Summer Intern by Carrie Karasyov

Author:Carrie Karasyov [Karasyov, Carrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Later that night we all put Daphne out of our mind and went to Melt, which was amazing. I was so nervous about using my fake ID. My cousin Charlotte had given me her driver’s license, and she looked a lot like me, but I wasn’t sure it was going to work. Gabe told me I was being ridiculous and that Charlotte and I were as similar as the Olsen twins, but my heart was pounding as Teagan and I followed a confident Gabe past the crowds of “201’s and 516’s,” as Daphne would say, referring to the New Jersey and Long Island area codes. As we approached the velvet ropes, my hand shook as I retrieved Char, my drink-pounding, 2-D alter ego.

“We work for Skirt,” said Teagan. Trixie and Lilly, the market editors, had alerted us to the fact that it worked magic if we ever wanted to cut a line. Clubs liked to be associated with the hippest publications on the planet, which made sense. It also usually worked for getting reservations at new restaurants and tickets for premieres.

The humongous bald bouncer barely even looked at Teagan or me, stopping only to inspect Gabe’s butt, then shrugging and letting him in.

The club was cool, not like one of those thumping techno music places where you can’t see or hear anyone, but more like a 1940s swanky lounge. The walls were wood-paneled, and leather booths featured on each table cute little lamps with covered lamp shades. I felt like I was in a speakeasy, but I guess that was the point.

While I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to snag a cool outfit from the closet, I had made do in a very thin white leather shirt slash jacket and a diaphanous layered lilac skirt that was from agnès b. like twenty years ago. I had also splurged on cool dangling earrings from an up-and-coming designer in NoLita.

Gabe and I had just finished singing “Happy Birthday” to Teagan over the DJ’s remixes when Gabe’s jaw dropped as he grabbed my arm.

“Okay, ten o’clock there is the hottest guy!” squealed Gabe.

“Ten o’clock? Where the hell is that?” asked Teagan, who was already a bit tipsy from the mojitos.

“Over there,” said Gabe, abandoning his code and flagrantly pointing to a guy at the bar.

He was hot. He looked like Brad Pitt when he was still with Jennifer Aniston but right before their divorce, when he had that short cropped blondish haircut pre-Troy, but not as blond as it was when he was with Gwyneth Paltrow, and also about twenty years younger. And his clothes were cool, kind of black on black (shirt, pants) that were more thrown on than contrived to be a badass. Just as I was staring at him he turned and caught my eye and smiled, holding up his beer bottle as if to say “cheers.”

“He just smiled at me! Oh my God, heart palpitations,” said Gabe, fanning himself.

Wait, wasn’t he smiling at me?

“Really?” I asked, confused.

“Go talk to him! Go talk to him!” commanded Teagan, waving her mini-drink-straw in the air.

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