Chapter 7 Scarlett
SCARLETT
“What does one pack for a weeklong trip with her business partner?”
I pose that question to my friend Nadia a few days after the dinner with Cole and Daniel.
She furrows her brow as we walk through Le Marais following a lunch with some of her advertisers. Nadia is mostly fluent in French, but I was there to help her translate, since she’s in Paris meeting with advertising executives as part of her plans for marketing pro football here in Europe.
“That is the dilemma,” she says with a thoughtful hum as we pass Amelie’s, the delectable scent of raspberry tarts and chocolate croissants tempting me from the bakery.
I lift my nose in the direction of the open door, like a dog shamelessly stealing a whiff.
“Add in the caveat that one is actively trying to deny an attraction to said business partner,” Nadia continues with a wink.
My jaw drops, and I fling a hand to my chest. “Moi? Never.”
She points at me. “You.”
I shrug in admission. “Fine. Fine. No denials.”
“It’s always good to be honest with oneself and one’s friends.
Men? That’s another story,” she says with a laugh as we round the corner, passing a boutique peddling shoe after decadent shoe.
Her eyes swing to the display of fuchsia, garnet, and cranberry-red heels.
She holds up a finger. “Hold on. We must discuss all the things, but first, I have to ogle these beauties.” She stops to practically undress the footwear with her eyes.
“Would you like to go in there and rub up against that lovely pair of sapphire-blue pumps?” I ask, pointing to a shiny four-inch set in the display. “Perhaps mate with them? Take them home and pet them all night?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I will,” she says, then tips her forehead to the store. “Let’s indulge in shoes as we discuss hot, broody, complicated men.”
“So, just like any other time we’re together?”
Flipping her dark-brown hair off her shoulder, she laughs. “You know me so well. Shoes make my lack of a love life so much better.”
I shoot her a sympathetic look. “I thought you were mostly content with your lack of a love life?”
She shrugs, then sighs heavily. “Mostly. But at other times, I wonder—what does it take to get a date as a twenty-five-year-old who owns a football team? I’m anthrax to men.”
I pat her shoulder. “The dilemmas of the young female billionaire.”
“Exactly. Men are terrified of me, or I’ve been taught not to trust them.”
“I can’t fault the trust issues. Mine are a mile-deep and a canyon-wide.”
“Understandably. But shoes? Shoes I trust,” she says breezily as she grabs hold of the door and tugs it open.
We head into the shop, faint strains of édith Piaf playing overhead as wafer-thin sales associates with carved cheekbones organize stylish boots, strappy sandals, and sexy heels.
“Yes, exactly,” I say, then toss out a bonjour to the associates.
“Bonjour. Let us know if you need anything,” a man in black jeans and a sequined tank top says to us from his place near a display of completely shameless shoes with peacock feather embellishments.
“We will,” I reply.
Nadia beams at the man and asks in French for the sapphire shoes in her size.
“Bien sur.” The shopkeeper scurries to the back room to grab a pair of the blue shoes for Nadia.
“The height of my fluency is shopping terms,” she says to me.
“You know much more than how to shop. But you do excel at transactional French,” I say, my eyes drawn to a pair of silver flats. They’d be perfect for the trip. Great for walking around. For checking out hotels.
I hold up the silver flats for Nadia to see. “Shall I get these for my trip?”
She eyes them disdainfully, then asks, “Is that your strategy—wearing flats around Daniel so that you don’t look as sexy as you know you look in heels?”
I shoot her a curious look. “Mince words much?”
“Never, so I won’t now. You’re attracted to him. You said as much a few minutes ago. And for some reason, you’re going all proper and businesslike, twinset and pearls, on this trip. But not wearing heels around him isn’t going to stop your attraction.”
“I wear flats every day. I wore them to dinner with him and Cole,” I point out.
But what’s the point?
The flats I wore didn’t make him less attractive.
Is Nadia right? Am I deliberately picking clothes that make me feel businesslike with Daniel? So I can stay in that familiar zone? So I’m not tempted to explore this rush of feelings I have for him? “Flats are easier for navigating Paris,” I tell her, perhaps trying to convince myself as well.
“They are. But a good pair of heels can make you feel the same way as a new lace bra-and-panty set does,” she adds, dropping her voice as she flops into a plush pink chair. “I bet you bought that for your trip.”
