A Miracle at Macy’s: There’s only one dog who can save Christmas

“Do you have a card? With your website on it?”

“I do,” I say fumbling in my bag. I’m down to my last one, it’s a bit damp, and crumbs from the bottom of my purse are clinging to it. I brush it off, and wonder if he’ll think it’s too gross if I hand it to him.

“Cool. I’m an art director,” he says, taking the card and pocketing it. “My name is Ken by the way. My friends all call me a foodie. I hate that word, but it’s kind of true. I like cooking, and I really love eating out.”

“Food is… really great,” I say awkwardly. He smiles encouragingly. “Really. I eat it all the time.” I’m starting to sweat. Not pretty. I try to scratch surreptitiously under my arms. Beneath my coat, perspiration is making me feel all prickly.

“Glad to hear that. I was just thinking that I’d love to take you out to dinner some night. Do you like Ethiopian?”

Oh my God. He’s asking me on a date.

I see Hudson bounding up, holding something in his mouth.

“Hudson! Put that down. We don’t pick up trash in our mouths,” I say. I hear my rigid, school-marmish tone. Does this guy think I’m a stick-in-the-mud? “Hudson,” I try again, “bring that to me. That’s right. Come here. Good boy. I’ll take that.” I hope I sound less uptight. My peppy little angel is headed right toward me, so I bend over and hold out my hand.

At the last minute, Hudson veers and lasers in on the guy. He drops the magazine from his mouth, onto the guy’s feet, and sits down, looking very pleased with himself.

“I’ll get that,” I say quickly. I don’t want him to think my dog and I are litterbugs.

“Don’t worry.” He’s already reaching for it.

“No, really, I’ve got it.” I bend over to grab it and smack my skull into his.

“Ow!” I say, rubbing my head. “I’m so sorry!”

He’s got the magazine in his hand. “Don’t worry. He points to his head. “Hard as a rock,” he says with a laugh. “Hey, you didn’t answer. Would you go out to dinner with me?”

I reach for the magazine, but the guy is examining it. He turns it over, and to my horror, it’s American Bride.

Hudson’s on his feet, with his expressive tail high in the air, wagging like metronome on the verge of exploding, looking from one to the other of us.

The guy laughs out loud, and points to the magazine’s cover. “You have to go out with me now. Your dog obviously has big plans for us.”

I can feel my whole face go red. Could I go out with this guy? I wonder to myself. It’s been a long time. Why not? It’s crazy that I’m a food blogger and I haven’t eaten out at a nice place in… how long?

“I guess dinner would be OK,” I say, doubting that’s the truth, even as I say it. I’m talking slowly, turning the possibility over in my head, thinking through any potential pitfalls. What would we talk about for two hours?

“Great! Have you heard of that new place in Chelsea? The Fork?”

“No, I haven’t.” I’m embarrassed. The truth is, I don’t know what’s hot or new on the city restaurant scene. “Is it new?”

“Really new. It’s James Keyes’ latest. American comfort food. He’s the chef behind Four Chairs and East 4th. Do you know of him?”

I feel like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back. “Oh, I definitely know of him. In fact, I know him.”

“Cool!” How did you get to know someone so famous?”

“We went to culinary school together. You know what?” I say, scrambling to pull on my gloves and gather my belongings. “Thanks anyway, but I’m super busy. I really don’t think I can work in going out to dinner any time soon. I’m sorry, we have to go now,” I say, lunging toward Hudson, and snapping the leash onto the ring of his harness in one swift motion. I snatch the magazine from the guy’s hand, and zoom for the gate, dragging my unwilling canine behind me.

“Wait!” the man calls. “Your coffee!”

By the time he says it, I’m locking the second gate behind me. I chuck the copy of American Bride into a trashcan, and cut around the museum instead of taking the shortest route home. Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.

“Huddie, no,” I pant. “We’re not going back.”

He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. It looks like he’s raising his one black eyebrow.

