I answer with the safest possible text:
Elena: See you later then.
Safety. Professionalism, and zero emotion. This is my corporate side.
His reply?
Colt: Can’t wait.
I exhale so sharply I almost pass out.
“No,” I whisper aggressively at my screen. “No no no. Absolutely NOT a date.”
But my reflection in the dark window behind my desk?
She’s smiling back at me.
Way too hard.
Chapter Eight
COLT
I’m early.
Way too early.
I’ve been sitting in this velvet corner booth at The Darling for twelve—no, fourteen—minutes, pretending to read the drink menu like it requires deep analysis.
It doesn’t.
It’s three pages of cocktails named after 1920s celebrities and bad decisions.
My leg bounces under the table.
“Calm down,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s a hang. She said that. Just a hang.”
What doeshangeven mean? I really wish I got out more.
The bartender, polishing a glass, gives me a look like he can smell lies.
I shift in my seat.
The place is dim, all warm gold lighting and red velvet, the kind of atmosphere that melts people. Couples laugh low. Someone’s perfume hangs sweet in the air. A jazz trio plays something slow and slinky in the corner.
It’s objectively romantic.
I should’ve picked a coffee shop.
Or a diner.
Or literally any place where the lighting doesn’t whisper,kiss someone.
But no.
I picked this, because I’m an idiot.
I check the entrance again, and there’s still no sign of her.
