This might be a mistake. Now that I’m faced with the reality of this meeting, I’m wracked with uncertainty. Dane is a customer, and I’ll have to see him at the café even if this goes badly. I’m still troubled by the fact that I’ve spent hours fantasizing about a dark villain that wears his handsome face. He proved through his actions at the market that he’s truly a white knight, and as much as I crave that version of him, I can’t let go of my shameful imaginings. I’m not sure if I want him to rescue me or to ravage me.
My fingers tighten around my small black clutch as I struggle to master my rising anxiety. I only have a single twenty-dollar bill and a wad of ones inside the bag—just enough to cover two cocktails. If I choose to go up to the bar and see this through, I won’t be able to rely on alcohol to soothe my nerves; I can’t afford it.
Dane is waiting. I should’ve ridden the golden elevator up to the rooftop already, but I can’t stop staring at the art that fills the hotel entry hall. This space has been set up as a small gallery featuring work by local artists. I love it here, and a stroll down the corridor always calms me. Even if I will never be talented enough to have my landscapes included in the collection.
A pang twinges my gut—something between envy and longing—as I stare at the abstract expressionist piece that dominates the wall beside the elevator. It’s a breathtaking study in various shades of red: fiery rage, sultry seduction, and the blush of innocence corrupted. It evokes the full spectrum of passion, and I allow myself to become absorbed by the beauty of the painting to distract myself from my mounting anxiety.
The elevator dings, the sound jolting me out of my reverie like a reverberating gong. I startle, and the golden doors slide apart to reveal Dane.
He’s stunning in a sharply fitted black jacket paired with dark wash jeans. His crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the tiniest peek at masculine chest hair.
My gaze snaps from that little hollow between his collarbones to his wrist as he tugs back his sleeve to check his Rolex. He quirks a dark brow at me, and his expression is enigmatic for a heartbeat while he fixes me in a steady green stare.
I shift my weight on my strappy, black high heels, and my cheeks flush a shade of pink that matches a swatch on the painting beside him.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, embarrassment softening my tone.
I hate being late. My mother is perpetually tardy, and the remembered shame of entering every social function over half an hour late heats my face. I never want to be like her.
Dane’s dazzling smile hits me square in the chest. “It’s my fault,” he assures me. “I should’ve waited down here to meet you. I’ll escort you upstairs.”
He offers his arm like some sort of gentleman out of Regency England. I stare at it for a moment, taken aback by the formal gesture.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to forget the pretentious, genteel behavior that I was taught by my family from a young age. But Dane’s suave bearing suits him, and I can’t help being charmed; he’s not putting on a performance to impress me. This is just who he is. He’s chivalrous like one of the dashing princes out of my favorite movies.
My lips curve in a smile of my own, and I step into the elevator to join him. My arm slides through his, my fingers resting on his forearm.
For a moment, I flash back to the awful night of my debutante ball and the performative bullshit that masks the rot at the core of Southern “high society”.
I take a breath and force those memories away. I won’t allow them to taint this night with Dane.
Shock immobilizes me when he casually touches my hair, trailing his long fingers over the purple streak. It’s curled in a loose wave, and I intentionally keep it swept in front of my shoulder as a matter of habit.
“I like this,” he remarks, and his deep voice seems to rumble through me. “Why purple?”
“It’s my favorite color,” I reply.
“It suits you.”
I flush at his compliment and speak before I can stop myself. “My dad used to say he would disown me if I ever colored my hair.”
I’m babbling to dispel some of the overwhelming tension that’s building between us in the cramped space of the elevator. I’m anxious in a way I’ve never experienced before—it’s a fizzy sensation that makes my body feel strangely light even as my stomach flips with nervous energy.
“But I’ve wanted to do it since I was thirteen,” I continue. As soon as I dropped out of college and started my new life two years ago, I made sure to dye in my amethyst streak. “So, I’m glad I did. My manager at the café doesn’t mind. Another advantage of avoiding a corporate job.”
“Beautiful.” Dane isn’t looking at my hair anymore, but he keeps the curl loosely curved around his forefinger. Those verdant eyes are fixed on my face, flicking over each of my features as though he’s memorizing me.
My cheeks heat again, but not from embarrassment this time; I’m gratified at his intense attention.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, even if the question is a bit inane.
“Blue.” He’s staring into my eyes now, as though he can peer straight into my soul.
My head tips back, and I sway toward him, drawn in by his hypnotic gaze.
The elevator dings, breaking the intimate moment. His fingertip traces the shape of my purple curl almost regretfully, then he withdraws.
He steps out of the elevator and guides me onto the rooftop. The bar is to our left, the area covered with a black awning that shields our eyes from the setting sun. To our right, the golden syrup sunlight bathes the open rooftop with waning summer heat. The sky is turning a stunning shade of pink at the horizon,framing the historic church steeples that define the Charleston skyline.