“It’s just a bad idea. I just want to keep things simple right now. Let’s go boy,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. When I hit the avenue, I’m just starting to slow from a jog to a normal gait. My phone buzzes on my coat pocket, and I pull over in front of the German bakery in the middle of the block. I can smell the butter and raspberry from the Linzer tarts and my stomach starts to rumble. I’ve missed breakfast, now I just want to get home, make myself lunch, and maybe, just maybe, slip into my PJs.

Pulling out my mobile I see a string of text messages waiting for me.

Can’t phone, so texting. Utterly mad on Rock Plaza. Our life-sized Elf On A Shelf developed sudden-onset agoraphobia and won’t leave her trailer + pranking flash mob dumped buckets of marbles onto skating rink

This just in: Xmas Eve at yours is no-go. *Big* celeb getting engaged onstage with the Rockettes. Say you’ll come to Radio City that night, and we’ll order in from Mangia. Still hoping to make it for Xmas dinner at yours. I don’t want you to be alone. x

OH, and don’t think you’re skiving off on me tonight. You can be my date. I expect to see you here by 7 sharp. If you behave, I’ll bow out and fix you up with Kermit the Frog. xo

I guess I’ve finally hit bottom. It’s come to my aunt accepting the fact that the only dates anyone can see me having are with a spinster or a puppet. Of course, I just threw away a chance with someone who seemed like a nice guy. Maybe I have become a crazy dog lady. But isn’t that OK? Is there a law that says I have to put on a coconut bra and dance on barroom tables every weekend? Why can’t I just be me, by myself, the way I want to be?

“Excuse me,” a man barks, pushing past me to get in the door to the bakery. “Nut job,” he mutters under his breath before pushing into the shop. I look at the phone in my hand, and realizing I’ve been staring at it for quite awhile now. I glance down to see Hudson doing a little dance, hopping from one foot to another to another.

“Sorry boy, are you getting cold? Let’s go.”

I turn downtown, the shortest route to my apartment, but Hudson won’t stop tugging in the opposite direction.

“Huddie, no,” I tell him. “We’re not going back.”

He sits down on his rump and gazes at me. Raising his eyebrow at me again.

“You’ll freeze your tail off.”

He jumps up and down, smiling, as if to say he’s fine.

“It’s just a bad idea, OK. I just want to keep things simple. Now come on,” I say, gently tugging on his leash. “Sorry, boy, I really want to be home right now. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. How does a snuggle in your blankies and a nice, big bone sound? I’ll even turn on the TV for you. Animal Planet.”

He doesn't look back at me. He seems resigned. He just pulls me to the crosswalk that he knows takes us home. I swear he sighs, before he steps off the curb. We walk home together in silence.

*****

My arm is going numb from being held high in the air, trying to beckon a cab on Central Park West at shift-change time.

Three yellow taxis have already slowed down, clocked that I have a smiling, be-sweatered little dog on the end of my leash, before speeding off. My high-heeled wedge boots are pinching my feet, and I feel constricted in my good wool dress coat. I had to haul myself into the shower, blow my hair dry, and put makeup on my face to leave my apartment. I wouldn’t dare show up to one of Aunt Miranda’s events without making an effort. It won’t be to her standards, but at least she can’t say I didn’t try.

Believe me when I tell you, I decided that I wasn’t going tonight no fewer than 50 times but I always circled back to the hard truth: Aunt Miranda’s haranguing would be harder to endure than an hour at Rockefeller Center. Like I told Hudson, we’re going late, showing our faces, staying for half an hour… an hour max… and then home to my jammies and Netflix. With any luck, we’d be burrowed into the couch with the TV on by the time they actually flicked the switch to light the 100-foot Norway Spruce.

Just as I can no longer feel my fingers, a taxi swoops up to the curb, and shouts out the window, “Where you going?”

“Rockefeller Center, 50th Street between 5th and 6th.”