I shoot her a withering glare. “How do you do that?”
“See right through you?”
I nod. Of course I bought new underthings, but a woman always needs those. “Yes. That exactly.”
“I know you well,” she says, and she’s right on that count.
We met a few years ago, when I was mentoring her in her bachelor’s degree program.
Since then, her life’s been a whirlwind—inheriting an NFL franchise from her father, running it with her friend .
. . Nadia’s the youngest team owner in the league, but winning the Lombardi Trophy her first year at the helm has helped her earn the respect of her peers.
“You know me better than anyone,” I say, since she’s become a confidante and a shoulder to lean on. Funny, how our roles have switched, but I think that’s how good friendships work—you need each other in different ways at different times.
“Now come, sit next to me,” she says, patting the chair beside her. I join her as I hand the silver flats to another sales assistant and wait for my size. “Why are you trying to ignore this attraction to Daniel? It is because you don’t want to get involved?”
“See point number one. He’s my business partner.”
She tsks me. But it’s sort of a loving tsk. “Is this really about him being your business partner?” She taps my breastbone. “Or is it about that heart of yours that’s still on ice?”
I sigh heavily. “Can you blame me?”
She shakes her head. Then she huffs out an irritated breath. “I only blame your husband. I still want to exhume Jonathan’s body and shake some sense into him.”
I cringe, laughing a little in horror. “You tend to be filter-free, but even I can’t believe you just said that. That’s kind of gross.”
Nadia arches a brow so high it practically rises through the ceiling of the store. “Kind of? I think it’s horrifically gross and quite macabre. But I still can’t believe what you learned after he died. It’s awful. One hundred percent filter-free awful.”
My heart winces, but it’s not the sucker punch that it was three years ago, after my husband was struck down with an aneurysm in Battersea Park when we were out for an evening walk, heading to dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant, the one with the chana masala I loved.
A night that ended with an ambulance, the words dead on arrival, and a gutting of my heart.
It’s not the serrated knife edge that scooped out the organ in my chest when I opened a drawer in our home a month later, deep in mourning, and learned who I’d been married to, who I’d buried.
I shudder. These days it’s not so much abject, awful hurt that rips through my body when I think about Jonathan.
It’s coolness. It’s a chill. And that chill is a reminder to avoid falling in love.
To avoid connection that can lead to being absolutely blindsided, smacked upside the head, and left behind.
I shake my head. “Let’s not talk about Jonathan,” I say.
“But do you need to talk about him?” she asks softly.
I shoot her a sympathetic smile, then squeeze her arm. “I love that you’re always willing to talk. About anything. I love that. But let’s chat about shoes instead,” I say as the shopkeeper trots over and sets down a pair of blue shoes for Nadia and the silver flats for me, then takes off.
“I can always talk about shoes.” Nadia slides on the jewel-colored beauties, then emits an appreciative ooh.
I stare at the heels on her feet, a small burst of envy spreading through my chest. I make grabby hands. “Those are divine,” I say.
“Told you. You should just get a pair for your trip.”
I laugh. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to push me toward them?”
She leans a little closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “Because I am.”
“And why are you so determined to get me to climb Daniel like a tree?”
“Because it’s been a long time for you. Maybe, just maybe, you could indulge a little bit.”
I blink, considering her statement. “You think I ought to indulge in a tryst with Daniel Stewart?” I whisper as if her idea might be the height of scandal. It kind of is.
“The two of you have these red-hot sparks. Every time I see you together at an event, you’re like the poster children for flirting. Why not indulge? He doesn’t seem like the relationship type. You don’t seem like one either. You both would probably be up to keeping everything at arm’s length.”
“Does that even work?”
“If anyone can pull it off, it’s you. You’re brilliant at that. You line things up the way you want. You plan, you strategize, you organize. And you make things happen. That’s what you do. Besides, why couldn’t you do it?”
Is she for real? Is that something that could actually work?
I slide my feet into the silver flats, staring at them, studying them as I ponder her forthrightness.
And shoes.
I ponder shoes.
I do like flats. They’re excellent for a long day. But I covet Nadia’s shoes. Their sexiness. The way they make her legs appear more svelte, more sensual as she stands, rises, walks to the mirror, and considers them.
A jealous groan rumbles up my chest as I gaze at her feet.