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She pushes the door open and waits for us to step inside ahead of her. Suddenly, Presley shrinks back against me, the curve of her backside nestling against my hips. But it’s not so she can entice me—although my animal brain is already racing.
“I amnotdressed for this place.” She swings around, eyes panicked.
The clientele is dressy—women in cocktail attire and men in suits. We’re around the corner from one of the theatres, so there are often people here after a show. A young guy sits at the bar and I know his face but can’t place the name—I’m pretty sure he’s a professional athlete. Tennis, maybe?
“There’s no dress code,” I say, placing my hand on Presley’s shoulders and gently guiding her back around.
“They’re going to think I’m here for ‘entertainment’ or something.”
“It’s notthatkind of club, trust me.”
Charlotte guides us to a small table with a curved bench seat behind it, and Presley scoots in quickly as though the table might protect her. I’m not sure why she’s so riled up—I love the leather-and-leopard-and-stockings look. It suits her.
“I’ll send someone over to take your drink order,” Charlotte says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be such a stranger, okay? Come past and say hi before you head back to Sydney. Lark would love to see you.”
As she walks away, I catch Presley surveying the room. It’s similarly opulent to the stairway—art deco stylings, gold trim and plum velvet couches. The cocktail menu is thick and bound with a brass ring that mimics the knocker on the front door.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
Presley toys with my grandfather’s ring, pushing it around and around so that the stone winks with each revolution. The familiarity of the gesture strikes me in the chest; I do the same thing when I’m trying to figure out the solution to a problem.
She reaches for the menu. “This place is a little... extra.”
“I thought it might be good to go somewhere we can talk.” I lower myself next to her on the velvet bench seat, my hand brushing against her arm.
She watches me, cool eyes hiding herself away. It pains me that I’m so fascinated by this woman, because it’s been a long time since anyone caught my interest this way. For the last five years, I’ve been elbow-deep in helping my friend take his business to the next level, and plotting my own dream venture on the side. But all of that came to a screeching halt the second I caught whiff of my father’s early retirement and what it might mean for Foster & Co.
“What’s your agenda?” she asks, picking up the menu and flipping it open, her pearly pink nails—which seem too softly feminine and in stark contrast to the rest of her outfit—scanning the extensive list of options.
“My agenda?”
“The reason you’re out taking me for a drink when you should be with your family, consoling your stepbrother.” She spears me with a look. “You’re not doing this for shits and giggles.”
“Maybe I’m curious about the woman who stuck up for herself.”
“By running away.” She raises a brow.
“Would have been worse to stay when you felt cornered,” I point out. I want her to feel like I understand her actions. That I’m not judging her...which I’m not. She dodged a bullet. “It’s smarter than sticking around to draw swords.”
“Hmm.” She nods. “That wouldn’t have worked out too well for me. My mother would have said anything under the sun to make it seem like the problems were all in my head. Hell, I probably would have walked away thinking I’d imagined the whole thing.”
We pause as the waiter comes past our table, dressed in black pants and a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread. “What can I get you both?”
Presley is still scanning the menu, so I order my standard: a Negroni. A second later she looks up. “I’ll have a Widow’s Kiss.”
I left out a sharp laugh as the waiter walks away. “Widow’s Kiss? You ordered that for the name, right?”
“No, I love...” She glances at the menu. “Chartreuse and Bénédictine with brandy and bitters.”
I scrub a hand over my face. The Widow’s Kiss has a reputation in this bar. “You know they call it the ‘floor finder’ right?”
“Floor finder?”
“Because after you drink it, your face finds the floor real quick. It’s basically rocket fuel.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe I’m feeling adventurous.”
And by adventurous, I’m pretty sure she means reckless. I don’t know much about Presley, beyond the snippets I got from my father in the few conversations we’ve had in the last year. He’d described her as a “nice girl” who seemed smart, like she’d keep Mike in line.
