Up until this point, I’d been dealing with Professional Scarlett. Even when we’d flirted and kissed, she’d clung to pieces of that mask with determined fingers. The Scarlett that was walking toward me? She wasn’t wearing a mask. This was the Scarlett I’d see if we were dating—if I picked her up at her flat, flowers in hand; if we walked down the street, our fingers intertwined; if we woke up in the morning, her head on my chest. This was what Scarlett would look like if she were mine.
