A Total Waste of Makeup (33 page)

I sit up. “I hate it when guys watch me when I’m asleep.”

“Oh,” Jordan jokes. “Does that happen a lot?”

“No,” I say with an irritated tone, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from my purse on the nightstand. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

He winces. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“What was that?” I ask.

“What?”

“That look. You just winced.”

“Hey, it’s none of my business,” Jordan says, sitting up with me and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Bu-u-ut…” I say, because, let’s face it, that sentence had a big
but
at the end of it.

Jordan looks down at the covers, takes a deep breath for strength, and lets me have it. “Well, I don’t smoke. Never did. And I’m sure it’s a really hard habit to break and all…” His voice trails off.

“A-a-nd…,” I continue for him.

Jordan shrugs. “A-a-nd…” He kisses me softly on the lips. Then he kisses me a little more. I am turning to jelly, delighted by this sensual moment, when he finishes his sentence. “And when you kiss someone, and they smoke, they have really bad breath.”

I want to scream,
Oh, God! Why didn’t you say something sooner? I’m so embarrassed!

Instead, I take the pack of cigarettes, crumple them into a ball, and throw them into the trash can. “Did I mention how I just quit?” I say, smiling flirtatiously.

He leans over to me. “You hadn’t mentioned that, actually,” he says, and kisses me again.

We start rolling around on the bed, fully clothed, and I am blissful. After all, this is a much better motivation to quit smoking than, say, January 1st of every year.

As I contemplate whether or not to start unbuttoning his shirt, there’s a loud pounding on our door. “Dude? You up yet?” my brother Jamie yells from the other side.

“Uh, yeah. Just a minute!” Jordan says, silently looking at me as if to ask, “Should we tell him?”

“Is Charlie up yet?” Jamie yells. “Am I disturbing anything?!”

I should have smothered him in his crib when I had the chance. “No, we were just taking a nap,” I yell through the door, smoothing down my shirt.

Jamie bursts in. “We’re having dinner at seven-thirty at that restaurant in Paris. You’re supposed to go get ready, and meet Drew and Dawn in the cocktail lounge at seven.”

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Six.”

“Oh, no,” I say, grabbing my purse and throwing on my shoes. “Is Andy pissed at me for not being the dutiful maid of honor all afternoon?”

“Are you kidding? She just woke up ten minutes ago,” Jamie assures me. “But Drew’s got a table for twenty, and he wants us all there on time.”

I look at Jordan, and ask, “Are you feeling better?”

“Much,” he says, smiling. Then he looks at Jamie. “Can you turn around for a second?”

Jamie makes a show of turning his back to us. Jordan gets out of bed, grabs my waist, and kisses me lightly on the lips. “See you at seven?”

“Be there with bells on,” I say, and head out the door.

“Take a shower,” I admonish Jamie as I pass him. “You smell like sex and candy.”

And I confidently make my exit, feeling giddy and totally in control of my life.

Twenty-Eight

Go to Paris at least twice in your lifetime.

And if you can’t make it to Paris, France, for the weekend—head off to Paris, Las Vegas.

Every large casino/hotel/resort on the Strip has a theme, and Paris, Las Vegas, is no exception. Its theme is not only Paris, but all things French. You can walk on cobblestone streets, pick up a
pain au chocolat,
and stroll around the shoppes under a painted light blue sky.

This large hotel located in the middle of the Strip not only includes a fifty-floor replica of the Eiffel Tower as well as a small replica of the Arc de Triomphe, but it’s got some decent French food as well.

Between six and seven o’clock, I took a quick shower, shaved my legs again (just in case), brushed my teeth (twice), and slipped into a slinky black dress and my Jimmy Choo shoes. (Yes, again. I’d wear them with my sweats to the grocery store if I could get away with it.) At 6:45, Jordan picked me up.

When I open the door, my perfect night begins. “You look stunning,” Jordan tells me.

“Thank you,” I say. “You’re looking pretty dapper yourself.”

And he does. In his charcoal gray Hugo Boss suit, white shirt, and red silk tie, he looks like one of those models you see in the black-and-white ads in
Vogue.

Jordan leans in to give me a quick kiss, and we spend the next ten minutes making out in the doorway.

Realizing we’re now late, Jordan takes my hand and leads me downstairs to the lobby.

