It’s more of a working theory than anything concrete. I just need to put it to the test somehow.
I click my tongue as I check my clock. It’s midnight already.
But this is New York City, and the night is oh so very young.
It takes no time at all to change out of my red dress and into something more…well, comfortable isn’t exactly the word I’d use. The Louboutins may feel soft and familiar, but they’re still staggeringly tall, and I have to be careful when walking over things like grates.
After a moment to consider my short black dress, I impulsively put on a weathered denim jacket. It’s far too large and clasheswith the rest of my aesthetic, but in the mirror, it looks like it belongs to someone else.
And there’s that very small possibility that it might just make Teo mad.
Satisfied, I call a cab. It takes less than twenty minutes to find myself in a bar in the East Village. It’s packed with people, clearly undeterred by the late hour, with ample space outside for patrons to smoke and look across the East River.
For a moment, I do, too. Brooklyn’s lights sparkle across the bay, as if beckoning me to cross the territory line.
But a chill wind blows by, and I head back inside to fend off the cold.
It’s the perfect deterrent for cold, really. With that many bodies pressed together, the walls are practically sweating along with us. Music blares through the speakers, causing conversations to take place an inch away from people’s ears.
By the time I make it to the bar, I’m already thrumming with energy. If it’s excitement, anticipation, or nervousness, I’m not entirely sure.
Most likely a combination of all three.
“What can I get you?” the barkeep all but shouts when I finally get his attention.
“Martini!” I shout back.
I bob my head to the music as I wait, covertly looking around the room as I do.
He almost got caught today,I have to remind myself.He might not come.
It’s difficult to ignore the brick of disappointment that makes its home in my stomach.
He’s been watching me for weeks now. Someone must have told him I’m here.
A test. It’s just a test. It’s nothing more than a test to prove a theory. And it’s a theory that really doesn’t need to be looked at too closely.
Because if I’m right and hecan’tkill me, there has to be a reason.
My internal turmoil is thankfully interrupted by the bartender placing my drink before me.
But before I can even move for my wallet, a crisp twenty-dollar bill is placed in front of me.
“This one’s on me,” the man beside me declares.
I turn to face him with a wry smile, hoping it hides my disappointment.
The man before me has dark hair, eyes, and skin—trademarks of his Hispanic heritage—and a cheeky smile that just knows how good he looks in a leather jacket.
I tip my glass to him before taking a sip. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Not every day a pretty girl like you walks into a place like this.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “People still use that line?”
He shrugs. “All right then, not every day an Italian walks into a place like this.”
His eyes glint with meaning, and I understand immediately. Hell, it was the reason I chose this place, after all.
