Page 1 of Craving Dahlia

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DAHLIA

Ican feel the cold New York air turning my cheeks pink as I step out of the car, following my friend Genevieve up to the hidden front door of the exclusive, private Manhattan club we’re visiting for the evening.

I haven’t been here before. With my last name, I could probably finagle a membership for myself, if I tried. But that would link me back to my father, a prominent politician in Washington D.C., and I try to put as much distance between us as I can here in New York. I went to Columbia for a reason, and I stayed here afterwards for a reason too—and not just because I got a job at the Met. I want nothing to do with that world of politics and scheming, and except for my visits home, I do a good job of keeping separation between that life and this one.

So I try not to use that name unless I need to. The last thing I need is for my father to catch wind of his little girl going out to a private club on a Friday night, having a few drinks and maybe going home with someone. Especially considering the last conversation we had.

Genevieve flips open the small black box on the brick wall, punching in a code. She has a membership thanks to herboyfriend, some Wall Street hedge fund guy who apparently doesn’t mind her going out without him when he’s working late. It astonishes me, because looking at Genevieve, I’d be jealous as hell if I were him. She’s stunning, with a ballerina’s figure, long dark hair, and an easy laugh and quick wit.

“I still can’t believe Chris lets you out of his sight,” I tease her as we wait for the code to go through and the door to open. “He’s gotta know everyone is looking at you when we go somewhere like this.”

Genevieve grins. “He just likes the sound of it when he tells his buddies that he’s dating the New York Balletprima. I’m a boost to his ego. He doesn’t actually like spending time withmethat much.” She shrugs. “And that suits me just fine. I don’t like him, either. I like his money.”

I can’t argue with that, not when a stipend from my father every month helps to soften the blow of how little I’m paid for working at the museum.

Her smile widens as the hidden door in the wall swings open, a large man with hard eyes and a black suit standing there as he lets us in. Our heels click on the wooden floor as we walk through the dimly lit hallway, to the second door at the end of it, where a gorgeous, willowy woman in a slim black pencil skirt and sleeveless blouse is standing.

“Your name?” she asks Genevieve, and Genevieve holds out a slim black card between two elegant fingers tipped in slick nude polish.

“Genevieve Fournier,” she says. “Courtesy of Christopher Fairwell. And my guest, Dahlia Kennedy.”

I smile, resisting the urge to wave. The woman’s face doesn’t move an inch, whether from Botox or because she’s unimpressed, and she taps a few keys.

“Go right ahead, Ms. Fournier, Ms. Kennedy,” she says, and she taps another key, the click of a lock sounding as the door in front of us opens.

“This is impressive,” I whisper as I follow Genevieve, and she grins.

“Just wait until we’re inside.”

She’s instantly proven right. The moment we step inside, I smell a wave of a warm, welcoming scent—firewood, roses, and pipe tobacco. The interior has an old-world feel to it, like a smoking room at a European club, or a library at some rich person’s estate. There’s a huge fireplace with a few velvet and leather wing chairs in front of it, and the bar is in the center of the massive room, shaped like a narrow oval and made of burnished mahogany, three bartenders busily holding court behind it.

There’s more seating to the right of the room, wing chairs and antique sofas arranged around a huge, faded pink velvet rug with cabbage roses worked into it. I also see a wood and iron spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, where from the glimpse I can get as I crane my neck, there’s more seating in a dimly lit space. There’s a very worn, vintage feel to all of it, like it’s meant to feel as if you could have walked into someone’s house party two hundred years ago.

As someone who studied art history and works at the Met, I’m instantly in love.

“You can’t break up with Chris,” I tell Genevieve firmly as we walk up to the bar, waiting in line to order. “We have to be able to come back here.”

She laughs, the sound musical in the midst of the dull roar of chatter. “Well, truthfully, I think that’s up to him. He’ll get bored eventually. They all do. But for now…” She grins. “I have every intention of riding this gold-plated train to the end of the line…or at least unless he tries to propose to me. Then I’m running for the hills, exclusive memberships or not.”

The line opens up in front of us, and Genevieve looks at the menu on the bar. It’s on heavy, cream-colored linen paper with raw edges, the drinks printed in curling black script. They’re all very unique, and I try to decide what I might want as Genevieve orders a gin with lime and club soda.

“That’s not very exciting,” I tease her as I glance over the menu. “Look at all the themed drinks they have.”

“Unfortunately, my job doesn’t lend itself to sugary cocktails very well.” Genevieve makes a face as she glances at the menu, too. “Did I tell you that Mme. Allardmeasuredus all again last week? And not for costume fittings, either…we’re already past that for the winter showcase. Just because she wanted to.” She rubs at her upper arms, her fingers skimming over the cashmere of her slim-cut, pristine white sweater. “She pinched my arm fat so hard she left a bruise.”

“What arm fat?” I roll my eyes, and Genevieve laughs. There’s not a spare ounce of body fat on her—she’s fanatically trim, as is expected of her.

“One day when I’m not dancing professionally any longer—when I’m a teacher, maybe, I can’t wait to put on a bit of muscle.” She looks wistfully at me as I order a hot apple toddy. “Ever since you started taking those martial arts classes, you look incredible. I’d be scared to accost you on the street.”

“It’s been worth it.” I’ve had a gym routine ever since college, mostly running and the occasional yoga or Pilates class for flexibility. But after I got my own apartment here in Manhattan, instead of living in the dorms, I started taking martial arts classes, too. I wanted to feel safe walking around the city alone, and it gave me that confidence—as well as the first real muscle tone I’ve ever seen on myself. And when my best friend Evelyn got tangled up with first a low level gang and then thefuckingNew York Bratva, eventually ending up in an arranged-marriage-turned-actual-romance with thepakhanof that same Bratva…I started to think maybe my secondhand association with them was reason enough to put a little more effort into that training.

I canceled my Pilates membership and got a full time pass at the martial arts center, and in the two months that I’ve been training multiple times a week there, I think I’ve made real progress. My trainer thinks so, too.

“Should we go upstairs?” Genevieve takes a sip of her vodka as the bartender hands me my drink, and I let out a small, happy sigh as the warmth of the pretty mug it’s served in sinks into my palms. “Or do you want to stay down here?”

I glance around. It’s wall to wall with people, and I don’t actually see anywhere we could sit. “Let’s try upstairs,” I suggest, and Genevieve nods, leading the way to the spiral staircase.

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