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She’s funny without even realizing it. I put my card back in my wallet.

“So, what now? He pulls a book from the shelf, and the wall opens?” she jokes.

“That would be cliché,” I say. “We’re going through the bathroom, obviously.”

“Seriously?”

I laugh. “I’m kidding. It’s absolutely the bookcase.”

The bouncer pulls a gold rose-shaped handle on one of the shelves, and the bookcase pulls out like a door. We walk inside to a bigger room. It’s painted black, but there’s enough light in here to give off an amber hue. Harper is tentative, but she’s still with me.

A woman is standing by a podium with a long red velvet curtain behind her. Jazz music is muffled in the background.

“Good evening, Mr. Sexton. Pleasure to see you again.”

She places a hand on one side of the thick drapery and pulls it over. Inch by inch, the curtain rises, and I keep my eyes on Harper to watch her reaction.

To the lights.

To the music.

To feeling alive.

Her eyes widen with each element.

The first thing she sees is the jazz band at the far end of the room. There’s a vibrant red curtain behind them as the six-piece band jives onstage.

It’s a massive room, far bigger than you would imagine it to be down here. We walk further in as she takes in the visual feast.

A long bar lines the right side of the room—very Prohibition-era style with mahogany wood and damask-fabric barstools. The walls are a pale green wood with cutouts and wire-framed doors to house bottles of liquor.

And the people. The room is moderately filled with patrons, many of them watching the band from the brown leather couches and tea-light lit tables along the left side of the room. A few are at cocktail tables around the stage. A few more are dancing.

She takes in each and every person as if they were a character in her new favorite show. Many of them in suits and dresses. Not formal, just dressed for a night out.

I lightly tug on her hand to get her attention.

We walk past the small crowd to the bar where two seats are available. Even as she’s sitting, she is looking around like a kid in a candy store—examining every architectural detail, crown molding, and carved spindle. This isn’t a place that was thrown together for commercial use. This is a real speakeasy from the 1920s.

“What are you having?” I ask her.

She turns to me like her mind is too riled up to even think of an order.

“This place is amazing!” She beams. Her fingers snap with the music.

She is in her element. She must think I’m wildly out of place. Here I am, a guy with a man bun, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and a member of—quite possibly—the coolest place in the entire city.

“You looked a little nervous out there,” I say.

“Well, it was either this or a sex club. For the record, I’m thrilled it was not the latter.”

My laughter booms from my chest. “May I order for you?” She nods, so I turn to the bartender. “Two sidecars.”

The band starts to play something slightly more mellow, but it still has a fantastic beat.

“I have to tell April about this place. She’ll love it.”

“There are a few speakeasies around town where anyone can enter. The owner of this one wanted to preserve the legacy. It’s a members-only club. There’s a wait list and an intense vetting process to get in.”