Friends with Benefits by Melody Mayer Page A

it.” He squeezed her hand and gazed into her eyes with the same look he had in that Calvin poster on Sunset Boulevard; her knees nearly buckled. He was so close and so gorgeous and so . . . so out on a date with Kiley McCann from freaking La Crosse freaking Wisconsin, home of the world’s largest six-pack. Kiley McCann, who hadn’t even been
close
to being the cutest girl at her high school, whose one and only sexual experience with her one and only boyfriend had been such a singular disaster that she wasn’t even sure whether they’d—
    â€œYou okay?” Tom asked, still holding her hand.
    She took a deep breath. “I’m good.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    They headed inside. As they did, a couple of girls Kiley vaguely recognized from
The Apprentice
stumbled out, laughing together.
    The interior was stunning: a huge open expanse of space, with soaring rough-hewn beamed ceilings and spectacular rose-colored lighting. The furnishings echoed the sea. Wooden tables holding bowls of seashells were carved into rippling waves. The chairs and couches were the color of the ocean. A mantel, perhaps twenty feet long, held more seashells, exquisite aqua glass vases that looked handblown, branches, leaves, and seed-pods. Pillows on the white couches were hand-embroidered with butterflies, seagulls, and fish. A chandelier shone with amber and aquamarine glass beads, looking nothing like anything Kiley had ever seen before.
    â€œWow, Marym has great taste,” Kiley mused.
    â€œNah, Harry Schnaper—he’s a famous interior decorator from New York, I guess—did the whole thing for her.”
    Kiley’s gaze swung upward. On a level perhaps twenty feet up a man in a tuxedo played a white grand piano, and sang “If I Loved You” into a mike. Kiley knew the song; she’d been in the chorus of her high school’s production of
Carousel.
Behind him was a bleached-wood open bar, where a trio of bartenders mixed drinks to order. Meanwhile, waiters in tuxedo shirts and black trousers snaked through the crowd, offering flutes of champagne with mango slices floating in them, or various hot appetizers. Beautiful people milled everywhere, clad in everything from the most casual of jeans and T-shirts to expensive beaded sundresses and leather jackets. Funny how Platinum had been so wrong. Kiley really
could
have worn her dad’s bowling shirt. If you were rich enough, famous enough, and good-looking enough to be invited to this party, you were by extension cool enough to wear whatever you wanted.
    â€œSee that cabinet?” Tom pointed to an antique-looking piece of furniture near the front door. It held a single giant seashell and dozens of yellow roses. “It’s called a trove cabinet. It’s crafted from individually carved coral-shaped wood twigs. They’re silver-leafed and then attached, one by one, to the wooden frame. The doors are antique mirror glass.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Kiley marveled.
    â€œMarym told me it used to belong to Coco Chanel,” he explained. “Harry found it for her at a Sotheby’s auction.”
    Gee. Swell.
    â€œCome on, I’ll introduce you around.” Tom took her arm again. Snippets of profanity-laced conversation came at her as they wended their way through the crowded living room.
    â€œMichelle is dating another druggie . . . he trashed their room at the Century City Plaza so bad that the hotel put them on their shit list.”
    â€œTry the La Mer Essence . . . twenty-one hundred dollars for a vial but it was in the goody bag for the Grammys and I’m telling you the shit works.”
    â€œIf he asks Tyra to do his shitty FAB show instead of me I’m killing him.”
    Tom halted at a group of four people chatting with crystal champagne flutes in hand. Kiley recognized their hostess immediately. If anything, Marym was more beautiful in person; photographs amazingly did not do justice