“I know where the Rockefeller Center is. I’m a New Yorker. I’ve lived her for 20 years since I moved from Delhi as a kid.”

“Sorry.”

“Your dog, is he a good dog?”

Hudson lets out a little whine, culminating in an affirmative yelp.

“Yes, very good.”

“I like good dogs. I do not like bad dogs.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Yes or no?” I can no longer feel my left foot.

“OK, get in. I take you.”

“Oh, thank you!” Hudson and I pile into the cab. I spy myself in the rearview mirror. My nose is pink with cold.

“They make the tree lights tonight. Very big crowds, very crowded.”

“I know,” I say, voice filled with dread. “I have to go. My aunt is producing it.”

“She’s a movie producer? Like Steven Spielberg? I look very handsome on camera. Very handsome indeed.”

“No, she’s in charge of the tree lighting. Production Manager, that’s the title. She’s in charge of the guests, everything that happens onsite, coordinating with the television crew, just… everything.”

He whistles a low whistle. “Your dog is VIP. Or shall I say VID? Understand? Very Important Dog? That’s funny, I think! Very funny!”

I laugh. “Yes, it is.”

“I do stand-up comedy. Here,” he turns around, and shoves a card through the little tray that tunnels through the plastic between the front and back seats. “Vijay Singh, this Monday night, Broadway Comedy Club. Next week, Caroline’s Comedy Club.”

Impressed, I tuck the card in my handbag. “From what I hear, getting into Caroline’s is a big deal.”

It just goes to show if you take the time to speak to your taxi driver, you never know who you’re going to meet. Once I even met an opera singer though this guy was my first comedian.

“It is a very big deal! I’m hilarious. Very funny. Trust me when I say this to you.”

“I believe you.”

The sparkle of multiple flashbulbs going off catches my eye from the little TV screen affixed to the back of the seat in front of me. It’s a New York One live report from the tree lighting. Hudson tries to stand and sniff the screen, but Vijay is driving like a maniac, so my little dog looks like he’s surfing. “Sit, Hudson.” I scootch over and put my arm around him. “Look, here’s Aunt Miranda’s event. See the tree?”

A tiny country singer with long blonde hair and a powerful voice begins belting out O Holy Night.

Suddenly, the cab slams to a stop and Hudson goes careening into the footwell.

I fish him out from the floorboards, and kiss his little head. As the singer is reaching the crescendo of the song, the camera cuts to a woman holding a sleeping baby, and singing along, sincere and misty-eyed. My heart does a little jig. The impact of the soulful song, and the beauty of the swaying crowd among all of the festive decorations, send a frisson of holiday excitement through my body. Now I’m glad I made the effort to get out of the house.

A Christmas feeling from when I was a little girl washes over me. I feel the safety and joy of when our cook, Bridget, baked up a storm, and my parents stayed around the house instead of going out all the time. That was before the car accident. Before I moved to the states to live with Aunt Miranda. Hudson stands up, putting all the weight of his pointy little feet onto my thigh.

On the television, other musicians, sports stars, and the mayor of New York join the singer on the stage in front of the soon-to-be brilliantly illuminated tree. The camera pans the audience. People are holding up their phones and tablets to snap photos. Suddenly, I’m glad I’m en route. I can’t believe I almost passed up this opportunity.

When the camera pans to the very edge of the stage, I see Aunt Miranda.

“Look, Hudson, there she is!” I wave frantically, as if I’ll really get her attention. “Hiya, Aunt Miranda! Hi!” Hudson barks.

“No barking in the taxi,” Vijay says. “Look, there is your Radio City Music Hall.”

“I’m a New Yorker, I know where Radio City Music Hall is.”

“Touché,” he says.

