria must be rubbing off on me. Alex comes around to the front of his desk and rests on it, crossing one ankle over the other as he leans back. “What you did was overstepping your bounds.” I clench my teeth, hard, to stop from snapping back. I have to see where he’s going with this before I get angry. “You went behind my back and orchestrated one of the most ill-planned, riskiest schemes I’ve ever seen. I am shocked.” “But--” He puts his hand up to silence me. “I won’t tell you what I had to do to convince her father to consent to the new arrangement. You are lucky Mr. Rallsmouth will have the means necessary to support Miss Emily, as she will not be receiving a thing from her father from here on out.” All I hear is convince her father. So it worked?” A grin spreads across my features and I jump to my feet. “She’s going to marry Mr. Rallsmouth?” Alex pushes off the desk behind him and stands in front of me. “Have you not heard a word I said? You made grievous errors of judgment. You--” “But I was right! And thanks to me, she’s going to marry the love of her life!” He’s standing right in front of me, inches away. “You were not right! You interfered and it was not your place!” I clench my fists as my anger flares to match his. “You think nothing is my place because I’m some lowly, untitled girl! But someone had to do it, and you didn’t care to!” “You should not have gotten involved!” he growls. “You should not have forced me to!” I say, jabbing my finger into his chest. “You should have been there for her when she needed you!” In an instant, he closes the gap between us. His lips hit mine so fast I can’t even close my eyes. His hands find a place on either side of my face and pull me close, and for two-point-five seconds, I’m lost somewhere between closing my eyes and standing there, frozen. Somehow the eyes win out and I shut them, and my knees start to buckle as I press my lips into to his. I stop breathing and grip his sleeves with both hands to keep from falling straight over. His lips are warm and soft and… And then I realize what’s going on. Who I’m kissing. You’re not a lady, he’s said. It stings as much now as it did the moment he said it. He thinks I’m unworthy. What am I doing? I reel back and knock into the wall with a loud crash that makes him jerk his eyes open. “I, uh…” I stutter, then spin around so fast my skirts twist around my legs and I have to wait for them to swing around again before dashing out of the room.

It’s only an hour later that a servant comes to my room. And when she tells me the duke has invited me out for a horseback ride, I’m flooded with the strangest mix of emotions. I can’t believe that after running off like that, he still wants to hang out. What is going on between us? And why do I want so desperately for it to be something? I shouldn’t want anything. Not with a guy like him. I mean, yeah, I might have been wrong about the illegitimate kid and Lord Brimmon, but the dude still thinks I don’t have opinions or options because I’m a girl. He thinks I have a “place, my place” and that it’s behind a guy. And worse, I keep thinking about our kiss. The part where I bash into the wall in my haste to get away is a particular highlight on the reel I keep playing over and over again in my head. When I walk out the back of the house and he turns to look at me, it’s impossible to fight the burn in my cheeks as he steps up beside me and the horse. I can’t look at him. I’m so embarrassed I stare at the stirrup as if it will take all concentration to get my foot into it. Is he going to say anything? Is he going to apologize for just…kissing me like that? Maybe if he brings it up…Maybe if he apologizes, I can apologize too. For running off. It was so sudden all I could do was react. But he says nothing. He just steps up beside me and gives me a boost. I’m up on the first try and feeling rather proud of myself as I situate my pretty skirts so they drape over my ankles. Until, that is, I see him swing aboard and am reminded of how graceful and easy he makes it look, even when his horse swings away from him when he’s only halfway on. We ride past the stable, and when I glance in, I see one of the stable boys showing the other how to do the robot, his arms stuck out at odd angles, his hands dangling. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when I see Alex’s eyebrows shoot up so high they’re nearly to his hairline. It’s nice seeing him caught off-guard. I like it. It makes me want to do something totally crazy, just to see his expression.

