Extraits-

• From the book 1
  
  Spinning for Boys
  
  
  “I think the reservation is under Marcus,” Skye told the statuesque, Nordic-looking blonde who grudgingly acknowledged her at the door of Le Bilboquet. Presumably the hostess at this A-list restaurant didn’t see a lot of people come in wearing maxi skirts and Birkenstocks.
  
  “Mmm,” the girl said, gazing at the screen in front of her, the kind that couldn’t be read unless someone was standing at exactly the right angle. “Is that so?”
  
  Skye flushed. An hour earlier she’d been happily sharing coffee with her old teacher friends in Harlem, but here she was nothing but an aging hippie. “It would be under Peyton Marcus, from ANN?” She hated the way she sounded as she said it.
  
  The hostess’s head shot up. “Oh! I’m sorry, did you say Peyton Marcus? All News Network?”
  
  Skye forced a smile. “She’s my sister.”
  
  “Of course!” The girl beamed. “We normally don’t seat anyone until the full party has arrived. And naturally, we don’t hold reservations for more than seven minutes, but please, follow me.”
  
  She led Skye past a cluster of tightly packed tables to a two-top positioned perfectly between the dining room and the sidewalk. With unobstructed people-watching on Madison Avenue, it was the type of table Skye would never, ever have been shown to on her own.
  
  The hostess placed two menus on the table. “How funny,” she said, smiling at Skye. “There isn’t even a hint of a family resemblance.”
  
  “Yes, I hear that a lot,” Skye replied.
  
  “I mean, Ms. Marcus is just so fair! Her hair, her skin, her eyes . . .” “Mmm, isn’t that true.”
  “Well, anyway! I’ll send her over as soon as she arrives,” the young woman said before finally leaving.
  
  Skye maneuvered herself into the seat with the inferior view and dropped her bag on the ground next to her. Instantly a uniformed waiter produced a tiny wooden stool and proudly placed the worn suede bag on it. Then, in either a bad fake French accent or a completely charming authentic one—Skye could never tell—he dramatically revealed a champagne flute and filled it with a bubbling, golden liquid. “With our compliments,” he crooned, before sashaying away.
  
  Skye tasted the champagne: dry and unbelievably delicious. The fizz went to the back of her nose, the warmth hit her stomach, and she sat back to enjoy the all-too-rare feeling. She wondered why she didn’t drink more. Every now and then she’d pour herself a glass of wine on a random Tuesday night and feel rebellious and crazy, but then she’d inevitably fall asleep or get a migraine or both, and her freewheeling drinking would end for another couple weeks.
  
  Skye felt a tap on her back and jumped. At the adjacent table, a blond woman with bass lips smiled. “Pardon me,” the woman said. “But is your bag Saint Laurent?”
  
  It took Skye a moment to understand. “Oh, this?” Skye pulled her imitation suede bag from its throne. “No, it’s actually from Urban Outfitters.”
  
  The woman raised her eyebrows and forced a chuckle. “Oh! My. Well, irregardless, it’s lovely.” She turned back to her dining companion, a man half her age who had used the fifteen-second interaction to check his phone.
  
  It’s “regardless,” Skye thought, feeling the blush cover her neck. And you should get a...