Hudson pants and smiles, eyes on the TV. Can he see Aunt Miranda, I wonder? She looks impeccable in a classic winter white wool coat with a large golden brooch, reminiscent of the bronze Titan Prometheus statue that graces the lower plaza of Rockefeller Center. I’m sure it was no accident. Aunt Miranda is the very essence of style. Standing next to her, typing into an iPad is a young man I’ve never seen before, with wavy light-brown hair falling over the edge of his roundish tortoise-shell, horn-rimmed glasses. He has a neat, close-trimmed beard. He’s smiling, I think. Is he? I can’t be sure, since the shot isn’t a close-up. Maybe it’s just the way his heavy eyebrow arches. He looks like he’s thinking of an amusing story or a joke.

It’s usually Cerie who assists Aunt Miranda, but I recall that she’s on maternity leave. If her right-hand assistant is gone, no wonder my aunt is more tightly wound than usual.

“Look Hudson, look at that man with Aunt Miranda. Who do you think he is?”

The guy is wearing a deep oxblood-colored leather pea coat with a chunky forest-green scarf twined around his neck. It looks hand-made. I wonder if he chose his clothes, or if Miranda “styled” him. He looks up at the scene onstage and smiles a satisfied smile, unmistakable this time. It’s so unrestrained, it makes me smile too.

For half a second, I wish I were there, smelling the pine scent of the enormous tree, and enjoying the rumbling of the bass singers in my chest during the carols. I feel wide-awake, even though usually it would just about my bedtime.

The guys’ eyes twinkle behind his glasses for a moment before Miranda points to something up in the tree, and his eyebrows knit together. I can’t see his face anymore, because he’s furiously scrolling through his tablet. I wonder what’s wrong. All of the sudden, the man disappears and the screen is blue, demanding that I touch a button declaring whether I’d like to pay with cash, credit, or debit. I have the sensation of the film breaking in an old-time reel projector. I feel a bit robbed. I wanted to watch him longer; to know what changed his mood.

“Here we are, as close as I can drive,” says Vijay. “There are police barricades, so I’m very sorry, but you must walk the rest of the way.” Hudson stands up on his back legs, front paws against the window, eyes bright and expectant.

“That’s fine,” I say, tapping the touch screen and sliding my card into the machine. “We expected that.” I tip him 25%. He did, after all, rescue both me and my little dog from frost bite.

“Thank you, miss,” he says, pushing the receipt through the slot.

“Merry Christmas!” I tell him, opening the door to a crisp blast of wintry New York air.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.” He waves a hand indicating his turban and dark skin. “The nativity story isn’t sweeping Punjab, if you hear what I’m saying.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that was rude…”

He cuts me off, smiling. “No need to apologize. Many, many people confuse me with Brad Pitt!”

I open my mouth to respond, but my brain is working hard to catch up. He really doesn’t look anything like the Hollywood actor.

“Joking! Of course I don’t look like Brad Pitt.”

I laugh uncertainly. He should probably work on his routine.

Hudson leaps onto the sidewalk and is straining on his leash.

“Well, happy winter and good luck with the stand up,” I say, just before slamming the door hard to make sure he’s not heating the whole of the outdoors. I hear, “Don’t forget! Vijay Singh at Caroline’s. Very funny!”

I feel a smile spreading across my face as I walk across the sidewalk on 50th street toward the huge crowd. “This is fun, isn’t it Huddie?” I call above the din of the throngs and the amplified Muppet version of All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth that’s coming from the ceremony site. There are tourists everywhere, and to a person, they are all wide-eyed and beaming. As we approach, I spy the hundreds of flags surrounding the ice rink. Normally, the flagpoles fly the colors of every country in the United Nations, but this… I have to catch my breath. To herald Christmas, all of the flags have been replaced by red, green, and gold banners. Against the majestic gold flagpoles, and the myriad lights draped in the potted trees, shrubbery, and along the walls and fences, it makes my heart soar with the promise of what Christmas will bring. And that’s to say nothing of the lush, towering evergreen, standing at the ready to be set aglow. There’s no other word for it, I feel uplifted. Hudson scrapes ahead of me as if he’s trying to dig up the concrete; he’s clearly eager to get into the mix.

