Friends didn’t think about each other every waking moment and count down the seconds until they could see each other again.
When four thirty rolled around at last, Loren’s phone beeped where it sat on the desk upstairs, where she was completing paperwork for closing, and her heart skipped as his name flashed across the screen.
Sorry I’m late,Darien had written. She glanced at the clock; she wasn’t sure two minutes counted as being late, but the message had her smiling.I’m in the usual spot.
She breezed through the rest of her closing duties, her legs wobbling the whole time. Before she left, she swiped on a fresh layer of lip-gloss, finger-combed her hair, and readjusted her white lace dress. She couldn’t believe how nervous she was! She wanted to smack herself in the head for it.
When she got into Darien’s car, he was on the phone, but as he listened to whatever the person on the other end of the call was saying, he gave her the kind of crooked smile that made her weak in the knees. It was a good thing she had just lowered herself onto the seat, otherwise she might’ve fallen on her face. She buckled her seatbelt, unable to take her eyes off him as he hurried through the conversation he was having.
When he ended the call, he tucked his phone away and pulled out onto the road. “Have you ever been to Blackbird 88 Above?” Located in the Financial District, Blackbird 88 Above was a ritzy restaurant only people like Taega and Calanthe Croft could afford to dine at.
Or a Devil.
Loren snorted a laugh. “Only in my wildest dreams. I’d have to sell my soul just for a glass of water.”
“I’d like to learn all about those wild dreams of yours sometime, Loren Calla.” He gave her a lustful glance that had her toes curling in her shoes. “All jokes aside, I’m taking you to Blackbird for dinner. And don’t worry, I won’t let them steal your soul—it’s far too precious.”
Her mouth popped open. “You arenottaking me to Blackbird, Darien Cassel.” Then she noticed what he was wearing: the white button-up shirt tucked into black suit-pants; the polished black shoes; the watch that probably cost a fortune. Damn, he looked amazing. And—
Damn, he reallywastaking her to Blackbird.
“Actually, you don’t get a say in the matter.”
Loren cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? And did you make reservations, Mister Bossy?”
“I don’t need them,” he said with a sly grin as he stopped at a red light near the city’s Control Tower. The panels of polished cristala that soared way, way up into the sky mirrored the rosy sunset.
Loren rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”
Darien laughed. Trust a Devil to get into a place like Blackbird without a reservation.
The restaurant was on the eighty-eighth floor of a skyscraper in the Financial District. Every table in the place was sold out from open to close, no matter what day of the week.
Darien hadn’t lied when he’d told Loren he didn’t need reservations; after the hostess apologized for not having room to accommodate them, all he had to do was tell her what his name was and she’d found them the best seat in the house, right by a wall of windows with an incredible view of the glimmering district.
“What would you like to drink?” Darien asked as they looked over their menus. “Aside from the water that will cost you your soul.” He winked.
Loren blushed. “I suppose I’ll have wine,” she said. “Sometimes it still strikes me as strange that I’m able to order alcohol.” This was the first year she, Dallas, and Sabrine had been able to enter clubs and bars, and the novelty hadn’t quite worn off yet.
“When’s your birthday?”
“The first of Januarius.”
“You’re a Kalendae baby.” Darien smiled.
“That’s right. When were you born, Darien Cassel?” She realized she’d never asked how old he was, though she knew, from what she’d heard the other Devils saying, that none of them had peaked yet. The year at which an immortal stopped aging—their Peak Year, it was called—was different for every person, though it was usually somewhere between the age of twenty and forty. Hellsehers tended to stop aging earlier than other immortal beings, usually by the year thirty-five, though most lived their whole lives in their perpetual twenties.
It was hard for Loren not to feel the stab of jealousy in her heart, especially with Darien sitting across from her.
“On the fifth of Novem,” Darien said, “twenty-four years ago.”
She sat back, menu drooping in her hands. “The fifth was last Wednesday.”
He must’ve seen the hurt on her face, for he said gently, “I don’t celebrate my birthday, Lola. In fact, I prefer to have as few people know about it as possible.”
Loren cocked her head, her curiosity outweighing the hurt she felt. “Why don’t you celebrate it?”
“It has a lot to do with my mother. She died partly because Ivyana and I had been born, so I don’t exactly see our date of birth as something worth acknowledging.”
