No Strings Attached

Chapter Six

What am I thinking? I should put on the black dress...

Suddenly the buzzer rings, and I snap out of my self-doubt, blinking back into reality as I hurry to stop the noise.

"Yes?"

"Your driver is here."

"Great. Thank you."

I refuse to look back in the mirror. I refuse to head back into my bedroom. At this moment, I don't care if I'm forgetting anything. I'm going to walk out of this apartment just the way I am in this moment, and I'm going to rock this to the best of my fucking ability.

As I run through the building lobby, Rog gapes. "Scarlett? Is that you? Really?"

I wave at him quickly, so I don't have to stop and chat, pushing open the doors. My driver, Jimmy, is holding my door open. I enter the backseat, crossing my soft white stilettos. They were the only pair I had collecting dust in the back of my closet, only used once at my wedding.

While he begins to swerve into traffic, I check my phone, finding only texts from Rebecca and Norman. I breathe in, closing my eyes.

I have to get used to this arrangement. The old Scarlett would want to fantasize and dream, wishing tonight Giovanni would pull me onto the dance floor, kiss me in front of all the sneers. He would tell me he's never felt the way he does when I'm with him.

But I am not that Scarlett. I never want to be her again.

No.

New Scarlett will walk into that party, head held high, shoulders back, and she will find the man she's attending for and seal the deal tonight. She will let him push his boundaries and use her in ways she couldn't possibly dream of, and in the morning, she will wake well-fucked and alone, and that will be just fine.

When we arrive at The Four Seasons, I step out, feeling a surge of confidence. I know it won't last forever, but hey, I'll use it while I can get it. There is snow on the ground, and I'm jacket-less, refusing to put on one of my old coats over this.

I can't tell if the looks I'm getting as I make my way through the lobby towards the event room where I already hear swing music are about my missing coat or the dress, but either way, I refuse to shrink.

Giovanni is here, I hope.

And I want him to find me beautiful.

"Okay. Holy fuck."

I look to my side, where Carlos is standing beside a ghost-faced Rebecca. Both of their mouths hang nearly to the floor. I take it as a compliment.

"You cannot be my prudish best friend," Carlos utters, looking around dazedly as he approaches me. I purse my lips patiently. "The woman who lives in polyester and mom jeans. No, this can't be her!"

"All right, cut it out," I groan as he grins, leaning over to kiss my cheek. I feel his hand rest on my bare back, and he gasps.

"Hold up. Turn around." The dress earns another gasp from him when he takes a look at the back of me. Rebecca has her hand over her heart, like a mother witnessing her child going off to school or something. I want to strangle them both.

"You are a vision in white," he breathes, kissing my cheek again. "Or is that pearl?"

"It's pearl," Rebecca murmurs, shaking her head. "Scarlett, that is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. Where did you get it? You made me believe you were wearing one of your usual frocks! And here, you come in with this!"

"I had... I had it sent to me."

"It fits you so well," Carlos says, smiling wider. "I mean, you have an ass. Who knew?"

"I'm going to leave you both now."

"The entire office is going to be in love with you on Monday morning, you know that, right?"

And suddenly ,as I walk away from them into the main room, my nerves are back.

I'm aware of every look, of every whisper and point.

I'm under the spotlight— and the light is nowhere near me.

"Whiskey, please," I get out to the bartender, glancing around the crowded room curiously, trying to be nonchalant as I look for a stunning Italian man. I hear the glass set before me, the ice clinking against the glass as I turn around, brave enough to cut through the crowd to check out the other side of the room.

I begin to blush, finding the populating male eye set in my direction as I weave myself through New York's elite.

"Scarlett?"

I turn around, disappointed again, when Norman hurries towards me, his arms out wide. He's in a classic tuxedo and looks as though he's had a few too many to drink. Monica, who comes up behind him, also looks equally lit up. I laugh as he hugs me tightly.

"Scarlett, you look beautiful, wow," he says, pulling back, looking at Monica. "Monica, doesn't she? Doesn't she look just great?"

"Yes, darling, you look wonderful. Speaking of which, I have a few men I'd like you to meet. They're all so eager to meet you."

Men? What? I blanch. "Um, no. No, thank you. I'm okay—"

"No, really. One of them is a doctor, a surgeon."

"Maybe later," I tell her with a hesitant smile. "I probably should have a drink before any of that."

She winks, gaping. "You are a girl after my own heart. Come on, Norm, let's get a dance in before the speeches begin."

"See ya, kid," Norman says as he's dragged away onto the dance floor. I lift the whiskey to my lips, taking a large gulp of liquid courage, my nerves already shot to hell.

"Miss?"

I turn, seeing a good-looking man with sandy blonde hair and a gray suit standing to my side. When I realize he's speaking to me, my brows lift.

"You're talking to me?"

"Yes, you. Monica sent me over. I'm Ed, um, the surgeon?"

Oh. He's actually not that bad. I hold out my free hand, and he takes it, grimacing slightly at my strong shake.

"Firm grip."

I smile slightly, too nervous to say much.

"You going to tell me your name? Maybe what you do?"

"Oh, yes," I chuckle. "I'm Scarlett. I'm VP at Norman White."

"Oh. Wait, you work with Norman?"

I nod, wondering why he looks so shocked. "Is that hard to believe?"

"No, no. I just heard about you so much from Norman at our dinner parties. He always described you as a miracle worker, a workaholic. He definitely left out how beautiful you are."

Damn, I'm not used to this. In fact, it's daunting how uncomfortable I've suddenly become. I lift my drink to my lips again, turning to my side as my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

My eyes suddenly freeze on a mostly vacant, messy table in the corner, full of bags and discarded flasks of champagne. There are two older women in floral gowns speaking closely on one side.

On the other side of the table is that gorgeous Italian man I've been searching all night for.

And that gorgeous Italian man is seated comfortably, leaning back, his long, muscular legs in front of him. One of his arms is resting against the back of his seat, his hand holding a glass of some form of alcohol.

Dressed in a white tuxedo with a deep black trim, naturally tailored to him, no doubt one of his own creations, he looks dashing and debonair, out of place here simply by the effect of his natural beauty. He can't help but stand out.

As the surgeon begins to speak softly into my ear despite my lack of attention, I realize two crucial things while I stare unwaveringly into those dark, mysterious eyes, the second being the most important.

One is that Giovanni is completely alone, a date nowhere to be found.

Two is the reason my pulse begins to race. The reason my throat trembles in anticipation.

He's been watching me.