Something in his tone makes me hesitate. I lick my lips, and I see his gaze drop to my mouth, his pupils darker than before. It feels like the room around us momentarily blurs, like it’s just us for a moment, and I take a nervous breath. "What kind of place?"
Desmond smiles, taking my elbow as we move through the crowd. "A speakeasy. Very authentic, very discreet. The kind of place where we can actually have a conversation without being overheard."
I glance around at the crowd of theatergoers and spot Leon near the exit, watching us carefully. The idea of somewhere more private is appealing, but something about Desmond's eagerness makes me cautious. I have no plans to let this date turn into anything more than that—not tonight, at least. I’m not even sure if I’m going to let him kiss me goodnight, yet.
"I don't know.” I bite my lip. "It's getting late, and I have an early meeting tomorrow."
"Come on," he says, his hand finding the small of my back and applying gentle pressure. "One drink. I promise I'll have you home at a reasonable hour." He smiles at me. “Not before midnight, probably, but you won’t turn into a pumpkin. I promise.”
That prickly feeling skates over the back of my neck again, but I push it away. So what if he’s being eager, I tell myself. We’ve been casting around the idea of this date for weeks. He said himself that he was thrilled when we finally settled on it. He’s just pulling out all the stops to make sure that there’s a second one.
I find myself agreeing, despite my reservations. "Okay. One drink."
His smile is triumphant. “You’re going to love it,” he promises, as we head back out toward where the valet has brought the car around.
I let out a sigh of relief as the heated leather of the seats sinks through the silk of my dress and into my skin, thawing out over the short ride to the bar. The speakeasy is hidden beneath a nondescript building in the North End, accessible only through an unmarked door and down a narrow staircase. Desmond gives the password to a man behind a slot in the door, and then we're ushered into a dimly lit space that looks like it traveled forward from the 1920s.
The décor is all dark wood and brass fixtures, with intimate booths lining the walls and a small stage where a jazz trio is playing softly. The clientele is clearly upscale—well-dressed men and women speaking in low voices around dimly lit small tables, narrow booths built into the walls, and the scent of smoke and perfume coloring the air. A bartender in a suit with his hair gelled back and a thinly waxed pencil mustache is shaking a cocktail.
"This is amazing," I say, genuinely impressed. "How did you find this place?"
"I have my sources," Desmond says mysteriously, guiding me to a corner booth that’s dimly lit enough for privacy, but still gives us an ample view of the room. "What would you like to drink?"
"Surprise me," I say, sliding into the booth. The leather is soft and worn, and the lighting is so dim that I can barely make out Desmond's features across from me.
Desmond smiles. “Sweet, sour, spicy? Gin, whiskey, vodka?”
“Sweet and gin,” I tell him, an answering smile on my own lips. I feel like we’ve been cast back in time here, and he was right—this placeisworth whatever sleep I lose because we’ve been out late.
He goes to the bar and orders for both of us. I watch him go, enjoying the view of his leanly muscled body and the handsome profile of his face as he leans across the bar. He comes back after a moment, his gaze lingering on me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and I have to admit it’s as intoxicating as any of these drinks could be.
Our order arrives quickly—a Bee’s Knees for me and a whiskey neat for him, served by a waitress in a flapper-style dress who calls Desmond by name.
"You're a regular here," I observe, feeling a small flash of jealousy. The waitress is gorgeous, stick-thin with sharpcheekbones and finger-waves in her short black hair, and I can’t help but wonder how they know each other so well.
“I’ve been here a few times,” Desmond says with a smirk. “It’s one of my favorite places.” He raises his glass in a toast. "To new beginnings."
"To new beginnings," I echo, clinking my glass against his.
The cocktail is delicious—gin and honey, and lemon, sweet and a little tart. I take another sip and feel the alcohol warming my chest.
"So," Desmond says, leaning back in the booth. "How is your family? I know about Ronan, of course, but what about your other brother? Tristan, isn't it? I think I’ve met him fewer times in person than I have you."
"Tristan lives in Miami now," I say. "He's married, expecting his first child. He stays busy. I haven’t seen him since…” I swallow, hating the pall that bringing it up again might cast over the night. “Since the funeral.”
“Ah.” Desmond gives me a curious look, his expression smooth, although I think I see a flash of pain in his eyes. “Does Tristan not get along well with the rest of the family, then?”
“It’s not that.” I shake my head, taking another sip. “He didn’t get along well with our father, that’s true, but Padraigh spent a lot of time in Miami watching him, all the same. He just needed to… strike out on his own. And now that he has, and he’s got all these responsibilities in Miami, he can’t come home as often.” I bite my lip, thinking of how for years, the three of us—me, Ronan, and Tristan—were all here in Boston. It feels strange, having one third of us gone.
“I heard what happened to your father,” Desmond says sympathetically. “As the head of the Connellys, it affected us as well. I understand Ronan’s decision. Agree with it, even.” He says it as if that should matter, and I purse my lips, wondering why that rubs me the wrong way.
“It’s been difficult for him,” I say slowly. “This hasallbeen difficult. The last few months have been some of the hardest we’ve had to deal with.” I break off, taking another sip of my drink. It feels as if we can’t get away from these topics, from blood and death. With a more normal man, I wouldn’t have these conversations… but those men don’t understand the need for security, for protection, the need to make sure I’m watched over at all times. They resent that they can’t get me alone, can’t easily get what they want.
"I understand," Desmond says. "Family can be complicated. Especially families like ours." He pauses. “I understand how Ronan must feel. Losing a wife and a father so close together. After all, I lost my sister, and then my father.”
There's something in his tone that makes me look at him more closely. In the dim light, his green eyes seem almost predatory. I’m not sure what the look is, exactly. Desire, maybe? I’ve seen it so rarely that I’m not entirely sure I can parse it out.
I remember what it looked like when Elio wanted me. The yearning in his eyes, theneed. But that kind of longing is rare. It’s not something I ever expect to find with someone else.
