Author Games: Ace of Spades

Task One: Females

"Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?"

Those probably hadn't been the actual words the boy had said. After all, fifteen years had passed and she'd already had five drinks by that point, but Florence always assumed it had been something of the sort: ridiculous and verging on the pathetic. He couldn't possibly have been over twenty, and he was handsome in the broad-shouldered-and-jawed American way, and on another night she might have went off with him. She probably still would have, only he'd run off to a washroom – of which there had, of course, been many – as soon as he'd finished speaking, and that had been enough to quench her appetite.

That was, she liked to think, the point where she'd decided to live – but that was a lie.

Though she had not realized it that night, she had acted like a woman on a mission. Her every decision had been guided by an almost imperceptible sense of purpose, and, in hindsight, it wasn't difficult to see why. This had been the first weekend after she had found out that her parents had run out of money for her education, though they had funded her brothers' to the last cent, as she often liked to remind them, and Florence thought she might have had two plans for the night: to find a solution to the problem at hand, or to drink until she forgot there had been one to start with.

And then he had come.

He had been forty-two at the time, twenty-four years her senior, and yet, she supposed, she had been attracted to him – not in the same way as to the boy, of course, but in its own way nonetheless. It had been his charisma, she thought. Paul had always had a way around him that drew people towards him. He was a handsome man in his own right, even if his stomach had begun to grow paunchy and his hair had started to recede, but that would not have explained why girls and women over twenty years younger clung to him like flies. There was a confidence in the way he held himself that could make one think he was the most important man in the world. She had been eighteen, then, and she had thought that to throw herself towards a man like that rather than one who spent his Friday nights throwing up in a stranger's penthouse washroom, was what it meant to be grown-up. And the way he was dressed, as though every item on him had been selected by a top stylist, made his wealth beyond obvious. She'd trapped herself long before she'd even realized it.

"I have to say," she'd said, tipping her chin in his direction. She'd given him a slight smirk there – coy enough to intrigue, but bold enough to make a statement – and continued, "this doesn't quite seem like your scene."

He'd laughed. His eyes had this way of growing bright when he did that, and she'd always thought there was something magical about that. "I could say the same for yours, even though you sure look the part." He paused. "And yet here you are."

"And yet here I am."

She'd been aware that there were leaning in closer to one another, of course – she'd have had to be a fool not to – but she hadn't quite realized just how close they'd gotten until her chest was practically against his and his breath was hot against her neck. It had been a dangerous moment, Florence had known, but from the beginning of the night her actions had been guided by one key goal. She'd been a woman on a mission, and she might finally have found a solution. Now was no time to back down.

Their first kiss, like most of the ones to follow, hadn't been anything particularly special. There had been no fireworks or sparks, but there was no unpleasantness either. It had lasted maybe ten seconds, but by the end of it he had started guiding her out of the apartment and she'd been eager enough to follow.

"I'm Paul," he said, as they headed down towards his Aston Martin on the first floor of the parking garage. She hadn't replied; she'd only smiled.