As we get closer to the tents from which stars, PAs, and Teamsters emerge, the crowds become thicker. I bend down to scoop Hudson up, and clutch him to my chest. “Ready boy?” His skinny tail thumps against the front of my coat, and I give him a big smooch on the muzzle.

People are clearly here to celebrate. The attendees range from bare-legged young women in filmy coats and cocktail dresses, who are so fashion-forward they wouldn’t dare don tights with their stilettos, even in this cold weather, to families wearing matching parkas and knit caps declaring, “Wheeler Family Reunion—Xmas NYC,” to young couples who have such eyes for one another it’s a wonder they can even see the skyscraper of an evergreen.

A door to what looks like the holding area catches my eye, and I set my sights on beelining through all the bodies to get there. The surprise at my enjoyment of being here is pumping adrenaline through my body, and making me feel like I’ve had a split of Champagne, though I’m stone-cold sober. I have to admit, I’m kind of loving it. Maybe I’ll become the kind of girl who goes to the Macy’s fireworks along the river, or dresses up and boards a Halloween float in the West Village.

One thing’s for sure: Hudson is in his element. Chest-to-chest, I can feel his little heart drumming rapidly, and his curled tongue is out and bobbing up and down with each step I take. I call that expression his “perma-smile.” I love that he’s happy, but I could do without the wet dog saliva on my already freezing ear. Note to self: Next year, wear earmuffs to tree lighting.

We shoulder our way through the revelers, and finally make it to the door of a white tent. I hear general buzzing inside, with the occasional shout. I’ve been on enough “sets” of Aunt Miranda’s events to know that tension will be high as the stage managers inside are ruled by the stopwatch, and the talent is marking time, waiting to be led to the stage. I approach a refrigerator of a man, wearing a black suede overcoat, dark glasses, and a formidable headset.

“Hello, sir,” I begin.

“You can’t be here, move to the right, miss,” he cuts me off.

“I’m supposed to be here, you see…”

“No entry without a laminate.”

I saw that I was going to have to pull the Aunt Miranda card. I hated myself for what I was about to say. “I’m on the list.”

“Name?” He barks.

“Charlotte Bell.”

He picks up a clipboard from the director’s chair beside him, and traces down the column of names with the wrong end of his pen.

“Nope. Move it to the right.”

The buoyant holiday bliss I’d recently experienced was fading rapidly. Without warning, the throbbing in my feet resumes.

“Can you check again, please,” I said, full of sweetness and light. Aunt Miranda wasn’t much in the way of motherly, but she had taught me a few essential life skills. Her top tip is never to piss off the gatekeeper, i.e., the receptionist, the secretary, the personal assistant, or the hotel clerk. That was a pure guarantee, she said, of being separated from what you hoped to gain or achieve. “My aunt works here. Maybe you know her?”

He gives me a hard once-over. At least I think he does. It’s hard to tell behind his menacing shades. At any rate, he’s standing still and facing me.

Hudson lets out a little whine, and bicycles his front legs. I give him a squeeze to warn him not to blow it. To my surprise and relief, a slow smile spreads over The Refrigerator’s face. “That’s a good-lookin’ Jack Russell,” he says. “Real cute dog.”

He presses a button near his chest, and says, “We need an escort at A4. Send a PA right away.”

He reaches out, and says, “May I?”

Bemused, I hand over Hudson, and the big teddy bear of a bouncer snuggles my dog, cooing, “Who’s a handsome dog? You are! That’s right. You’re a handsome dog!” Hudson wriggles gleefully, twitching and contorting his body into a near backbend, burrowing into the multiple chins of the big softie. I look on, smiling. I smell coffee coming from inside. My stomach rumbles. I can’t wait for Aunt Miranda to walk me in, show me where the craft services table is, and sit me down someplace with a view of the tree. I have to confess, I do love a craft services table. I hope they have pastry. Something sweet and fruity would hit the spot about now.

