Page 66 of Meant to Be

“Okay. Look. This is what I was trying to tell you…” he said, suddenly sounding sober—and very serious. “This is why we need to step out and establish ourselves as a real couple. The sneaking around is backfiring. We have nothing to hide.”

“What do you mean ‘step out’? What does that entail?”

“Well. It could be any number of things. We could go to an event together. Do the whole red-carpet drill. Pose and smile, arm in arm.”

“I don’t know about an event,” I said, imagining all the conversations I’d have to have with haughty philanthropist types.

“Okay. We can just go out to dinner…the two of us…and tip off a photographer as to where we are.”

“You mean—cooperatewith the paparazzi?” I said, the mere thought filling me with disgust.

“Yeah. But it would be on our terms.”

“How do we do that?”

“Well…One of the guys—Eduardo’s his name—has been following me for years…. But he’s less offensive than the others…. I know he’d do it for us…. Then we can plant an official statement—”

“An official statement?” I said, my heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean?”

“You know…something like ‘A source close to Joe Kingsley confirms that the two have been in an exclusive relationship for several months now.’ That type of thing…which will run alongside our photo.”

“Have you done that before?” I said, thinking of Margaret—and the girls before her.

“No.”

“Then why are you doing it now?”

“Because I wanna protect you.”

“Do I need more protection than the others?” I asked, thinking that there was no way anyone had name-called Margaret—a Harvard-educated blue blood with abob.

“No,” Joe said. “You’re actually tougher than any girl I’ve ever been with.”

“So why, then?” I pressed.

“Because,” Joe said, “I’m crazy about you, Cate. And I want this to work. More than anything. And if this will help us be together, I want to do it. That’s why.”

It was so hard to believe what he was telling me, but, somehow, I did.

—

That Friday evening,after agonizing about what to wear to dinner, I walked out of my apartment wearing a little black Yohji Yamamoto dress, black slingbacks, and red lipstick. It had been a full week since I’d seen Joe’s face, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw him smiling at me through the backseat window of a shiny black town car.

I quickly opened the door before he could get out and do it for me, sliding in beside him. “Hey,” I said, feeling oddly shy.

“Hi, there,” he said in a low voice. “You lookfantastic.”

“You do, too,” I said, noticing he was wearing the same Wilbur ensemble he’d worn in Paris.

We stared at each other for a few more seconds before Joe turned to tell the driver we were all set.

As we pulled away from the curb, I asked him where we were going, as he’d wanted it to be a surprise.

“Aureole,” he said. “I wanted to take you somewhere a bitmore imaginative…but it was tough to get a reservation on such late notice.”

“Youhad trouble getting a reservation?” I said. “That seems unlikely.”

“I didn’t use my own name, dippy.”

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