Heat rushed to her cheeks.
"So, are you going to go?"
"Go where?"
Eliza huffed. "To the gold room. For your swanky night of danger and sexual escapades. I have a trench coat if you want to borrow."
She blinked, not knowing how to answer.
This was Natalie's last chance. If she didn't go to the Gold Room tonight, she could back out of the whole thing like the deal had never happened. She could just do...something else for Franco. She could call him and try to force him to make a plan for himself. And talk to him about...
No. She couldn't do that.
Which, she supposed, only left her with one choice.
If only it had been somewhere other than the Gold Room. She could have met him anywhere--including the back alley of an Applebee's or something—if only she could avoid that high society smoke den. But then, tonight was on his terms.
It figured he'd choose the one place she couldn't stand to revisit.
"No trench coat." She was only vaguely aware of answering Eliza's question and the rest of the evening—the packing up and the heading home—passed in a similar daze. Her mind simply didn't have enough room to focus on the here and now. Instead, it was running ahead of her, imagining tonight.
Trying to decide whether to be excited or completely and utterly terrified.
When she got to the Gold Room, it was like her entire past flashed before her eyes. This was the kind of place her second husband had always dragged her to, carrying her on his arm like, well, like a trophy while his friends all smiled and ignored her.
The dark emerald cocktail dress she'd worn was even one she'd used to wear when he took her to places like this. He said it was the type of thing the other wives would be envious of.
She'd said it was the type of thing that made her itch.
She shook her head, moving past her memories as she walked toward the bar and ordered a melon ball. Her husband would have hated that. A melon ball. Green and obnoxious, he'd called them. Back then, she'd had to drink martinis with olives, the way sophisticated wives did.
Or very drunk women did, at least.
When the bartender sat the drink in front of her, she sipped from the sugar-rimmed glass and stared around the room. Thankfully, there was nobody here tonight who'd still know her from the old days. At least, not without her professionally coiffed blonde hair and her old plastic smile.
Just to be safe, though, she sat in the darkest corner and waited. Knowing Brooks, he'd spot her no matter where she decided to hide.
It had been a safe bet.
By the time her drink was half-way gone, he slid into the booth opposite her, notably underdressed in a partially unbuttoned white dress shirt and slacks. Compared to the men in full double-breasted suits around him, Brooks looked like he was on his way to the grocery store in the middle of the night.
"This is why you're always on page six. You never dress the way you're supposed to when you go to places like this."
“Hello to you, too.”
She sipped her drink, then eyed his.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Vodka cranberry."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No, you drink gin or whiskey or a martini. Maybe an old fashioned."
"No, I drink a Vodka cranberry." He sipped it, and then winked. "I have the bartender leave out the cherries, though. They're a little girly for my taste."