Chapter 12 Trouble in a Tux
The emerald green dress fits perfectly, like it was sewn on me by someone who knew every curve of my body.
For a moment, I hate that Lawrence might actually be right… Maybe I do have a "perfectly standard" body type.
Because how else do I explain this ridiculous, magical, dangerously hot fit?
The slit flashes my leg every time I move, and the neckline is modest enough for a professional event. But it's also reckless enough to remind everyone I have boobs and they're doing great.
When I step back into the office, the reactions of my coworkers are immediate.
They tease me that I look like Mr Moore's wife, which makes my stomach dance with something I refuse to name right now.
Even Jason comes up from IT to see what the commotion is about, and the man is dumbstruck, as if seeing me reset his brain.
I feel so good about myself. Damn, maybe I should let Beverly glam me up more often.
I raise my fist to knock on Lawrence's door, but it swings open before my knuckles make contact.
Lawrence steps out and stops dead in his tracks.
For one very long second, he stares at me.
His eyes— those sharp, green eyes that never miss a thing—lock on me and darken, deepening into a shade of green I've never seen on him before.
The air between us changes, crackling with a sort of electricity that both frightens and thrills me.
Lawrence's eyes move over me slowly, from my face to the neckline, over the curve of silk clinging to my waist, down the daring slit that shows my thigh, all the way to the crystal-strapped heels on my feet and back up again.
He doesn't even have to speak; the way he's looking at me is so intense, I swear the temperature in the room grows warmer.
He's devouring the sight of me in that dress like he ordered it for his own private viewing.
My cheeks burn because I'm suddenly stupidly shy under his gaze.
What feels like an eternity passes before he glances away, his jaw ticking.
"Not bad, Miss Thorn," he says in a rough voice.
Not bad.
NOT BAD?!
My heart is doing gymnastics because of how he looked at me, and the best he can muster is "not bad?"
"I have you to thank for all this," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "It's a lot. Thank you, Mr Moore."
He glances at his watch, ignoring me. "We're going to be late. I don't do late. Come on."
The sleeve of his tux touches my bare arm as he brushes past me, and I pretend not to feel that electric charge again.
His icy behaviour isn't surprising to me; he's Lawrence Moore. But I can't explain or understand why it still stings.
Anyway, I hurry after him.
As we walk through the office, everyone waves or whispers little encouragements.
"Have fun!"
"You look amazing, Scarlett!"
"Good luck!"
I smile back gratefully, but internally, I can only hope I have a nice evening.
Because Lawrence Moore is… well, Lawrence Moore.
And God knows that man can ruin a day faster than anyone I've ever met.
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The venue for the event is breathtaking.
GoodLife is a new high-end hospice facility where people facing the end of life can receive exceptional medical support while still enjoying the pleasures of comfort. And their launch event looks like it cost the gross domestic product of a small country.
The moment we step into the grand hall, I'm in complete awe.
Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, the floors are pure marble, and a live orchestral band plays music that sounds like something straight out of a movie.
Money speaks.
And tonight, it's literally yelling.
Lawrence and I have barely spent two minutes inside when a silver-haired man approaches him with open arms.
I immediately recognise him as Tom Castle. The founder.
He's a billionaire, too, and clearly an old friend from the way they shake hands.
I stand politely to the side, taking a flute of champagne from a passing waiter while the two men fall into easy conversation.
Tom throws an arm around Lawrence's shoulders and says something that makes him laugh.
A wave of nostalgia hits me when I remember that day he laughed in my face at his office.
I don't hate seeing him look like this—like a human and not the ice dragon he usually is at the office.
Slowly, I step away to give them some privacy, admiring the floral arrangements.
The dress is doing its job too well, drawing attention like a magnet.
I feel the eyes of both men and women on me all the time.
It's flattering.
One handsome man in particular has been watching me for over ten minutes.
He's tall, has dark hair which is stylishly gelled back, and wears a fitted tux.
The next time I catch him looking again, he smiles.
Boy, oh, boy, from the looks of him, he's wealthy—giving off old money vibes— plus, he's handsome.
I won't mind if the only thing I get out of this event is him. That would be more than enough.
I'm still wondering whether he'll approach me when a waiter squeezes behind me carrying a tray of champagne flutes, but someone brushes past him too, and his elbow hits mine.
I watch the disaster unfold in slow motion as the tray tilts. But thankfully, his reflexes kick in, and he catches everything before it crashes to the floor.
Still, a tiny splash escapes, landing on my dress.
The poor guy pales instantly. "Ma'am, please, I'm so sorry, I…"
He must think I'm a shareholder or someone who can demand he be fired on sight, and my heart aches for him.
We're both just people trying to get through the night without getting yelled at by a boss, after all.
At least mine hasn't noticed yet.
"Breathe, it's one drop," I say softly, touching his arm. "I've survived worse, okay? You're good."
He heaves a sigh of relief, mumbles another apology and flees.
I glance down, then start to dab at the spot with a cocktail napkin.
The stain is minuscule, barely visible unless you stare. But still, the dress is within the twenty-thousand-dollar range, and just one night old.
It's expensive enough to make me wince.
My eyes move across the hall to where Lawrence is now deep in conversation with a statuesque woman in a black pantsuit. She has striking features, and her posture exudes authority.
Lawrence doesn't seem to mind her touching his forearm when she talks.
Man, whatever. Happy for him.
I turn away from the sight only to find the handsome stranger standing right in front of me.
Lord, have mercy. He's better looking up close.
"Kieran Black," he introduces politely, offering a hand and that dashing smile.
"Scarlett Thorn," I reply, taking it.
A blush creeps up my neck.
His smile deepens. "You are absolutely breathtaking, Miss Thorn."
I can feel my cheeks burning. "You're quite dashing yourself, Mr Black."
"Please, call me Kieran," he corrects, "And I was hoping you'd save me from dying of boredom. Dance with me?"
The live band has started singing something slow and sultry.
Lawrence is still occupied talking to that woman; he doesn't need me. If he does, he'll call. So why not?
I smile at Kieran and follow him to the dancefloor.
He wraps a hand around my waist, the other taking my hand as we move slowly across the dancefloor.