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I set down the glass, leaned back on the sofa, and closed my eyes. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.
Chapter 20
Ruby
The elevator doors slid open on B2. A sharp wave of perfume slammed into my lungs.
I stood by the concrete pillar, palms slick with sweat. My phone screen glowed cold and white—6:57 PM.
Three minutes early.
This was the first time in my twenty-four years I'd asked a man out to dinner.
The battle in front of the mirror had drained everything I had. I'd burned through three outfits before finally squeezing myself into this deep forest-green wool pencil skirt. The fabric clung mercilessly, carving out the exaggerated curve between my waist and hips. The deep V-neck stopped just below my collarbone, exposing the edge of that rose tattoo on my right side. I'd even dug out that matte lipstick I'd bought but never dared wear outside—shade name "Dangerous Game," dark red like dried blood.
Last night on video chat with Isabella, she'd caught sight of the lipstick tube in my hand and literally jumped out of her chair screaming.
"Holy shit, Ruby! You're going on a date?" Her gray-green eyes went huge, like she'd discovered a new continent. "Is it that older guy with the daughter?"
"Sort of," I mumbled.
"Come on, you even changed into that sexy-as-hell skirt!" Isabella slammed the table on her end. "Who is he? What company? You've gotta give me something!"
"If tonight goes well," I took a deep breath, "I'll introduce you properly."
Isabella shrieked, too excited to form coherent words. We talked for a long time—she kept pumping me up, saying I deserved to be loved, that age gaps didn't matter. But now, standing in this empty parking garage, my courage was bleeding out drop by drop.
What if he was just being polite?
What if he didn't mean it that way?
What if—
"Ruby."
A low voice came from behind me.
I turned to find a black Maybach parked in front of me—I hadn't even heard it pull up. Marcelo was getting out.
Tonight he wasn't wearing one of those cold, severe three-piece pinstripe suits. Instead, he had on an extremely fitted black turtleneck in thin cashmere, with a dark gray wool overcoat thrown loosely over it, collar hanging open.
He rounded the front of the car, walking straight toward me.
The dim garage lighting softened his usual distance but carved out the mature, sharp shadow along his jawline.
He stopped in front of me. His gaze traveled from my hair down, inch by inch—the square neckline in forest green, the pronounced curve of my chest, finally landing on my ankles in thin-heeled booties. Deep in those gray-green eyes, a barely perceptible flame flickered.
He reached out to open the passenger door, body angled to the side, voice rough as sandpaper soaked in whiskey.
"Good evening, Ruby." His lips curved slightly. "You look stunning tonight. Can't take my eyes off you."
Heat instantly crawled up to my ears.
"Thank you, Marcelo." I avoided his eyes and bent to slide into the car.
The door thudded shut, sealing out the cold. The car filled with scents of cedar and dry tobacco. The heat was set just right, and there was even some mellow low-register jazz playing.
The car glided out of the garage and plunged into Friday night Manhattan traffic.