What am I, crazy? I just flung four-hundred-dollar pumps down the street. “Shall we return to Harksbury? Your journey must have tired you more than you expected. You need proper rest, yes?” She’s looking at me like I’ve gone a little loco, her cute button nose wrinkled up and her wide hazel eyes narrowed to tiny little slits. How am I going to return to Harksbury after telling them all off? Maybe knocking my head wouldn’t be that bad. Stay calm. That’s what everyone says about emergencies. You have to stay calm and everything will resolve itself. “Yes. Let me, uh, let me go grab my shoes.” I hobble, barefoot, down the walk and retrieve my pumps, jam my feet back into them, and then follow her back to the carriage. The servants are silent, but I know they’re staring at me when my back is turned. I have to pull it together. I can’t just lose it like that, throwing my shoes like I’m in a shot-put competition. If I think clearly, maybe I’ll come up with a real plan. But until then, my name is Rebecca. I am a prim and proper Regency girl. I wear dresses and I curtsy. I belong here.

I’m smart, right? I should be able to come up with a solid plan as to how I can get back to the twenty-first century. The trouble is I’m lost without Wikipedia and Google. I know all sorts of things, of course, but none of it is useful: the periodic table of elements, how to factor a math equation with four different variables, the symbiotic relationship between the great white shark and the remora fish. Completely useless, random information. Even a year of advanced chemistry isn’t going to do me any good; it’s not like there’s a chapter in there about time travel. I get up off the bed and creep to the door and peek out. No one is around. I’ll just explore the house. Maybe there really is a phone hidden somewhere that will prove Emily is lying about 1815. Or maybe I’ll find a servant in some Old Navy jeans.

You are American,” he says, as if I’m a mythical creature. I nod. “Yes. And, uh, we have different dances where I come from.” “Can you show us one?” The second boy, a dark-haired kid, steps forward, looking intrigued. I stifle a laugh. “Oh, uh, no. I’m a horrible dancer.” “Please?” the redheaded boy asks. “I have never seen an American dance.” I just laughed at them thirty seconds ago. Wouldn’t that make me mean if I just blow them off now? “I doubt you’d want to see these dances,” I say, stalling. I feel kind of bad. But I really can’t dance. I’ll make a fool of myself. “Oh, but I do. Most certainly.” “Oh.” Well, then. I could try, right? Just some tiny little thing? But what do I share? MC Hammer? The Running Man? The Electric Slide? A little Macarena? “Uh,” I say, stepping forward. “How about, um, the Robot?” “The Robot?” the two boys ask in unison. Did the word robot even exist in 1815? “Yeah. You, uh, hold your arms out like this,” I say, demonstrating the proper way to stand like a scarecrow. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “And then relax your elbows and let your hands swing. Like this.” I’m really not doing it well, but by the way their eyes widen, you’d think I just did a full-on pop-and-lock routine with Justin Timberlake. They mimic my maneuver, making it look effortless. The drummer guy stands up and gets in on the action, swinging his arms freely. The guy’s better than me after a two-second demo. Figures. “Okay, then, uh, you sort of walk and you try to make everything look stiff and, uh, unnatural. Like this.” I show him my best robotic walk, my arms mechanical in their movements. The two boys and the drummer immediately copy me, and by the time they’ve taken four or five steps, they seriously look like robots. In no time they’re improvising, and their laughter trickles up toward the rafters of the barn. Yeah. That’s my cue to leave before inspiration strikes and I try to show them how to break-dance but only succeed in breaking my neck. I slip out of the barn unnoticed, grinning to myself as I walk the gravel path back toward the house, my skirts brushing the dirt. At least somewhere, I’m not Callie the Klutz. Even if it’s just some smelly old barn. There’s hope for me after all.

