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“Edgar,” Fitz responds with another nod.
“Do you know everyone by name?” I ask under my breath as I stop, momentarily, in my tracks to appreciate the gorgeous art deco lobby in front of me. I’ve only been here once before - senior year, prom. And from what I could remember, it hasn’t changed much.
“I try to,” Fitz answers coolly, waiting for me to take everything in. The mirrored walls, deep brass of the fixtures. The old-Hollywood era furniture and decor. “Our office is next door, so I’m here quite a bit. We do a lot of meetings in the conference space.” I look back at him, and he tilts his head toward the bank of elevators across the red carpet of the lobby, which readsThe Monarchin thick script font. His hand still touching my arm, I follow him as he presses the down button. Down?
“Where are we going?” I repeat my question, hoping that this time, he’ll actually give me an answer, but the corners of his mouth turn up as he gives my elbow a squeeze.
“Someone’s impatient,” he teases, and his eyes are nearly burning with intensity. “You’ll see soon, I promise.” I take a deep breath as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. I follow him in, my heels clicking on the tile floor, and lean against the railing on the back wall, steadying myself.
Why the hell am I so nervous? It’s a date. I’ve been on dozens - hundreds, maybe - of dates.
But none of them were with him. I chastise myself - the only reason this feels different is because he’s known me for a long time. But has he really? Did the last ten years, where we never saw each other, not really, even count toward that clock? Did any of the time before, when I felt like completely different people compared to who I am today?
Fitz presses the button marked LC - lower conference, I read next to it - and when the door slides shut, he turns to me, ducking his head to look me in the eyes where I’m perched.
“You ok?” He asks, and I give a small nod and try to smile. His face tells me he’s not convinced.
“I feel like you’re taking me to a secret sex dungeon or something.” His head falls back in a silent laugh, and he looks at me again, eyes crinkling.
“Not a sex dungeon, promise.” At arm’s length, he can eye me from head to foot, and he does just that, one hand running down my arm as the elevator crawls downward. Then, he rests his hand against the elevator wall above my head, and my breath hitches.
“You sure about that?” I feel myself swallow, and he tucks my hair behind my ear with his other hand, leaning forward to give my forehead a small kiss. The elevator dings, and he smoothly stands back up, adjusting his sleeve like he wasn’t just being intimate.Wall, back up. When I follow him out of the elevator into the hallway outside, it looks like a normal conference center. Intricately patterned carpets, neutral wallpapers. Framed photos of different spots in DFW line the walls. We pass huge depictions of the Stockyards, Reunion Tower, coming to a stop in front of a picture of the glittering Dallas skyline at the end of the hallway that’s at least five feet tall. Absently, Fitz reaches out to a tan phone that blends into the wall so well, I didn’t notice it until his long fingers started pressing buttons.
Then, I watch as the frame swings open, and a soft lull of jazz music escapes the dark doorway hidden behind it.
“What in the Hogwarts…” I say, mostly to myself, but Fitz lets out a little snort next to me, and then holds out a hand. Gingerly, I take it, and let him lead me toward the doorway, where he climbs in, holding my hand up to help me step over the boundary.
Because it’s me, my shoe catches on the top of the door, and I barrel forward, crashing hard into Fitz’s chest.
“Whoa,” he breathes as I nearly knock the wind out of him. His arms wrap around my shoulders, and I look dumbly up at him as I orient myself.
“Not a sex dungeon?” I repeat, because being pressed up against him, breathing in the smell of his freshly laundered shirt and whatever aftershave he’s wearing, I don’t know that I’d be entirely opposed to the idea.
I realize how tall he is, this close to me - even in my heels I’m bending my head back to look up at him, and my mind immediately wonders where he shops for clothes, because he can’t just get shirts with his arm length at Nordstrom. His eyes flash with something lustful, and his mouth turns up again as he whispers, somewhat horsley, “Not a sex dungeon.” I laugh half-heartedly, separating myself from him. He gives me another look, one I can’t read, before grabbing my hand and leading me toward the source of the music, down a dark hallway lit by green bulbs.
We emerge on the other side of the hall into the room where the music is coming from, and I stop in my tracks, floored.
Chapter 25
Piper
IfeellikeI’vestepped into a Gatsby-era nightclub, the extreme of the same decor littered across the hotel above. My eyes scan over the dark room, the black, wainscot walls, the plush, velvet couches and chairs, the brass light fixtures of all shapes and sizes that droop down from a ceiling covered in tarnished mirrors. I stare up, into my own reflection, and Fitz gives my hand a squeeze.
“What is this place?” I breathe, and turn to see that he’s staring at me. I blink, but he doesn’t flinch as he answers.
“The Menagerie. It’s a speakeasy.” He gestures forward, toward the ornate, upholstered bar, where a blonde woman is mixing drinks in front of a wall of bottles. She holds the cocktail shaker in her hands up above her shoulders, and looks around the room as she mixes the drink, her eyes landing on the stage across the room where a musical act is setting up.
I follow Fitz to the far side of the bar, where the curve of one end meets the wall, and see that there’s aReservedsign in front of two blue velvet barstools. He pulls one out for me, and I climb on, careful not to repeat my fall from earlier. I’m pleasantly surprised to feel that there’s a purse hanger under the bar top.
Fitz sits gracefully in the chair between the wall and me. He picks up the reserved sign, folds it, and sets it on the other side of the bartop.
“Fitz, this is gorgeous.” I run my hands over the cool black quartz in front of me.
“Appropriate, for a gorgeous date.” He’s staring again, and I roll my eyes. “Hey.” Under the bar, he puts one hand on my knee. “I’m serious.”
“You’re surprisingly corny,” I counter, and settle my hand on top of his. His eyes flicker down, and then he turns his hand upside down, letting our fingers lace together. My heart pounds.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” We break eye contact to look up toward the bar, where the blonde, who’s shorter than I first thought, stands placing cocktail napkins in front of us. She reaches toward a pile of long cards, and when she puts twos in front of us, I realize it’s the menu. And it’s just as pretty as the rest of the room around us.