He doesn’t let go of my hand for the next hour.

First, we’re the obnoxious couple making out in the cab. Yay! I get to be part of the obnoxious couple for a change.

Then we race into the hotel, dash through the casino (still holding hands), and make our way to the base of the Eiffel Tower elevator.

The Eiffel Tower Restaurant is located in—you guessed it—the fake Eiffel Tower. The glass elevator whisks us up to the eleventh floor and opens up to the kitchen, which I thought was a bit odd, but it’s sparkling clean and running smoothly.

Jordan pulls me by the hand to the cocktail lounge, where Drew and Dawn are sipping martinis and listening to a wonderful pianist play some light jazz. Overall, the atmosphere is incredibly romantic. I could throw Jordan down on the piano and take him right here and now.

Jordan and I take a seat as a waiter magically materializes, asking us if we’d like some martinis. We would.

“I’m getting us some caviar before the evening begins. You have to try this stuff,” Drew says, turning to the waiter. “Jonathan, can we get an ounce each of beluga, osetra, and sevruga? And a few extra bellinis, please?”

“Very good, sir,” Jonathan, our waiter, says.

When the caviar arrives, Jordan spreads some sevruga on a toast point and feeds it to me. I smile and say “Mmm…,” but only because it’s wonderful to have him feeding me. In reality…fish eggs? People pay one hundred dollars an ounce for fish eggs? And, I’m sorry, but when a man talks about how good caviar “explodes in your mouth,” I don’t see that as a big turn-on. I think of it as a reminder to suppress the gagging reflex.

But I digress.

Anyway, at seven-thirty, we meet everyone from the respective bachelor/bachelorette parties, and head to our intimate table for twenty.

The table has an exquisite view of the Strip. You can see all the colorful neon lights from the hotels, as well as the dancing fountains in front of the Bellagio Hotel. The tablecloth and napkins are crisp white, the china and silver sparkle. On the whole, a setting worthy of Napoleon and Josephine.

I start with the Maine lobster salad appetizer and a glass of champagne. With my first bite, I am in heaven (although the champagne and martinis have a bit to do with it, as does the company).

Jordan goes with black pepper–marinated raw beef, with mustard aioli, olive oil, and parmesan, which is also delicious (and he fed me again, which is delicious in and of itself).

For dinner, I have the filet mignon in a bernaise sauce and some potato gratin, and Jordan goes with the roasted rack of lamb and mashed potatoes.

What did everyone else eat? I have no idea. What was everyone else talking about that night? No clue. This was, by far, the most romantic night I had had in ages, and, boy, did I have tunnel vision. Or Jordan vision, as the case may be.

While he talked to others, Jordan either held my hand or had his hand on my leg. While he talked to me, he looked at me as though I were the only woman on the planet.

Over dessert of crème brûlée and café latte, Jordan put his arm around me while talking to Drew about work. While we waited in line for a cab to take us to Studio 54, he had his arms around my waist while he talked about sports with my brother. During the cab ride over, he discussed wedding planning with my sister while caressing my arm.

At Studio 54, he danced with me to Justin Timberlake without looking self-conscious, and when he slow-danced with me to Eric Clapton, I melted into his arms.

And anytime he didn’t think anyone was watching, he’d give me a quick peck on the lips.

At one o’clock, Drew suggested we all head out for a nightcap at Napoleon’s, a champagne bar back at Paris. It sounded like a perfect nightcap, and everyone agreed to meet there.

Don’t trust drunk people when they say they will meet you at the next destination.

“I think we’ve been ditched,” I say to Jordan. We have made ourselves comfortable on a plush red sofa, waiting for the others to get here. They haven’t. I’m on my second glass of champagne. Jordan’s having a Cognac.

He looks around the posh bar. “What makes you think that?”

I roll my eyes. “Honey, eighteen other people were supposed to meet us here. Not one has shown up. We’ve been ditched.”

Jordan smiles sheepishly and looks down at the polished marble floor.

“What?” I say suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, no. You’ve got something on your mind. Why are you smiling like that?”

He keeps smiling stupidly, staring at the floor and averting his eyes. “Did you just call me honey?”

I roll my eyes again, but I smile. “Why? Does that bother you?”

