Chapter 1
[Ruthie]
You are cordially invited to
The Red Dress Affair
In honor of a celebrated life
Joanna Elizabeth Frederick
Beloved wife, mother, and cousin.
As I stand in the empty ballroom for what felt like forever, I don’t know why this random memory comes back to me.
The Kiss Experiment.
Oh, to be eighteen, carefree and foolish.
At thirty-three, I am so pulled together I can’t breathe.
However, The Red Dress Affair is something special to Nylah, and because of my devotion to her, I’ve been helping her organize the fundraiser in honor of her cousin who died of heart disease, a top contender for the leading cause of death among women.
A broken heart is certainly eating away at my life.
For Joanna Elizabeth Frederick, her condition had gone undiagnosed, and she left behind a husband and three adult sons.
The timing of this year’s event is appropriate—Valentine’s Day—which, in my opinion, is one of the most contrived holidays in existence.
Shouldn’t every day with a partner be a celebration of love?
Ironically, Valentine’s Eve happens to fall on a Friday this year, thus Friday the thirteenth. And while most single women my age might be out celebrating Galentine’s Day with girlfriends, I’m standing here in California’s Coastal Resort ballroom waiting on Nylah, who has mysteriously disappeared.
The dimly lit space overlooks the Pacific Ocean through three gloriously large, arched windows. In my lagging patience, a gin and tonic was delivered to me by a harried waitress who told me Nylah would be back soon to finalize some last-minute detail that probably doesn’t need finalizing.
My mother-in-law is efficient. Or as she prefers to call herself, my mother-in-love, being that I married her son, Clifton, and she fell in love with me as well. The daughter she never had and always hoped for.
Is she technically my former mother-in-love?
She’s not necessarily an ex-mother-in-law, right?
What is the proper term for a woman whose son had been your husband, and said husband has passed away?
Either way, Nylah Jacobson has been more of a mother to me than my own, but those thoughts have no place here this evening.
Neither do thoughts of Clifton. For the past eighteen months, I’ve been swimming in memories.
For only a moment, I want to forget.
Maybe Nylah is right. She’s been hinting that it might be time to open my heart to new possibilities. Strange advice from a former mother-in-law, but also so typical of Nylah.
“Fuck.”
My thoughts scatter when the expletive in a deep masculine grunt echoes throughout the empty room along with the distinct sound of someone tripping on the parquet dance floor in the center of the space. From my position near the three floor-to-ceiling windows, I’m obscured from his view.
“Excuse me.” I scoff, giving away my presence. I’ve been nursing the gin and tonic Nylah sent, holding the glass in my hand despite my crossed arms. A defensive stance. One in which I can never determine if a shield to protect myself or a clamp to hold myself together.
The intruder swipes a thick hand over his head and gruffly asks, “Where’s Nylah?”
He approaches my little corner of the room, and a strange vibration overtakes me. A weird energy crackles between us. I don’t feel threatened, but more like a familiarity with him, like something inside me recognizes him.
Which is impossible.
The man is broad and tall, his build athletic, with a stern expression that conflicts with the roundness of his face.
In the backlight of the chandelier behind him, his hair appears brown, the color not distinct, and heavy scruff covers his jaw.
He could be anyone and no one of importance.
In the sports management industry, I see so many athletes that their images blur together unless Imperial Sports Management represents them.
Not that this man is an athlete. In his pressed suit and crisp button-down shirt, he looks more like a businessman.
“And who might you be, flower?” His gaze blatantly skims over my body, undressing me with dark eyes that might border on deep green if the light were better in the room to distinguish the color.
His visual appraisal feels nice, if a bit intrusive.
In my slim-cut pencil skirt and pearl-buttoned blouse that I can’t wait to strip off myself, I’m no one distinct.
It’s been a long day. And I’m not certain men look at me like they really see me.
The woman beneath the buttoned-up shirts and fitted skirts.
I can’t remember the last time I experienced the sensation of a man’s hands on me.
“Do I know you?” His thick brows cinch and that questioning voice sends a shiver down my spine. Does he feel it too? Does he sense the energy crackling between us?
“Have we been together?” His tone is sharp, and like a pin in a filled balloon, my hope-filled questions burst.
Maybe the sense of familiarity is just a result of the tension from the storm brewing over the ocean outside the windows. Rain is predicted. And this guy’s insulting insinuation is a lightning strike against him.
