No address.
Of course.
I shut the cupboard quietly, like it might tattle on me, then sit back in my chair and pretend to read an email while my pulse kicks up for no good reason. The office hums around me—keyboards, phones, the low murmur of associates pretending not to hate their lives.
Enough.
I pick up the phone on my desk.
Not my cell.
The office phone.
I dial her number from memory.
It rings twice.
“Ethan?” she answers, breathless, like I caught her mid-stride or mid-thought.
Something in my chest loosens.
“Hey,” I say. Then, without giving myself time to overthink it, “Change of plans tonight.”
A pause.
“I’m taking you out,” I continue. “We’re not doing the usual. I want to meet your friends.”
Her laugh is soft. Warm. Real.
She lowers her voice. I can hear the smile in it. “Okay. I’ll see who’s available.”
“Great,” I say. “Meet you there.”
We hang up before either of us can turn it into something heavier.
She shows up ten minutes late.
Worth it.
Sage steps into the bar like she always does—effortless, magnetic, making people look twice without trying. Black dress, heels that should be illegal, hair loose over her shoulders like she didn’t plan it that way but somehow nailed it anyway.
And she’s not alone.
The girl beside her is petite, brunette, dark-eyed, tan in that sunkissed way that looks expensive without being obvious. Shorter than Sage, softer curves, a quiet confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Tony sees her before I do.
I watch it happen in real time.
His posture changes. Straightens. Locks in.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “Oh hellooo.”
“That’s Chloe,” Sage says when she reaches us, eyes sparkling like she knowsexactlywhat she just did. “My friend.”
Tony’s already standing.
“Tony,” he says smoothly, sticking out his hand like this is a networking event and not a dive bar with sticky floors. “Boat owner. Occasional menace.”