He looks me in the eye, smiles, and leans in for a kiss. “No…”

We kiss again, and man, life is good! Tonight is perfect. The food was perfect, the environment is perfect, the champagne is perfect, the man is perfect…

“Why don’t you call them?” Jordan says after he pulls away from the kiss.

“Huh?” I say, snapping back into reality.

“Call and see where everyone is. I mean, this place is really nice. But if no one’s coming, I’d like to go back to my room and get some sleep.”

Some sleep?! Did I miss a meeting?

“Okay,” I say, wondering what I did wrong that made him suddenly want to cut the night short. I take my cell phone out, and dial Drew first. The phone rings forever, and then I get his voice mail. I leave a message. “Hi, it’s Charlie. We’re at Napoleon’s, and no one’s here. Where are you guys?”

Then I call Dawn. Endless ringing. Voice mail. Me leaving a message.

Next is Kate, who actually answers. “Hello?”

“Where are you two?” I ask, knowing she’s with Jamie.

“Ummm…we got lost. We’ll find you tomorrow, okay?”

And she hangs up on me.

I click my phone shut. “Kate and Jamie aren’t coming.”

“Oh,” Jordan says, looking at me awkwardly. “Okay…maybe we should get the check.”

“No, no,” I say quickly, not yet ready for my perfect night to end. I hastily open my cell phone back up. “Let me call Andy.”

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello?” It’s Andy. I think I woke her.

“Where are you?”

“Back in the room,” Andy answers, like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “Why? Where are you?”

“I’m at Napoleon’s. With Jordan. I thought we were all going to meet here.”

“Oh. I didn’t think that was definite. Anyway, don’t you want to be alone with Jordan?”

I look over at Jordan, who’s now flagging down the waitress. “Yeah, I did, but…”

“Well, then, you’re welcome. Good night,” Andy says, then hangs up on me.

I try Drew one more time, to no avail. By now, Jordan has asked for the check. Maybe I can nurse this glass of champagne until three
A.M
….

My phone rings. I click it on. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Dawn asks, irritation in her voice.

“We’re at Napoleon’s. Where are you?”

“In Drew’s room in the suite. Nobody was actually going to Napoleon’s. That was a code so we could all leave graciously, and be alone with our dates.”

Now Jordan is giving the waitress his credit card. Rats.

I lean into my phone, and whisper, “How in God’s name was I supposed to know that?”

“Because it’s social convention?” Dawn says sarcastically, like I’ve asked the stupidest question in the world. “Like never getting to a party until at least thirty minutes after it has officially begun.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize flakiness was encoded in L.A.”

“Sweetie, we don’t have time for this right now. Drew and I are in his room for the night. Jamie’s with Kate. Why don’t you two come back here, have a nightcap, and see where it leads you?’

I start to whisper again, “Because I…Hello?”

She’s gone.

I slam my phone shut, pop it into my purse, and sigh out loud.

“What’s up?” Jordan asks.

“It appears we’ve been ditched,” I say. “By eighteen people.”

“Looks that way.” He grabs my waist and pulls me into a long, sensuous kiss. “So, you wanna go back to my room and get some sleep?” he asks, pulling me onto his lap for more kissing.

I do. I did.

And sleep was the last thing we did that night.

Twenty-Nine

Before you go to sleep at night, make sure you wash off all of your makeup.

I awake to my eyes glued shut from last night’s mascara. That’s always a pleasant way to start your morning. I use the palm of my hand to break my lashes apart from each other, and accidentally rub the gunk from my eyes all over my face. Men love this look, by the way. Nothing like raccoon eyes and greasy foundation to really get their blood pumping.

Jordan rolls over and opens his eyes. He looks like an angel—his eyes are dewy, not glued; his face isn’t oily, it glows. I am torn between having a massive crush on this guy, and hating him for looking so great. I go with the crush.

“Hi,” he whispers ever so quietly, like he’s talking to a sleeping baby.

“Hi,” I say just as quietly—worried that we are about to cross the line into baby talk.

“God, you were great last night,” Jordan says as he crawls on top of me. When he kisses me, I realize I wasn’t just drunk last night—I really like him. He’s cute, and funny, and nice and…

“I think I need to tell you something,” Jordan says, sounding a little worried.

I start to kiss his neck. “Okay. Tell me something.”