Page 2 of Bloody Lace

“No,” Dahlia says firmly, turning and squeezing the sides of my face as she air-kisses right above my forehead. “It’s perfect. I just want to stare at it all night.”

“If you do that, we’re going to be late.” I slide my own earrings into my ears—a pair of onyx studs—and slip my lipstick into my red-beaded clutch. “Did you call the Uber?”

“Five minutes ago.” Dahlia tosses back the last of her champagne. “Let’s go.”

I have a vintage fur stole that I brought to wear over my dress, and Dahlia puts on a Burberry trench over hers, before we head out to the waiting car, heels clicking on the stairs as we godown. The elevator in Dahlia’s building is ancient, and if there’s one night that neither of us is willing to risk getting stuck in it, it’s tonight.

Traffic is thick getting to the Met, but I don’t mind. The city has come even more alive since I got to her apartment, the streets filled with last-minute shoppers, people going out to dinner and to events, showing family that’s in town around the city. I watch as the crowds drift by, wondering what’s going on with the individuals that I glimpse. If they’re excited, happy, sad, lonely—every one of them has a story, and I can’t help wondering what it might be. The city is so large, and so full of possibilities.

There’s a long line of cars curving around the outside of the Met, dropping off guests and attendees, and Dahlia motions to her door. “Let’s get out and walk,” she says. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Okay.” I don’t mind the cold, even if I’m not entirely dressed for it, and at the rate the line is moving, the galawillhave already started by the time we get inside. I follow Dahlia out, stepping carefully along the icy sidewalk in my heels, one hand clutching the front of my stole as we go.

We’re almost to the stairs when my heel hits a slick patch of ice, and I feel myself go sideways, scrabbling for purchase with nothing to grab onto.

Shit, I’m going to go down. And ruin Dahlia’s night, because there’s no way I won’t be hurt?—

A strong arm goes around me, pinning my arms briefly to my sides as I’m righted, and a wave of juniper and woods-scented cologne washes over me. I suck in a breath—both from shock and because it smellsso damn good—and twist around, looking to see who my savior is.

The culprit is a tall man with dark blond hair expertly cut and swept away from his face, blue eyes sparkling mischievously atme as he relaxes his grip—though he doesn’t pull his arm away entirely. My gaze goes immediately to his suit—he’s wearing perfectly tailored, dark charcoal wool, with a dark green velvet vest under the jacket as presumably a nod to the season.

Stylish and handsome. And he smells delicious. My pulse kicks up a notch, fluttering in the hollow of my throat as he smiles.

“Are you alright? You almost took a tumble there.”

His accent is distinct—Russian—and it only adds to his charm, giving his otherwise sleek outward appearance a bit of an edge. When I look up at him, I see a hint of dark blond stubble on his jaw, which surprises me, too. Most men who dress like him, and come to events like these, are either clean-shaven or have meticulously manicured beards. It seems like a purposeful way to add a bit of rakishness to his appearance, especially when combined with the accent.

“Evelyn? Are you okay?” Dahlia’s worried voice comes from behind me, and I straighten quickly, ignoring my racing pulse as I realize that I’m now bracketed bytwoworried people.

“I’m fine,” I assure them both, turning back towards Dahlia. “We’re going to be late. Thank you?—”

“Dimitri,” the man offers, and I give him a smile.

“Dimitri. Thank you for catching me. But my friend is getting an award tonight, so you’re going to have to excuse us. I don’t want to be the reason she doesn’t get to have a drink before getting up on stage.”

The man—Dimitri—chuckles, letting go of me. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason for that, either. Maybe I’ll see you inside, Evelyn.”

The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine, his voice smoky and alluring, like he’s promising all sorts of things with just that one word. I take a step back, ignoring the way Iinstantly miss the heat of his palm against my spine, trying to shake off the feeling that this man gives me.

I haven’t had much time for dating in my life. I’ve been too focused on my dreams of the boutique to care much about a relationship, and it’s paid off. Men—as I’ve seen in spades from Dahlia’s dating life—are fickle. Unreliable. But my business was built with my own commitment and hard work, and it won’t abandon me. I haven’t regretted where I’ve spent my energy for a single moment.

And while I might not be all that experienced, I know enough to know that men like Dimitri are trouble.

“Maybe.” I flash him one more smile, before carefully picking my way around the ice to join Dahlia. “Thanks again.”

“Holy shit, he isgorgeous,” Dahlia hisses as we pick up our pace, her arm looping around mine to try and hold me steady as we make our way to the steps of the Met. She has more experience walking in heels than I do—she wears them just about every day, whereas I wear whatever is the most comfortable for sewing and fittings—and I’m grateful for the support. “You should have gotten his number.”

“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “That’s the kind of man who would sweet-talk me into bed, spend one night with me, and then never call me again.”

“But what a hell of a night it would be.” Dahlia sighs. “Did you hear hisaccent?”

“It was right in my ear, so yes.”

Dahlia makes a pouting face at me as we breeze past the ushers, into the blissful warmth of the museum interior. “You have to break that dry spell eventually, Evie. And that man coulddrenchyour?—”

“Dahlia!” I hiss.

She rolls her eyes playfully, shrugging off her trench and handing it to the coat check girl, along with my stole, and takingtwo tickets. “I’m just saying. What’s the harm? If you don’t want anything serious, then it doesn’t matter that he wouldn’t call you again. And one night with him would be enough to keep your garden watered formonths, I bet.”

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