“There’s also Earl.”
“—Who?” Savannah asked in confusion.
“Earl—A mysterious, elderly man who challenges every new male visitor to a round of darts. But here’s the kicker—he only speaks in riddles.”
Savannah groaned. “Oh my God.”
Mallory held up a finger. “And the jukebox is cursed.”
Savannah blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t pick the song. The jukebox chooses for you. And it has an unreal ability to expose your emotional state. One time I went in after a breakup and it immediately blasted ‘It’s Too Late’ by Carole King. People applauded.”
Savannah stared. “This sounds like an actual nightmare.”
Mallory clapped her hands together. “Exactly. And when Chase inevitably looks like a lost puppy in the middle of all this chaos, you just happen to be there. Looking absolutely incredible. Offering to help him survive the madness.”
Savannah let out a long, exhausted sigh, rubbing her temples.
“So, to summarize: you’re throwing the man I love into a Twilight Zone-themed bar, hoping he panics, and my role is to be the sexy voice of reason?”
Mallory beamed. “Pretty much, yeah.”
Savannah groaned, letting her head fall back. “And if he doesn’t want to talk?”
Mallory shut the laptop, meeting Savannah’s gaze dead-on, all humor gone.
“Then you walk away knowing you tried. But Sav… I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Savannah swallowed hard.
Because despite the absurdity of it all, despite the nerves eating away at her, despite the fear of what if—
Deep down, she already knew.
He still loved her.
And tomorrow night?
She was going to find out just how much.
Savannah squared her shoulders. “Alright.”
Mallory grinned like a woman who had just engineered the world’s most chaotic but effective romantic scheme.
“Now, go try on outfits. I refuse to let you have a Cinderella moment while wearing sad beige.”
Savannah hadspent the entire day in a state of slow, painful implosion.
It started that morning when she attempted to distract herself with coffee—a terrible mistake, in hindsight—and promptly forgot she had already filled her mug, sending a scalding tidal wave across the counter and onto her bare foot.
She screeched, nearly dropping the entire coffee pot in the process.
“Cool, love that for me,” she muttered, hopping around the kitchen on one foot like an injured flamingo.
Then came her ill-fated attempt at being a functional adult.
She sat down at her desk, determined—determined, damn it—to focus. Emails. Spreadsheets. Anything but the existential panic currently screaming inside her brain.
