A warm breeze ruffled Connor’s hair, blowing through his suit and white dress shirt. The bright lights of the ballroom flickered in his peripheral vision, but for now he simply wanted to breathe.
“Goddamn stupid heels,” a voice muttered behind him near the stairs.
The frustration made him smile, and he turned to offer his assistance. All he could see was the top of a chestnut brown updo, and a woman with a heel seemingly stuck in the hem of her full skirt.
“Here,” he said, walking to her side, “Take my elbow.”
A pair of familiar almond eyes the color of dark maple syrup looked up at him. “You,” Emerson said, taking his elbow with a scowl. Her fingers were slender and unadorned, nails short and painted in a pale pink.
“A pleasure to see you again,” he said curtly. “Do you always like to make a scene?”
She released the heel from the hem and stood. The black dress was simple, fitted to the waist and falling in voluminous waves to her calves. Only a fool would have missed the way it skimmed her body to perfection.
Her body was trim, her breasts pressed delightfully against the scooping neckline of the dress.
“I didn’t make a scene earlier.” She appeared to be unaware that her hand was still on his arm. Her eyes were focused on him, and he found that he liked it. “I merely responded to your rude behavior. And lamenting my decision to wear heels with a low hem dress is a wardrobe malfunction, not a scene.”
“That sounds a lot like semantics.”
“That sounds a lot like avoidance of your role in the earlier matter.”
Connor sighed. “You are right. I was in a foul mood when I stepped on the airplane. I apologize for the way I handled finding you in my seat.”
Emerson rolled her eyes. “My seat.”
“I suppose that technically it was our seat. It’s called the ‘And Stance.’ You were in my seat, and I was in your seat. Both of us are correct. Both statements are true.”
Emerson paused for a moment, then cocked her head slightly. “I can agree with that. But seeing I was there first and possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that…”
Now Connor grinned. “Are you always this friendly with people you don’t know?”
Emerson smiled, and he was taken aback by how it completely changed her face. “In this case, you are right. I’m being rude. Sorry. I told my sister, Olivia, I would have been better in flats, but she assured me flats would look stupid with this dress.”
“If I told you that your shoes aren’t what people will be looking at, would that be offensive?” he asked, before mentally kicking himself.
“Urgh. Not offended. And I knew it. I could have saved myself three hours of agony in these torture devices.” She removed her hand from his arm. He felt the loss of the warmth immediately. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d last dated if he was lamenting the loss of Emerson Dyer’s touch. His father would be appalled at what he was thinking. And he loved the way she’d glossed over his compliment without acknowledging it.
“Connor Finch,” he said, offering her his hand. “We got off on the wrong foot. Can I suggest a temporary cessation of hostilities? At least for this evening?”
She reached for his hand and he could feel the calluses on her palm. “Emerson Dyer. Are we late?”
They both looked to the stairs that had begun to empty of people. Connor reluctantly let go of her hand and checked his watch. “Right on time by my estimates. Not a minute sooner than we need to be.”
He shifted his elbow in her direction for the second time that evening. “To avoid further hem and heel mergers, let me assist you up the stairs.”
Emerson grimaced. “I feel like that’s a good idea.” She reached for him again. He placed his hand over the top of hers. Her skin was soft and warm.
“So, Emerson, what brings you here tonight?” For some reason he wanted to slow their ascent of the stairs, take a few extra moments to get to know the annoying woman who smelled like summer evenings.
“Oh, you know these things,” she said, casually. “Network, socialize, enjoy some overcooked chicken and house white.”
“You enjoy overcooked chicken and house white?”
Emerson laughed and the sound made him grin in response. “Lord, no. But sometimes you’ve got to eat crap chicken to remind you to enjoy it when it’s stuffed and cooked to perfection. You know, when it tastes a little of tart lemon mixed with the smoothness of rich butter all melted together.”
Her description made his mouth water. They reached the top of the stairs, and Emerson’s hand suddenly flew into the air to wave to someone she knew.
“One second,” she said in the direction of the man she had waved at, and Connor felt a twinge of envy. The woman in his presence was quite the dichotomy and he wanted to know more about her.
He didn’t know much beyond her quick temper, and her hatred of heels that actually made her toned calves look delicious. Even her description of chicken had him hanging on her every word.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking his curiously errant thoughts. “I’ve got to go. I was supposed to be seated by now. It was nice talking with you, Connor. I hope you have fun this evening.”
And before he had time to say anything in return, she was gone. He smiled as she hurried to her friend with the occasional wobble along the paving stones. She was right, she really didn’t look comfortable in heels, but she looked kind of cute trying.
He was just about to step toward the doors to the ballroom when she turned to look at him, a soft smile dancing on her lips.
He held her gaze, as curious about their encounter as he imagined she was.
That was it. His decision made.
Before the night was over, he was going to find out more about the woman.
And her distillery.
And figure out if there was a way to have both.
Want to read more, click here!
Watch for Liv and Anders’ story in Feb 2021
Acknowledgments
My huge thanks to everyone who every reader and blogger who has read and shared the love for both the Second Circle Tattoos series and the Preload series. Without you, this book would never have come into being.
Tremendous thanks to those who helped in the production of this book. Nicole Bailey at Proof Before You Publish and Tanya at More Than Words Graphic Design for editing and cover. I couldn’t have done it without you.
About the Author
Scarlett Cole is a contemporary romance author that calls both Toronto, Canada and Manchester, England home. A born city dweller, she periodically quashes the urge to live in the country by hiking up a mountain to remind herself that living away from people would terrify the pants off her. She believes everybody deserves their love story to be told and loves her heroes on the rough and rugged side…and usually tall (because she married one of those 6ft 6” men you read about in romance!). She’s an A-type personality and Scorpio star sign, so good luck getting her to do anything she doesn’t want to. When she isn’t writing, she’s happy to talk about hot men and expensive shoes while drinking a cold gin and tonic. Don’t bring up olives. As far as Scarlett is concerned, they are the devil’s food. As long as you don’t bring up olives, she’s happy to hear from you any time.