Promise Me Forever: Manhattan Ruthless

Weddings suck.

At least they suck if you’re single and too scared to mingle. Or if your confidence is blown after discovering your husband was giving more than dictation to his twenty-three-year-old secretary. Or if you’re so low on funds that your credit card screams for mercy when you buy the cheapest thing from the couple’s Bloomingdale’s gift registry.

And if you happen to check off all of the above? Then weddings suck even more. I would have skipped it if I could have and stayed home with a bowl of ramen and the latest season of Bridgerton. But this isn’t just any wedding—this is the wedding of my best friend, Emily Gregor. It’s hard to skip out on a wedding when you’re the maid of honor, and besides, I love Emily to pieces.

We’ve been best friends for the past fourteen years despite the fact that we’re as different as two people can possibly be. She’s a beautiful, outgoing society heiress who dated a string of rich and successful men before finally settling down with her brand-new husband, Tucker. I, on the other hand, am almost penniless and married my high school sweetheart straight out of college.

He was my first and only love, and I expected to be at his side forever. Until the secretary thing happened. That took some of the shine off things after fifteen years of loyalty, I have to admit. I followed him around the country to support him in his career, but it turned out I was supporting him into the arms of an ambitious blond with enormous boobs and a ring finger begging for a diamond.

Still, I will not be cynical, especially not today. I refuse to put that kind of negative energy out into my best friend’s wedding reception, and I can’t let one bad experience sour me for love forever. That would mean he really has won.

Anyway, what I lost in a husband, I more than made up for in friendship. Emily and I have always been close, but she really stepped up for me during the breakdown of my marriage. Along with my mom and my childhood friend Kimmy, it was girl power all the way. They were like the Spice Girls on steroids, supporting me through it all, providing me with everything from giant tubs of ice cream to offers to hire a hit man. If wearing this horribly uncomfortable lilac dress and watching other people smooch at a wedding is the price I have to pay for Emily’s friendship, then it’s a bargain. Deal of the century.

I pick up the glass of champagne in front of me and down it in one as I watch the happy couples mingling around the room and on the dance floor. Well, they look happy, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last year, it’s that appearances can be deceptive.

When I spot Emily and Tucker, though, I have to smile. They’re gorgeous together—both tall and blond and dressed in white. But the most gorgeous thing of all is the way he looks at her as he twirls her in his arms. Like she’s the only girl in the whole universe. It’s the way every woman wants to be looked at, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so content. She’s finally found her true love, and despite my recent man trouble, I am genuinely delighted for her. If anyone deserves to find their Prince Charming, it’s Emily. She had to kiss a lot of frogs to find him—hot, rich frogs, sure, but a frog is a frog no matter how much money he has in the bank.

We’ve reached that stage of the evening when everyone is either drunk, very drunk, or passed out under a table. The children have all crashed after hours of sliding around the dance floor in their fancy clothes, and Emily and Tucker will soon be leaving for their honeymoon in Italy. The once-structured seating plan has gone to hell, and the young singles are all involved in some kind of dance-based mating ritual. It’s a lot like a game of musical chairs, only you kiss whoever you end up sitting on.

I’m keeping my distance from the whole thing as I have no desire to lock lips with a stranger tonight. I don’t have the energy or the confidence to play that particular game. Being cheated on takes quite a toll on your self-image, it seems, and I’ve fallen into the very bad habit of rejecting myself before any man can do it for me.

If only Kimmy had been able to make it. My childhood best friend would have ensured I had the time of my life. At least until she found the person she’d give the time of their life to for the rest of the night. Alas, being the head of legal for a worldwide investment firm means that work emergencies can’t be fobbed off on anyone else.

But I’m making the best of my solitude and have snuck off to a table at the back of the room. We were all given name tags at the start of the reception because Emily knows a million people from different walks of life, and she wanted them all to get to know each other. It was a fun idea, even if it did give some of the men an excuse to stare at the women’s boobs for a bit too long. I’ve taken mine off now and am busy doodling on it with some crayons that were left in pots to amuse younger guests. And apparently, the maid of honor.

