CHAPTER 1
ARCHIE
You good for the Grayson job next week?” Whittaker’s voice blares from the speaker on my phone as I shift my truck into park outside the Velvet Arrow and kill the engine.
“It’s an easy job, Whittaker. You don’t need to worry. Talk later.”
“Archie, wait—”
What I’m less certain about is my sister’s insistence on meeting tonight.
Margie’s text from this morning made me pause.Drinks at Velvet Arrow at 6! Can’t wait to see you!!!
Three exclamation points. If my sister uses that many exclamation points, it means trouble is on the horizon.
I check the time. I’m early, which means I can get a drink in me before whatever chaos she’s bringing. The February air bites through my jacket as I head past the storefronts on Chocolate Row, their windows dark except for one artisan shop still boxing up truffles for the night. Two blocks ahead, the Lock & KeyBridge arches over the river, its railing thick with padlocks that catch the last of the streetlight. Just another Monday night in Cupid City—except my sister’s involved, which means nothing about tonight will be simple.
The Velvet Arrow entrance is behind an unmarked door at the bottom of a narrow staircase—the kind of place you have to know about to find. Inside, there’s exposed brick and low amber light, leather banquettes worn soft from use, candles flickering in smoked-glass holders on every table. The cocktail menu is chalked on a board behind the bar and changes weekly, full of drinks with names like “Bathtub Confession” that sound ridiculous and taste like they cost twice as much as they do. It’s not as pretentious as you would expect, which makes it a nice place. The after-work crowd is filtering in, loosening ties and settling into the dim. I find a spot at the bar and signal the bartender.
“The usual?”
I nod, and she pours it without small talk. Another reason I like this place.
The first sip burns going down, settling the restless energy that’s been crawling under my skin all day. Two weeks since I’ve seen Margie. She and her fiancé, Brad, just got back from their engagement trip, which means she’s going to be glowing with that insufferable happiness that makes me want to be anywhere else.
Don’t get me wrong, I love and am happy for my sister. I am. Margie deserves every good thing in the world.
But watching my little sister plan her wedding while I’m still—
I take another drink. Not going there tonight.
The door opens behind me, bringing a gust of cold air and making me regret taking this particular seat at the bar.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a gorgeous woman shrugging off her coat, revealing a soft sweater that clings to curves that should come with a warning. Her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders as she scans the room, and when her gaze lands on me, she smiles.
She slides onto the stool, and I catch a flash of hot pink nails as she reaches for the menu. Sparkly. Ridiculous. I can’t stop staring at them.
Without planning it, I hear myself saying, “The Moscow Mules here are dangerous.” Why am I talking to this woman? What the hell has come over me? Those sexy as sin curves, that’s what.
She looks up, eyebrows raised. Brown eyes, warm as whiskey in my glass. “Dangerous good or dangerous bad?”
“‘You’ll order three and forget where you parked’ dangerous.”
Her laugh lands like a hook behind my ribs. Full and unguarded, the kind of laugh that doesn’t care who’s listening. “Speaking from experience?”
“I don’t drink Moscow Mules.”
“Too sweet for you?” She tilts her head, studying me with an amusement that makes me want to shift in my seat. “Let me guess. Whiskey. Neat. Nothing fancy.”
I lift my glass in confirmation.
“Predictable.” But she’s smiling when she says it.
The bartender approaches, and she orders a glass of red wine without looking at the menu. When it arrives, she wraps thosepink-tipped fingers around the stem and takes a sip, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation.
I should look away, but I really don’t want to.
“I’m Tessa.” She extends her free hand toward me.
