Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

There was a dress on the bed.

Not folded. Not hung. Laid out, like I was some sort of paper doll and someone had already decided exactly what I should wear tonight. Beside it, a pair of strappy heels I definitely didn't own, and a little envelope with my name scrawled across the front in annoyingly familiar handwriting.

I opened it with suspicion.

No questions.
Meet me at the bar downstairs at 8.
-C

I stared at the note for a full minute before glancing back at the dress. Midnight green silk, thin straps, dangerously low in the back. It looked like something stolen from the closet of a Bond girl.

I glanced at the clock. 7:24 p.m.

He was so lucky I was curious.

And then I put it on.

At 7:59 I walked into the resort bar, heels clicking across the polished floor, heart annoyingly loud in my chest.

It wasn't even the dress-or the open back, or the slit that dared me to take bigger steps-it was the fact that I had no idea what Charles was up to, and I hated not knowing.

Then I saw him.

Leaning casually against the counter, drink in hand, dressed in a black shirt that fit a little too well, sleeves rolled to the forearms, hair pushed back like he hadn't even tried-which was exactly the problem.

He spotted me and didn't move. Just let his eyes trail down, slowly, like he was seeing me for the first time.

And then he said, with a straight face,
"Bonsoir," he said smoothly. "Do you come here often, or did I just get very, very lucky?"

I blinked. "We're doing this?"

He pretend to look surprised. "Doing what?"

I rolled my eyes playing along now. "You always pick up strangers like this?"

"Only when they walk in looking like sin and trouble."

I nearly choked on a laugh. "Okay. That one was actually good."

"Please," he said, gesturing to the empty stool beside him with a charming little tilt of his head. "Have a drink with me?"

I slid onto the stool, smoothing the skirt of the dress he had so clearly picked for maximum effect. "Well, since you asked so nicely..."

He smiled, and I matched it with one of my own-sweet, mysterious. I was fully in now.

"Do you have a name?" I asked, crossing one leg over the other and tilting my head just slightly.

"Charles," he said, extending a hand like we were meeting for the first time. "And you?"

I took his hand, shook it lightly. "Emily."

"Emily," he repeated, like he was trying it out. "Beautiful name."

"Thanks," I said, playing along. "I like yours too. Very... European."

He smirked. "Monegasques, actually."

"Of course it is," I teased. "So, Charles what do you do when you're not picking up women in resort bars?"

He leaned in a little, like he was telling me a secret. "I drive race cars."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? That sounds... loud."

He laughed. "It is. Fast, too."

"Dangerous?"

"The fun kind." His smile grew. "And what about you?