Why do you suppose the sky is blue? Why not green or red?” I shrug and follow her gaze. The sun has almost set, the pale blue of day transforming into dark velvet. “It has to do with the light waves. Blue scatters differently than red does.” Emily looks at me quizzically. “You say such odd things at times, Rebecca.” I smile, a little embarrassed. I probably shouldn’t show my nerdy side unless under duress. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about that in the Social Climber’s Guide to Regency England. “What is this you speak of?” Alex’s voice is so deep and unexpected I jerk my eyes from the stars and look at him. “I’m sorry?” “The light waves. What do you mean by them?” Oh. Right. “Um, well, light comes from the sun in waves. Of color. And then they reflect on different things in the atmosphere and…Oh never mind.” It’s sort of stupid to explain the whole thing, given how complicated it is. Alex looks straight at me for a long moment, and then turns back to stare at the sky. “And who told you such a thing?” I snort. “People much smarter than you.” “I’m smarter than you think,” he says, avoiding my eyes. It’s almost dark out. What is he even looking at? “And I’m not as ignorant as you think,” I say. He turns so abruptly I’m surprised he doesn’t strain his neck. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say anything. I dare him to disagree. I wait for it. But then he just turns away.

He bows to the two of us, and when he speaks, his voice fills the room, far louder and more booming than a voice should be before noon. “I intend to ride the estate today, if you two would like to join me.” I open my mouth to give him a quick, No thanks, I’d rather pull out my own hair, but Emily beats me to it. “How kind of you to offer! We would love to.

I'm the best still in this game, I'm rich bitch like Rick James Gotta group of hoes in MIA, get a condo in Biscayne The Louis store I drop bands, the Gucci store I drop bands Prada store I went ham, my left wrist it cost a lamb Your girlfriend a groupie like Trident she wanna chew me Hell naw I ain't cuffin' 'em I'm a dog just like Snoopy And when I leave the mall it's sold out, erryday shoppin' Taylor gang, blowin' money, 50,000 on wrist watches 100,000 in a plastic bag, we takin' off, bitch pack your bags Bitch I came from hell and nothin', damn right I have to brag Try me and I'll pop your ass, stupid nigga, get a body bag All I talk is money ho, rich niggas don't lollygag

Rick?! Is she serious?! What a way to get me back. There is no fucking way that she slept with him because she “likes him.” She “likes” her dog. She “likes” her new pair of Prada boots that she got on sale at Nordstrom last weekend.

He leans in to attempt to give me a Nutella kiss, but I am wearing Prada, so I take a step back and put up my hands to keep him away.

Of all the way I’d pictured my Friday night going, getting trapped in a pool room by a blonde who eyed me like I’d stolen her favorite Prada purse wasn’t one of them.

I stand there, panting, and look at Beth. My first friend at Draycott, the girl who took me under her wing. Sweet, studious Beth. She’s kneeling on the floor, crying, grabbing as many of the bags as she can and stuffing them back into a Prada handbag. I was right about her being the drug dealer, but this doesn’t feel at all like victory.

I stare into the space he just left. Every cell in my body is tingling, every inch of me craving what he has to give. Good God, the devil really does wear Prada. I’m totally fucking screwed.

My scents for change are (and there's a lot of them, because there's a lot going on for me at the moment!): Pour Homme by Yamamoto On the Road by Timothy Han Santal Blanc by Serge Lutens Oud Wood by Tom Ford Dear Polly by Vilhelm La Flâneuse by Lucien Lechêne PM by the Great Eastern Fragrance Company Je t'aime Jane by Bella Freud No. 9 Benjoin by Prada Shalimar by Guerlain Original by Eight & Bob

The city looked marvelous with its dazzling skyscrapers. I felt lost within the Big Apple. The never-ending attractions were calling me. The streets were filled with people. It was like the world was touching the sky. The paths didn’t seem to stop anywhere. There were platforms of happiness and shops of dreams: Prada, Zara, Giorgio Armani, Gucci, Givenchy, Jimmy Choo, Versace, Dior, Bloomingdale, all of them. There was no lack of fun and happiness. Yet in the entire city, there was a strange silence, a cold passion. Every set of eyes seemed to be lonely. Everyone was together yet disconnected and I felt so miserable that I puked while we were passing Macy’s in the cab.