“Who did you say your aunt was?” the bouncer asks, setting Hudson down on the floor.

“Miranda Nichols,” I tell him.

We both squat down to play with Hudson.

“Aw, hell no. For real? You’re not messin’ around.” He presses the button near his chest a second time. “Escort to A4, pronto.” Hudson nuzzles the man’s huge, ham of a hand. “Heh, heh. Real cute dog.”

Huddie’s extra-frisky tonight. Maybe it’s the cold weather or the snow on the ground, but I suspect it’s from being out in the melee. Guilt nudges at the corners of my heart. I really should bring him out more often. I mean, I make sure he gets exercise, and he has plenty of opportunities to relieve himself and all, but he’s such a social butterfly. I wonder if he ever regrets being saddled with a homebody like me.

Even though he’s a dog, Hudson is a “people person.” He rolls over on his back, writhing like an alligator, flapping his paws above him. This elicits a big belly laugh from our formerly foreboding friend. We take turns pretending to nip at Hudson’s hindquarters with our forefingers and thumbs, and each time, he whips around pretending to snap at the offender. He couldn’t look happier if he tried.

Without preamble, two impeccable men’s Italian leather boots appear in my field of vision. Hudson romps over, and moves in to give them a sniff.

“Can I help?” demands a stern, disembodied English voice from above.

I struggle to rise from my position on all fours, but find that now, not only are my feet numb, my knees are stiff from the cold. My new friend, the bodyguard, has nimbly risen and is back at his post, stiff as a statue, staring straight ahead. Hudson thinks I’m still playing a game. He keeps leaping up, punching me in the legs with his two front paws. I teeter, trying to stand, but there’s nothing solid to grab onto. “I need to see Miranda Nichols,” I say, trying to push up with my hands from the ground. Hudson licks my face with glee.

“Miranda Nichols?” He barks out a short laugh before recovering. “She’s a bit busy at the moment.” There’s no sarcasm colder than an Englishman’s sarcasm.

“I’m sure, but could you, just, uh,” I stammer. “Could you please go and get her for me?” I’m hoping by the time she gets here to meet me, I won’t still be scrabbling around on the floor.

“That won’t be possible. She’s unreachable at the moment.”

I see his feet shifting impatiently. I’d better get up quickly. He’s grouchy, and obviously has better things to do. Like Aunt Miranda says, you don’t annoy the gatekeepers. The harder I try to get up, the more the pins and needles prick my feet, and the more Hudson bounces off of my hip like a circus poodle.

“Huddie, no! Down!”

If I could only push off from something… I grab at the man’s knee, but the physics of lifting are all wrong. I strain to re-position my arms. Maybe if I can just crab walk to the director’s chair, I think. Hudson notices my struggle and begins springing up and nipping at my ear.

“Huddie, cut it out,” I say, breathless from trying to maintain my yoga-like position. He barks playfully in response. I try to gain equilibrium, woefully aware that my backside is pointing skyward.

My dress coat, cut quite close through the shoulders, if effectively functioning as a strait jacket. Miranda convinced me that sleek was in last winter. I think I hear fabric ripping. I’m dizzy from hanging my head downward, and Hudson’s sharp barks so close to my ears are making them ring. In a valiant leap, he winds up on the flat of my back, and teeters there for a proud moment before we both tumble over in the snow. I land hard on my bum. It smarts a bit, but I can’t help laughing as Hudson flails like a bug on his back.

“For heaven’s sake,” the man says impatiently. He hooks his hands under my arms and, with seemingly little effort, pulls me up to standing. I’m face-to-chest with an oxblood leather coat, and green knit scarf.

“Oh! It’s you.” Behind his glasses, his eyes are a startling clear blue. I’ve never seen eyes that blue before. I look closer, trying to see if there’s a corona of gold, green, or even turquoise around his pupils. Nope, just bright Grecian blue.