The table shakes lightly as someone sits beside me, and the sudden jarring movement makes my hand slip. When I turn in my seat, ready to slap on a smile and say whatever necessary to get rid of my new tablemate, my mind goes blank. I forget all about the crayons and the dancing and the fact that my feet are killing me. I forget about my mom’s health problems and my financial issues and my cheating bastard of an ex-husband. I forget about everything because the man sitting next to me is so damn hot that he erases all other thoughts.

I suck in a breath and wish I had some champagne left. Seriously, if I did, I’d raise a toast to this guy and whatever god created him. Congratulations are very much in order. He’s tall even sitting down, his shoulders broad and bulky, and his face … wow. His face belongs on one of those post-Renaissance statues of a fallen angel, all hard angles softened only by the sinful curve of his lips. His hair is dark and lush, and his strong jawline is coated in a thick but neat beard. I love a beard, especially one as well-groomed as his.

Like most of the male guests, he’s dressed in a tux, but this man wears it like he was born in it. He doesn’t only look incredible; he smells it too. It’s like a full assault on the senses. Maybe he has a voice like Mickey Mouse to make up for everything else being so perfect. I’m staring at him so intensely, he’s probably wondering if I should be here with a caregiver, and when he smiles, I drown in the warmth of his deep brown eyes. Dear lord, this guy is hotter than a New York sidewalk under the July sun. It’s a shame I seem to have lost the power of speech. I can only hope I’m not drooling.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you when you were so busy.” His voice is pitched low and is smoother than chocolate. Damn. He officially has the complete set of hot qualities. He gestures to the table, and I flush when I see what he’s talking about. Wonderful. This fine-ass man caught me drawing roses on the back of my abandoned name tag with a fricking crayon. I’m so sophisticated.

“Oh! Well, that’s okay. It’s not like I was jotting down a cure for cancer or a memo to the presiding officer of the UN. I was just, uh, coloring.”

“Coloring? I’m told that’s good for you. Mindful or whatever they call it.” He looks deeply amused, and who can blame him? This guy is off-the-charts handsome, wearing a tux that screams class, and he looks as comfortable in this environment as I feel out of place. I’m guessing he doesn’t have the time or the need for mindfulness activities in his life.

“Maybe,” I mumble. “Do you want to give it a try?”

His response is a rumbling laugh, and I consider smacking myself in the face. So cool, Amelia. What a smooth operator.

“Thanks, but I’m okay. Just looking for a quiet place to people watch.”

“Me too. I like watching people at these kinds of things more than I like mixing with them.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me, and I feel even more stupid. Where the hell did that come from? I’m not normally the sort of person who speaks without thinking, but something about this man seems to have taken a sledgehammer to my usual filters.

“Look,” I say in an attempt to distract him. “The happy couple.” He follows my pointing finger, and we look on as Tucker and Emily swirl by in a blur of white.

“Yeah,” he replies, shaking his head. “The happy couple.” There’s a bite to his tone that contradicts his words, and I look at him sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean? They are happy,” I insist, feeling very protective of them on their special day. Who comes to a wedding and talks crap about the bride and groom? I don’t care how hot he is, that’s just rude.

He laughs softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes him look even sexier. “I mean, they do look very happy—at least right now. But …”

“But?” I ask, annoyed but a little intrigued by his lack of etiquette. “You don’t believe in marriage?”

He sucks on his top lip and thinks about it. “I suppose I just don’t believe in happily ever afters … of any kind,” he finally replies with a shrug. “How can you promise someone forever? Nothing lasts forever.”

I blink at him. Is he for real? We’ve spent the whole day celebrating two people committing the rest of their lives to each other. He could at least pretend to believe in true love for a few hours. Even I’m not that cynical, and I have every reason to be. “I take it you’ve never been married, then?”

“No, but I was close once. A million years ago.” His gaze travels to my now-bare left hand. I’m only just getting used to the feel of it, even though that ring has been gone for almost a year. It’s like those stories about people who have amputations; it left behind phantom pain. “You?” he asks.

I swallow nervously. Do I want to open this can of worms right now? Or do I want to politely make my excuses and sneak away to be alone again?

