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“We’re selling off men in the auction.”
“What?” I balk.
“Yes, what?” Matthew asks.
“For the charity, dear. We’ll be auctioning you off.” She takes a clipboard to the side and ticks something off, before shouting some instructions to a nearby lady.
“Auctioning me off?” Matthew asks, slighted. “To who?”
“Well, dear, to whoever stumps up the most cash.” She flounces away, and I start chuckling to myself.
“Well, great.” Matthew swaps his empty for a fresh glass, obviously deciding that getting plastered is the only way forward. “Who’s going to want to buy me? There’s a reason I’m in my fifties and single.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I muse, turning him toward the table, where a gaggle of, let’s say, mature women are faffing around. “I think they’ll love your suit.”
“I didn’t bargain for this.” Matthew stomps off, and I giggle, sipping my champagne.
“Wow, I love that dress,” a lady says as she approaches me, pointing at the vintage material encasing my body.
“Oh, it’s not . . .” I pull back my confession before I can tell this perfect stranger, who is perfect in every way, that my dress is probably older than her. That I could never afford anything so glamourous as what she’s wearing. Her dark hair is swept up, her face is flawless, and her lips are painted to perfection. She’s another Scarlett, but probably more extreme. Perfect, and the envy of every woman who encounters her. I feel inferior. “Thank you.” I smile graciously, as does she.
“Can I ask where you purchased it?”
Oh, shit. “France,” I blurt. “Paris, to be exact.”
She nods slowly, taking a sip of her champagne as she smiles over the rim at me. “Well, it’s beautiful on you.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
“You’re welcome, Lo.”
My glass stops on its journey to my mouth. “Pardon?”
Her hand extends toward me, and she beams, her eyes sparkling madly. Green eyes. “I’m Arabella Williamson. I believe you know my brother.”
Oh . . . my . . . God. Ground, swallow me whole right now. I remember Luke telling me that his sister is in the fashion industry. She knows fine well this dress isn’t out of Paris. I grab her hand and proceed to die a thousand deaths. “I’m Lo,” I squeak. “But you know that.”
“I do.” She winks cheekily, and I die a bit more, glancing at my vintage number.
“Wait.” I look up at Arabella when something comes to me. “How’d you know who I am?”
Arabella grins devilishly. “Luke pointed you out.”
“He’s here?”
She looks past me, pointing her champagne glass, and I turn, finding him immediately. “Hello, you,” Luke says, sinking his hands into his black trousers as he approaches. Oh, he has a tux on.
Arabella slinks off on a fond smile, leaving us alone. “Nice to meet you, Lo.”
“And you,” I call, returning my attention to Luke. “I just made a total tit of myself in front of your sister.”
“How?”
“I told her my dress was out of Paris.”
Luke’s laugh, deep and rich, sinks past my skin and fills me with warmth. “Paris or not, you look gorgeous. What are you doing here?”
“Scarlett had a family emergency.” I extend my arms out to my sides. “So here I am.”
“Here you are,” he muses quietly.
“You look very handsome.” I motion up and down his body while he reins in his laughs, rolling back on his heels.
“Good, then you’ll dance with me.”
“What?” I ask as he grabs my wrist and pulls me through the crowds. “Luke, we already established that I can’t dance.”
“And we already established that I’m not bad, so we’ll be okay.”
“But there’s no one dancing yet,” I cry, landing on the empty dance floor, being hauled into his chest.
“Someone has to get the party started.” He twirls me out and back into his embrace, grinning at me in that devilish way that he does. “Ready?”
“No,” I say, looking over his shoulder to see Arabella leaning against a pillar, smiling at us.
Nina Simone’s Feeling Good starts, and Luke gasps, looking down at me mischievously. “My favorite.”
I’m spun around on a laugh, powerless to stop him as he whirls me around the floor, a smile in his face. I have absolutely no control of our steps; I’m simply following Luke, our fronts compressed, his forearm snaked around my lower back, my palms resting on his wide shoulders. I can see other couples have joined us on the floor, yet like everything when I’m with Luke, they disappear.
“You’re getting good at this dancing lark,” he says casually, just as I trip over his foot and we stagger slightly. “Or maybe not.”
“You did that on purpose.” I smack his shoulder playfully, trying to find my rhythm again.
“Your accusation is wounding.” He feigns a hurt expression that makes me tut my dismay.
As I trip over again.
“Luke.” I chuckle, grabbing the sleeves of his jacket as I’m lifted from my feet.