“Have we met?” he asks, holding my gaze.

Oh god, I’ve been staring. “I know you. I mean, no. You’re one of the production assistants I saw on TV.”

I hear a high-pitched little gasp. I whip around to look at The Refrigerator, but he’s cool as a cucumber, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. If the gasp came from him, he’s not letting on.

“I most certainly am not a production assistant,” he assures me in a Little Lord Fauntleroy voice. He stands up taller, which is a feat. I mean, he’s pretty tall in the first place. “I’m the Assistant Production Manager.” He looks at his watch. “And right about now, I’m responsible for seeing that the mayor of your fine city is briefed before she goes on live television. So, if you’ll excuse me,” he says, turning crisply to walk away.

“Wait!”

“I’m sorry, there’s no access through this door. You’ll have to queue by the barriers for autographs.” He turns again, and Olympic race-walks in the other direction, deftly dodging crates, printers, and myriad interns as he goes.

Hudson lets out a low, slow whine, ending in a bark. He wants the man to play! He’s bowing down with his rump in the air, shimmying. Clearly, he isn’t as offended by the man’s rudeness as I am.

“I’m not here for autographs, I’m going backstage.”

“No dogs allowed. Please exit through the front with your animal. This is a restricted area,” he says, still walking.”

No dogs allowed? I just saw the outlines of a camel and what appeared to be two fully grown sheep through the far tent wall. As if Hudson’s going to infect the place!

“Not for us!”

“Goodbye,” he calls not bothering to turn around. “Marlon, please escort the lady and her dog out to the public plaza.” His snootiness ignites a fire in me. Is that the way he talks to the minions in his fleet of servants back home on the manor in Jolly Olde England, I wonder. I think it’s time he was taught a little respect.

I hate to do it but he’s left me no choice.

“Miranda Nichols is my aunt,” I fire, just as he’s exiting through a flap door on the other side of the tent. All of the fresh-faced young people hunched over their laptops around a table littered with coffee cups, stacks of papers, and wires for days look up with interest.

The Assistant Production Manager freezes. Slowly, he turns back around, one eyebrow raised.

I scoop Hudson up in one arm, plant my other fist on my hip, and raise my eyebrow right back.

“I see. Very good, would you follow me, please?” he asks, in a clipped, efficient voice. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

I don’t make a move. Tilting my head toward Hudson, I dare Mr. Blue eyes to say he’s not welcome.

He walks back to meet me, and gently takes my elbow with an elegant protocol that would rival a Buckingham Palace butler’s. “I beg your pardon, Ms. Nichols. Would you both follow me, please?” Before I know it, all of the PAs have their eyes back on their computers, and I’m gliding through the tent with him like we’re Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.

I have to give it to him. He’s good. But I’m not soon going to forget the spurn. Sure, he’s nice to me now he knows I’m connected. But where was his common decency before? It’s James’s world all over again — only the rich, titled, or famous count. And it goes without saying that any enemy of dogs is an enemy of mine.

“My name isn’t Nichols,” I declare crossly, and set Hudson down on the floor as if throwing down a gauntlet. I itch for this pompous ass to complain about Hudson’s muddy paws. He doesn’t say a word, but instead leans down to scratch Hudson’s ear, which infuriates me.

Ms. Nichols! How lazy of him. Didn’t his fancy boarding school or wherever he crawled out from teach him better than that? I’m just about to lecture him about the folly of making assumptions when we pass through a tent flap serving as a door. It’s like day and night. One moment we were in a grubby production office, and now suddenly we’re standing on a richly patterned, claret-colored Persian Rug, adorned with a full tapestry-covered living room suite dotted around with hundreds of votive candles. There’s nothing above our heads but the New York City skyline and a pinkish smear of stars gilding the remnants of the day’s clouds. From the bustling streets of Manhattan to this… It was like a genie had transported me to another land. I can’t help myself. “What is this place?” I breathe.