He looks genuinely interested in what I’m about to say, and I remind myself that I need to start living again. I need to start engaging with the outside world and accepting that what I had in my old life is no more. I have to build a new one, one that has a solid foundation.

Running scared the first time an attractive man speaks to me wouldn’t be a good start. Plus, what the hell—I’m four glasses of champagne in, and I have nothing better to do this evening. I have zero interest in joining the mating frenzy on the dance floor, and I can’t leave until Emily and Tucker are gone. Maid of honor rule.

“Yes, I have, actually,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

He tilts his head. “But you’re not married now?”

“No.” The word comes out in a harsh whisper, and the swell of emotion in my chest takes me by surprise. It’s been a long time since I found out Chad was cheating on me, and our divorce was finalized two weeks ago. We’ve been living apart for eleven months, and our once-joined worlds are now very much separate. I should be over this by now, shouldn’t I? I promised myself that I wouldn’t give any more of myself to that man. That I wouldn’t waste any more tears or energy thinking about him and his new fiancée. Now, here I am, talking to a hot stranger and blinking away the hurt.

He notices even though I try to look away. I get the feeling he’s the kind of man who notices everything. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding sincere. “But I suppose you’ve also proven my point.”

“No, I haven’t. Plenty of marriages go the distance,” I say defensively. “Just because my ex-husband was a cheating asshole doesn’t mean that all men are.”

“Or all women,” he counters with a cock of one eyebrow and a grin that lightens the mood. It also makes my ovaries ache, which wasn’t a thing I thought could happen. “Men haven’t cornered the market on infidelity, though I grant you, they have the bulk of it. What’s your name, rosa?” He taps his pointer finger on the flowers decorating my now brightly patterned name tag. “I’d like to know who I’m debating.”

Debating? Is that what we’re doing? I kind of like the sound of that. It makes me feel more like a grown-up and less like an emotional wreck. Maybe I haven’t handled this encounter quite as disastrously as I thought.

I flip my tag over, ensuring my actual name remains covered up. “It was Amelia,” I announce firmly. “But now I’m considering changing it. Tonight, I feel like being someone entirely different. What do you think?”

I hear the purr in my own voice, and it takes me by surprise. I’m not usually flirty at all. I was with my husband from the age of sixteen onward, so it’s something I never really learned how to do. I’m totally winging it here.

“I think it’s always fun to try something new for size. See how you like the fit. What’s the new name going to be?”

I give it some thought. “I’m torn between Scarlet and Portia. Something deeply glamorous.”

“Hmmm … I prefer Scarlet, I think.” He leans forward across the table and smiles in a way that makes my heart flutter.

“Scarlet it is, then. She’s quite the catch, you know. An independently wealthy business magnate with her own jet and a home in the Hamptons. She’s confident and sassy, and she can have any man she wants.” I’m quite carried away with my vision of Scarlet and wish I could have even a fraction of her self-assurance.

“I’m sure she could,” he replies, giving me a lopsided grin that goes straight to my core. “And I totally get the appeal of being someone else for the night. Letting go of everything else, all the things you’re expected to be, and just recreating yourself.”

“Exactly! I’m … Well, I’m not normally that person. The one who throws caution to the wind. But Scarlet is. She’s a minx.”

“I see that,” he says, laughing. “I think Scarlet and I are going to really hit it off.”

“Maybe so. I notice you don’t have a name tag on, though. What should I call you?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled badge. He lays it flat on the table, and I see the name “Charlie” written in Sharpie.

“I warn you, though, Scarlet,” he says, his dark eyes pinned on mine. “That might not be my real name either. Maybe I saw you from across the room and decided to come talk to you. Maybe I’m not even a guest at this wedding.”

My lips tremble at the intensity of his look, and I find myself staring at his mouth, imagining it closing over mine. No. He must be joking. Men like this don’t look twice at women like me, never mind crash a wedding just to get close. But I decide to go with the flow. That’s what Scarlet would do, after all.

“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” I say, holding out my hand for him to shake.

