Only in Your Dreams (Gossip Girl #9)(19)
Only without the stick. And the ball. And the rest of the team.
“You must really like him, though, to want to work for him all summer,”Tawny countered.
Nate shrugged, rubbing his hand over his stiff neck. “I guess.” No need to tell her about the stolen Viagra and the withheld diploma, right?
Best not.
“Poor boy,” she cooed. “Maybe you need a massage. I can practice on you. I’m totally going to be an LMT after I graduate.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. LMT?
Low-class mega-slut townie?
“A licensed massage therapist, silly! I can’t believe you didn’t know that. Anyway, I talked to these people at this spa in Sag Harbor and they might let me do an actual internship. You know, practicing on real people? I’m so psyched.” She leaned in across the table and began massaging Nate’s forearm, using both of her hands and applying a surprising amount of pressure, her long manicured fingertips scraping his skin like ice scrapers on a car windshield. “See?” she asked. “Doesn’t that feel good?”
It did feel good, sort of, but Nate was much more interested in the view: Tawny was leaning so far forward that her impressive pear-shaped boobs were totally visible.
“So, um, you’re still in high school, then?” Nate mumbled, remembering that it was his turn to say something. “I just graduated.” Saying that felt good. It made him feel manly.
Oh boy.
“I’m graduating next year,” she explained, moving her hands from his forearm to his chest, which was tight from hammering. “I can’t wait. I’m so sick of high school. I figure I’ll get my certification, you know, get a house in the Bays. If you’re good, you can make such awesome cash from the summer crowd you don’t have to work the rest of the year. That’s totally my plan: make a good living mooching off summer people.” She laughed.
“Cool.” Nate was having trouble concentrating on what Tawny was saying because her boobs were practically in his lap. He’d tuned her out so completely she sounded kind of like the parents in a Peanuts cartoon. Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. Her lips looked so full and peach-colored and shiny, and she smelled like vanilla.
He pitched his head forward and lightly kissed her, touching her cheeks gently. Her mouth tasted like Diet Coke and some sort of artificial but totally delicious fruit.
After a few moments she giggled and pulled away. “We can do that all night, but I want to know about your plans too,” she went on, sitting back down and taking his hand. “You can tell me all about it over dinner.”
“Sure, yeah.” Nate stood and patted his pocket to make sure he’d remembered to bring his wallet. He wondered if the Oyster Shack accepted platinum American Express. He licked his lips, which tasted sort of slick and fruity now themselves and would probably make his beer taste like pi?a colada. “Let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you my whole master plan.”
Nate Archibald has a master plan?
“Sounds impressive.” Tawny giggled again as she stood and gathered up her cigarettes, her lighter, and her gold pleather XOXO clutch with buckles all over it.
“Well, I’m starting Yale in a couple of months—”
“Yale? Really? Damn, that’s a good school.” She linked her arm with Nate’s. “And expensive.”
Then again, education is like a Birkin bag—how can you put a price on such things?
Gossip Girl 09 - Only in Your Dreams
b is for betrothed
Blair Waldorf crossed her legs and leaned back in the deep-brown high-backed leather chair. Lifting the white Spode porcelain teacup to her lips, she took a dainty sip of lukewarm Earl Grey tea and smiled at Jemima, the salesgirl who was hovering over her. “Miss Waldorf,” Jemima tittered, handing Blair a small navy blue leather portfolio. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Blair opened the book; inside were her black American Express card, a receipt, and a pen, which she grabbed, signing the dotted line without glancing at it.
“Lovely. Now, I’ve had your parcels packed up and they’ll be off to Claridge’s shortly. Can I do anything else for you? Fetch a taxi, perhaps?”
“No, thank you.” She smiled gracefully. “I think I’ll walk.”
She had been sitting comfortably in a private back room in a new boutique called Kid in West London for an hour, keeping Jemima, a pretty brunette with terrible teeth, busy fetching every style of boot they stocked. As she tried on the twenty-plus pairs of boots, she’d had two cups of tea, glanced at the new issue of French Vogue, and made a telephone call to Lord Marcus. Voicemail. She wondered if he was working, or if he was off with Camilla somewhere, buying new croquet mallets, or ...
Or what?
Blair didn’t give up easily and she was determined not to let yesterday get her down. Maybe Marcus and Camilla needed to get their cousinly bonding thing out of the way. They’d undoubtedly soon tire of each other’s company. Besides, Marcus was likely to forget Camilla’s name when he caught a glimpse of Blair in her new knee-high black python-skin boots and her new black lace Gossard corset and matching boy shorts, which she planned on modeling for him that very night in between courses during the champagne-and-chocolate room service dinner she’d planned.
Tucking the still-warm credit card back into her new Smythson billfold, Blair dropped her wallet inside the limited-edition hand-painted Goyard bag she’d picked up the day before and walked out of the store and onto the quiet stretch of Press Street. She’d been to London only once with her family, when she was twelve. They’d stayed at the Langham Hotel just off Regent Street, visited Old Ben and Buckingham Palace, seen the crown jewels, watched the changing of the guard, drunk tea, and eaten scones. As far as she could remember, she’d spent most of the trip listening to Madonna on her iPod. But that was London as a tourist. Now that she lived here, things were totally different.