1 It was early December. The streets of Milan glistened with Christmas decorations, with people coming and going carefree, carrying elegant shopping bags. It was past eight, and several minutes earlier I had closed behind me the door of Passerella, the modelling agency I ran. I had let my assistant, Giovanni, file the photos of the new faces we had initially chosen for Dante’s summer collection. He was an up-and-coming designer. The minute I walked down Monte Napoleone, one of the city’s most commercial streets, the chilly air forced me to wrap up well in my brand new light green coat. An original piece of cashmere, the five letters embossed on its lapel making it even more precious in that cold weather. My fingers contentedly groped for the word “Prada” before I stuck my hand into its warm pocket, while clutching my favourite handbag tight. A huge red ostrich Hermes where you could find cosmetics, scarves, and accessories, which I could use throughout the day, giving a different twist to my appearance. I wanted to walk a little bit to let off steam. My job may have been pleasant as it had to do with the world’s most beautiful creatures, men and women, but it wasn’t without its tensions. Models went to and fro, trade representatives looking for new faces, endless castings, phone calls, text messages, tailors, photographers, reports from my secretary and assistants—a rowdy disorder! I had already left the building where my job was, and I was going past another two entrances of nearby premises, when my leg caught on something. I instantly thought of my brand new Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’d only put them on for the second time, and they were now falling victim to the rough surface of a cardboard box, where a homeless man slept, at the entrance of a building. My eyes sparked as I checked if my high heels were damaged. On the face of it, they were intact. But that wasn’t enough for me. I found a lighter, and tried to check their red leather in the dim light. Why should the same thing happen over and over again every time I buy new shoes? I wondered and walked on, cursing. Why had that bloke chosen that specific spot to sleep, and why had I headed for his damn cardboard box! As I held my lighter, my angry gaze fell on the man who was covered with an impermeable piece of nylon, and carried on sleeping. He looked so vulnerable out in the cold that I didn’t dare rouse him from his sleep. After all, how could I hold him responsible in this state? I quickened my gait. Bella was waiting for me to start our night out with a drink and supper at Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, the imposing arcade with a dome made of glass, its ambience warm and romantic. Bella’s office was nearby, and that meeting place was convenient for both of us. That’s where we made up our minds about how to spend the night.I walked several metres down the road, but something made me stop short. I wanted to have a second look at that man. I retraced my steps. He was a young man who, despite his state, seemed so out of place. His unkempt hair and unshaven face didn’t let me see anything else but his profile, which reminded of an ancient Greek statue, with pronounced cheekbones and a chiselled nose. This second time, he must have sensed me over him. The man’s body budged, and he eyed me without making me out, dazzled by the lighter flame. As soon as I realised what I had done, I took to my heels. What had made me go back? Maybe, the sense of guilt I felt inside my warm Prada coat, maybe, the compassion I had to show as Christmas was just around the corner. All I knew was that a small bell jingled within, and I obeyed it. I walked faster, as if to escape from every thought. As I left, I stuck my hand in my bag, and got hold of my mobile. My secretary’s voice on the other end of the line sounded heavy and imposing. Giovanni wasn’t the embodiment of “macho” man, but he had all it takes to be the perfect male. Having chosen to quit modelling, he still looked gorgeous at the age of

Por eso he entendido muy bien aquel amor tan humano y tan divino de Teresa del Niño Jesús, que se conmueve cuando por las páginas de un libro asoma una estampa con la mano herida del Redentor. También a mí me han sucedido cosas de este estilo, que me removieron y me llevaron a la comunión diaria, a la purificación, a la confesión... y a la penitencia

Nah, the way you fucked and sucked me, you deserve nothing but the best which is why, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Prada, Chanel and all those other stores will be open.