Blinking at his brashness, I stammer, “Excuse me?”
“I feel like I know you.” He snaps his fingers and points at me, like the motion will help jog his memory.
“Know me?” I choke, shifting to face him better, as if looking me directly in the eyes will jar his memory, which must be full of unfamiliar women he’s been with. My arms remain crossed. Definitely a shield in this situation. “Is that some kind of weak pick-up line?”
Being hit on feels like an impossibility. The concept of dating is foreign. I haven’t been with anyone other than Clifton. Ever.
“Do you want it to be a pick-up line?” The sudden arch of his thick brows and the way his mouth twists into a teasing smirk pops out a deep dimple, like a parenthesis on the curve of his lips. Lips that look rather full and emphasized by the punctuation of that dimple.
That spark of innocence on his face has me choking on an answer. “I . . .”
“That’s what I thought.” He sighs heavily, lowering his shoulders and glancing around the empty room.
The tables are covered in snowy-white linen awaiting the floral arrangements due to be delivered tomorrow.
I have no idea what Nylah’s last-minute detail could entail.
The room will eventually be a hub of who’s who among athletes and business associates of Imperial Sports Management, all gathered for a good cause.
For now, the space is quiet, hushed despite its cavernous size.
Like a secret tucked into a corner of this resort.
“Do you happen to know what time it is?” My purse is on a chair on the other side of the room. I should have my phone in my hand in case Nylah tries to call me, but I’d gotten sidetracked by the windows and the view.
My intruder flicks his arm outward, exposing a thick silver watch on his wrist, and reads off the time. “Ten-fifteen.”
I’ve been waiting almost an hour for Nylah.
“Expecting someone?” he asks, bringing those dark eyes back to me.
“I was, but she’s late.” I take a sip of my drink as my mouth suddenly feels dry thanks to the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s still trying to undress me.
His eyebrows hitch again.
“She’s my—”
His raised hand stalls my explanation. “You don’t need to explain. Whatever wets your petals.”
What the hell?
“Gotta girlfriend? That’s cool.” His left leg jiggles as his head nods in three short juts.
I should clarify that Nylah is my mother-in-law, but then I’d have to explain how I’m a widow, blah-blah-blah.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” My voice comes out a little abrupt, because who is this man to be asking me such personal questions about my love life, five seconds after meeting?
“Boyfriend, then?” One brow arches.
I shake my head, the movement lessening the tension in me.
“Husband?”
I swallow thickly but shake my head again, lowering my gaze.
“Secret lover? Affair with the boss? Obsession with a hockey player?”
“What?” I stammer at the ridiculous list that reads like the tropes of a romance novel. “None of the above.” I chuckle despite myself.
“How do you feel about crushing on a baseball catcher?”
“I have no feelings about a baseball catcher,” I toss back at him.
Am I flirting with him?
Is he flirting with me?
“Yet.” He winks.
I should ask if he’s a baseball player, but I don’t.
Instead, I sort of revel in the mystery of not knowing him despite the continual crackle of recognition.
Something tells me I do know him; I just cannot place him.
And even though he sensed he might know me, I’m suddenly appreciative that he doesn’t.
He doesn’t know my relationship with Nylah. He doesn’t need to know my marital status, or lack thereof.
“How do you know Nylah?” I ask curiously.
He tilts his head, assessing me. Those dark eyes have become a little more distinguishable.
“Now, that’s a very long story.” He offers a soft smile, one that borders on sadness, but quickly disappears as his mouth curves wider.
That smile. Those lips. Definitely something about him.
My racing heart almost confirms the strange sense of familiarity.
I lift my glass for the final dregs of my gin and tonic. The ice has melted. The remaining liquor watered down. I hold up the empty glass in salute. “Well, I’m off to bed.”
There’s no reason the statement should sound like a proposition, but it comes out throaty and thick. Tempting even. Or at least, it sounded that way in my head. Instead, I probably sounded like a strangling cat.
“What’s the rush, flower?”
The rush is a long hot bath and a romance novel calling my name. And with this sudden antsy sensation swirling around me because of this man’s appearance—broad shoulders, tempting eyes—he might play nicely in a little self-love fantasizing.
Strangers in a ballroom should make his checklist of relationship statuses.
Not that it would ever be my status.