“The feeling’s mutual, Scarlet,” he replies smoothly as he takes my fingers in his. His skin is warm, and I can’t help but notice that his hand is huge, his palm practically swallowing mine whole. The touch of his flesh, along with those intense eyes, sends a thrill of excitement shooting through me. This man is pure sex in a suit, and my whole body is tingling in response.

He releases me from his grip, and I sit back against my chair, studying him as his gaze rakes over my face. His attention flickers to my breasts for a few seconds, but like a gentleman, he doesn’t linger there. He opens his mouth as if about to speak, but before he can utter a word, we’re disturbed by someone dropping heavily into the chair on the other side of me.

The strong smell of Scotch fills my nose, and a heavy arm drapes over my shoulder, his hand pawing my bare skin. I roll my eyes because I know exactly who our new table companion is, and I’m not thrilled about it. Charlie arches one eyebrow at me in amusement before I turn in my seat to face our new friend.

“You know if the best man and the maid of honor are both single, it’s tradition for them to get together, right?” he slurs in my ear.

“Hey AJ,” I say with a sigh to Tucker’s very annoying younger brother. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Sure it is.” He peers down at my cleavage as he leans closer, puckering his lips for a kiss. He’s harmless enough, I’m sure, but I recoil from the stink of his breath and the reckless expression on his face. Why do men always think this kind of behavior is acceptable? I know he’s drunk, but still. If we weren’t at a wedding, I’d be tempted to slap him.

We are at a wedding, though, so I shrink back from him, wanting to avoid his touch without causing a scene. He’s about to shuffle forward to make another attempt when Charlie grabs his arm and removes it from my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, AJ,” he says smoothly. “But Scarlet isn’t single right now. She’s with me this evening.”

AJ looks momentarily confused, probably wondering who the hell Scarlet is, but he has a goofy grin on his face and a glassy-eyed expression that tells me he won’t remember a word of this conversation tomorrow. He might, however, be in dire need of a sick bag and a handful of Advil.

Charlie towers over us both, holding his hand out to me. I look at the waiting hand, then up at the rest of him. God, he is so damn tall. I could climb him like a tree.

I smile and slip my fingers into his, letting him lead me to the crowded dance floor. The band is playing something slow and sultry, and before I have time to think, he slides his arms around my waist.

“Thank you,” I say to him, a blush creeping over my cheeks as we move to the music. This is dancing, but it feels like so much more. My hips are crushed up against his, and his thick thighs are warm and solid against mine. “For the rescue.”

“No problem. I’m sure Scarlet could have dealt with him anyway. We can go and sit back down as soon as you’re safe from your would-be suitor. If you want to, that is.”

The heat of his firm body radiates through the silky fabric of my dress, and that plus the touch of his fingers on my waist wreak havoc on my brain function. How is a girl supposed to think clearly when a man like this is holding her so close? My hands rest on his wide shoulders, and I flex my fingertips, feeling the hardness of the muscle that lies beneath the perfectly tailored tux.

“Actually, I quite like dancing. I don’t think I’ve danced like this for years. Or maybe ever.” I blush again and scold myself for being so open with a complete stranger. We’re playing a game, this man and I, and it’s not a game that involves me revealing intimate details about my pathetic life.

“Oh?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Your husband didn’t take you dancing?”

“He wasn’t much of a dancer.” I shrug. “Not like you.”

Shit! Just shut the hell up, Amelia. Remember, you’re Scarlet. Be Scarlet.

He laughs softly again, and I feel the sound deep in my bones. “Well, I had lessons when I was younger. My mother insisted.”

“I’m glad she did,” I reply, leaning into him. I’m hyperaware of his warm hand moving to the small of my back. He tugs me a bit closer, his eyes on mine, and the intensity of his gaze makes it impossible to look away. Not that I want to look away. All I want to do is dance, to lose myself in his eyes, to enjoy the touch of his breath against my skin as we sway together in our own world. My fingers curl into the thick hair at the back of his head, and I wonder what the hell has gotten into me. But as I relax into his chest, inhaling the scent of his mouthwatering cologne, I realize that I don’t care what’s gotten into me. I’m simply glad that it has.