We stepped into a space with low lighting, courtesy of the antique chandeliers. The jazz music played by the live band on the small stage drifted through the air as people crowded around dark wood tables and velvet booths.
The entire space was suspended slightly outside of time. Old photographs lined the brick walls. Crystal glasses caught the light. Laughter rose warmly beneath the music.
And apparently every single person inside knew Winnie.
The moment we stepped through the doorway, a man behind the bar lit up. “Winnie!”
She grinned immediately. “Marco.”
Another woman waved from a nearby booth. “Darling, where have you been?”
Someone near the band shouted, “Carrington! About time!”
I stopped walking. Winnie turned back toward me with obvious amusement. “What?”
“You’re friends with everyone.”
She shrugged. “No, I’m really not. Everyone’s just super welcoming here.”
A tall woman in a velvet jumpsuit passed by and kissed Winnie’s cheek. “You vanished for weeks. I assumed you’d finally murdered somebody important.”
I stared.
Winnie looked entirely unbothered. “No murders this fiscal year.”
The woman cackled and moved on.
For some reason, I’d never really considered Winnie having a community or a personal history in the city beyond our house. In my head, she existed almost entirely within the orbit of our family.
Seeing her here was startling in the best possible way. She was brighter here. She laughed openly, teased people freely. When a gray-haired pianist came up to her and launched into a story about “the cocktail incident of 2018”, she simply leaned against the bar and listened to him.
And the outfit—God help me.
Without the heavy coats and layers, Winnie was not merely pretty. She wasstunning. Curvy in a way that made every man in the room notice when she walked by. She was confident without seeming aware of it. Elegant without even trying.
At one point, she threw her head back, laughing at something the bartender said, and I genuinely forgot what year it was.
“You all right there, handsome?”
I looked up. The elderly gentleman grinned while taking a sip of his cocktail.
“Yeah,” I lied.
“You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The one people get when they realize Winnie Carrington exists.”
Heat climbed up my neck. Before I could answer, Winnie returned, carrying two drinks.
“I hope bourbon is all right,” she said.
“Yes.” Then, because my brain hated me, I said, “You look incredible tonight.”
There. I said it. Out loud. Like a remotely normal person.
Winnie paused. The noise of the speakeasy carried on around us while something quieter settled between us.
