Chapter Twenty-Five
Formal Wear that’s a cry for help.”
I chuckle.
We stroll along, stopping at a basket labeled A Night of Romance. There’s a candle shaped like a rose, a bottle of wine, and a leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice.
I glance at her, already smirking. “Tell me this isn’t your idea of hell.”
She arches a brow. “A scented candle, lukewarm cabernet, and a man with commitment issues? It’s practically my autobiography.”
I laugh, full and genuine. “You should write taglines for a living.”
“I do write for a living.”
“Right. Books about how I’m the enemy.”
“Not you specifically,” she says, then pauses. “But also not not you.”
I pretend to clutch my heart. “Wounded.”
“You’ll live.” She steps closer to the table, skimming a finger over the wine label. “Though, for the record, I’m more of a whiskey girl.”
“Of course you are.” I lean in just enough for her to notice. “Whiskey, biting sarcasm, and a total disregard for small talk. You’re my dream woman.”
She blinks once. Then twice.
A small smile pulls at her lips.
And maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s the suit, maybe it’s the way she looks tonight—flawless, untouchable, and yet somehow the most real thing in this whole room—but I swear, for half a second, she actually looks like she’s enjoying herself.
She turns to walk away, and I follow, still grinning like an idiot.
We stop in front of another auction item—this one a framed jersey signed by half the team. She eyes it with mild disinterest, as if she’s trying to pretend she doesn’t notice my name stitched across the back.
“You bidding?” I ask, nudging her lightly with my elbow.
She crosses her arms. “Please. I already have one just like it.”
I blink. “You do?”
She nods, expression smug. “I use it to clean my windows. Works great on streaks.”
I choke on a laugh. “Ouch. Ruthless.”
Seriously, women don’t speak to me like this. She’s unreal—mean, even. So why do I like it so much?
She shrugs, clearly pleased with herself. “Just trying to keep your ego at bay.”
I chuckle, then glance over at her. Her champagne’s almost gone, her shoulders are a little more relaxed, and for a split second, she’s not glaring at me.
Which feels like my cue.
I tilt my head, voice lower now. “So, when are you going to let me take you out on a proper date?”
Her reaction is immediate—a laugh, dry and sharp, followed by an eye roll that could knock over a grown man.
“Nice try,” she says, setting her glass down on a nearby table. “But I don’t do proper dates. Or improper ones, for that matter.”
“Come on,” I say, playing it easy, letting my smile linger. “Just one night. No obligations. I’ll even behave.”
She gives me a look. “You? Behave? That’s not a date—that’s science fiction.”
“You’re dodging the question.”
“I’m rejecting the premise.”
I shake my head, amused. “Alright. I’ll try again later.”
“You won’t get a different answer.”
“Still worth a shot.”
She walks off, and I let her go—this time.
Because yeah, she brushed me off.
But the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth?
That said maybe.
And maybe is more than enough for me.
I’m stretched out in bed, one foot under Rip’s massive body as he snores at the far end like he personally pays the mortgage on this place. My tux jacket is slung over a chair, and my bow tie sits on the dresser.
The gala was a blur—good food, too many cameras, and one woman in an emerald dress who nearly stopped my heart.
I should be asleep, but I’m still too keyed up. It’s not every day I beg for a date only to be turned down cold.
I can’t help but wonder if Scarlett’s lying awake thinking about me too. I decide to text her—under the guise of being friendly.
Me: You make it home okay?
When my phone buzzes, I nearly fling it off the bed trying to grab it.
Scarlett: Sure did. I nearly pulled a muscle trying to get my Spanx off, but I’m all tucked into bed now.
Me: Spanx?
I scratch my chin. Am I supposed to know what that is?
Scarlett: It’s shapewear. You know what… never mind.
Me: Whatever it is, I’m sure you don’t need it.
She doesn’t reply, and I’m not sure if I’ve said too much. Or maybe she’s just tired. Then, a few minutes later… a new text.
Scarlett: Don’t let this go to your head, but… I think I might be ready for that date.
I blink, reread it. Once. Twice. Then sit up because the weight of Rip’s heavy body is suddenly not enough to keep me grounded.
Me: Are you saying you want to go out with me?
There’s a pause, and I swear time slows.
Scarlett: Don’t ruin it, Remington.
I grin like an idiot.
No way I’m letting this moment happen over text.
I hit call.
She picks up on the third ring. “If this is you gloating—”
“You’re damn right it is.”
She laughs, the sound warm and a little breathless. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You absolutely should have. I want it on record. Official documentation.”
“I’ve been thinking…” she says, quieter now. “That maybe I wouldn’t hate going on that date you mentioned.”
I lay back, smiling at the ceiling like a complete fool. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Shut up and pick a place,” she mutters, but there’s no heat in it—just that soft undercurrent she tries so hard to hide. The one that tells me she might be just as curious about this as I am.
I nudge Rip’s ear. “Hear that, bud? We’re in.”
Rip groans.
Scarlett snorts. “Is that your dog?”
“He’s very invested in our love story.”
“Well, tell him to get used to disappointment.”
I laugh. “Don’t threaten him. He’s fragile.”
She’s quiet for a second. Then, “Goodnight, Chase.”
“Goodnight, Scarlett.”
I hang up and stare at the phone for a long minute, wondering what the hell just shifted between us.
Whatever it was—I like it.
And I’m not blowing it.
Not this time.