Page 3 of Bloody Lace

“I’m not good at casual. You know that.” I’ve tried it before. One-night-stands, two-night-stands, situationships that last a few weeks. Somehow, no matter how many times I remind myself from the start of why I don’t want it to be long term, I end up feeling like it’s my fault that it doesn’t work out. And it just bums me out. I don’tlikebeing bummed out—so the obvious choice is to avoid that altogether.

“The only way to get better at something is practice.” Dahlia waves to a few of her coworkers as we head to the bar, where a uniformed man who already looks like he wants to be somewhere else is handing a glass of white wine to an octogenarian woman in ahideousblue velvet wrap dress. I wince at the way it drapes over her—I can think of a dozen ways off of the top of my head to fix the cut so that it would be far more flattering.Elderly doesn’t have to mean you lose your style. I’ve said it to so many clients, and they’ve all left happier than they were before. I’m itching to give her my business card and offer her a consult, but I promised Dahlia no business tonight. Tonight is all about her.

Dahlia orders us both a drink from the holiday menu—something called a ‘sugarplum spritz’ as I glance back towards the doors. I tell myself that I’m not looking for Dimitri, but the truth is that I’m trying to pick out that dark blond hair and green velvet vest among the crowd of attendees.

“Looking for your new boyfriend?” Dahlia teases, handing me a glass, and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Just taking in the scenery. They really went all out decorating, didn’t they?” The museum is strewn with garlands, ribbon and holly, festive centerpieces on each of the tables,with bright candle light flickering. Off to one side of the lobby entrance is a huge tree, twinkling with lights.

“They always do. But especially tonight.” Dahlia gestures towards the tables. “Let’s go find our seat.”

A number of guests and Dahlia’s coworkers stop her and compliment her on her dress, and she passes them on to me every time, whispering to me that the ‘no business’ clause is suspended long enough for me to pass them business cards from my clutch—which I brought, just in case. Once at our table, our drinks are supplemented with champagne whisked from passing trays, and the first course of shrimp cocktail is served while the first of the night’s speakers come out on stage.

“I got a sneak peek at the menu,” Dahlia whispers as she grabs a piece of shrimp. “Dig in, it’s gonna be great.”

I fully intend to. While I love owning my own business, it means money is tight, especially living in New York—and unlike Dahlia, I don’t have rich parents to help supplement my expenses. I eat dollar ramen and canned spaghetti-os more often for dinner than I’d like to admit, and I’m more than happy to add several of the shrimp to my plate as the servers circulate with each of the starting plates.

The rest of the meal is equally delicious—winter salad with pears and gorgonzola, duck breast with orange glaze and sage-roasted potatoes, and creme brulee for dessert. As I snag another glass of champagne off of a passing tray, I see a head of dark blond hair several tables away, and freeze as the man turns towards me, reaching for his own glass of champagne.

It’s Dimitri. His blue eyes catch mine, as if he was looking for me, too, and he tips the glass in my direction, a smirk on his full mouth. A shiver runs down my spine, and I quickly look away, focusing on Dahlia, who is touching up her lipstick nervously as the awards ceremony begins.

She’s receiving an award for curatorial excellence tonight, a huge step forward in her career, and all thoughts of Dimitri flee my mind as she stands up and I help her make sure the dress is arranged just right. All of the eyes in the room are going to be on her as she goes up to the stage, and I want to make sure that it’s perfect.

And it is. Dahlia is practically glowing as she goes up on stage to accept her award, giving a short speech about how much the museum means to her and how thrilled she is to spend her career working with such amazing pieces of art. My heart feels light in my chest as I listen to her, my face hurting from the smile stretching across it from ear to ear.

“I can’t believe we’re both so lucky,” Dahlia whispers as she comes back to her chair, squeezing my shoulder, her smile matching mine. “We’re both getting to live out our dream careers. In New York. This is the perfect end to the year.”

I reach over and squeeze her hand as she sits down. She’s right, and I can’t help but think that next year is shaping up to be even better.

“Let’s dance,” Dahlia says, as the music picks up and the guests start to move from their tables out to the dance floor in front of the stage. “Maybe I’ll meet some sexy art collector who wants to hearallabout my work.”

It’s anyone’s guess if he’s an art collector, but a handsome dark-haired man who looks to be about our age sweeps Dahlia away from me not long after we step onto the dance floor. She gives me an apologetic look, and I shrug, flashing her a thumbs-up. I’m just about to turn and head back to our table—and another glass of champagne—when a hand touches the small of my back.

I know it’s Dimitri before I even turn around. I can smell the juniper and woods of his cologne, and I turn towards him, looking up at his chiseled, handsome face.

“Come for another ‘thank you’ for catching me earlier?” I ask, determined not to let myself be overwhelmed by how attractive he is—or how alluring. I can feel that there’s chemistry between us, and it could be dangerous, if I allow it. My heart is fluttering just from how close he is, from his scent and the heat of his body, and anything that makes me feel this strongly about another person is something I should run from.

“Just here to make sure you have your footing. Plenty of tripping hazards on a dance floor like this.” His hand hasn’t shifted from the small of my back, splayed across the velvet of my dress like it belongs there, and although I know I should tell him to remove it, something stops me.

“Like what?” I ask tartly, as that hand presses more firmly, pulling me in for a dance. My hands settle on his shoulders automatically, feeling the soft wool of his jacket under my fingers, and I’m even more certain that this man is trouble.

“You might fall for me.” He spins me abruptly, pulling me back in, and my eyes go wide, my mouth dropping slightly open.

“That’s awful. A terrible pick-up line. I should leave you on this dance floor for that, right now.”

“But you’re not going to.” Confidence ripples through his voice as his fingers stroke along my spine, making warmth bloom through me.

Maybe Dahlia is right. Maybe one night with a man like this is just what I need. A little Christmas gift for being a good girl all year.

“I’ve been known to have poor judgement in men.”

“Perfect. I’m feeling better than ever about my chances.” He smiles down at me, and all I can think is that no man who looks this perfect can be anything but a bad idea. “You said you were here for your friend tonight. Do you work for the museum, too?”

I shake my head. “I design clothing. Dahlia’s dress tonight is one of mine.”

His eyes widened. “Stunning. You have real talent, Evelyn.”

Every time he says my name, in that ridiculous accent of his, shivers run down my spine. I swallow hard, resummoning my determination not to let this man get under my skin. But his appreciation for my designing skills is flattery that I’m ill-equipped to resist.

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