“We are. He’s my best friend. Well, him and Sage.”
A waiter suddenly arrives beside the table with our food, interrupting us, but the conversation flows as easily as the wine. She tells me about her advertising work, how she loves the creative side but hates the toxic environment, how Derek makes every day a special kind of hell, parading around with his new girlfriend while making passive-aggressive comments that cut deeper than they should.
I listen, storing every detail away. The way her eyes light up when she talks about the campaigns she’s proud of. The way her voice drops when she mentions Derek. The way she gestures with her hands when she gets excited, nearly knocking over her wine glass twice.
She’s fucking intoxicating.
Not just physically, though Christ, she is. But the way she sees the world, the way she talks about her family, the way she refuses to let Derek’s bullshit completely break her spirit.
“What about you?” she asks, twirling linguine around her fork. “What do you do? Besides Uber driving and being mysteriously wealthy enough to have restaurant owners kiss your ass.”
I chuckle. “I’m notthatwealthy,” I lie to her again.
“Franco practically bowed when he saw you.”
“He’s just dramatic.”
“Nitro…” She levels me with a look. “You’re deflecting.”
Smart girl.
“I have some investments,” I say carefully. “My parents left me some money. I manage it, keep their business running.”
That’s not a lie.
It’s just not the whole truth.
“What kind of business?”
“Entertainment mostly, boring, mundane shit I don’t really want any part of.” I take a drink of wine, hoping she doesn’t push further.
And she doesn’t.
Instead, she smiles. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. This place is amazing.”
Relief floods through me. “Yeah, Franco knows his stuff.”
We fall into a comfortable conversation about music, movies, and the best coffee shops in Vegas. She tells me aboutSage’s terrible dating history, and I tell her about Queenie’s matchmaking attempts at the retirement village.
Time disappears. One minute we’re starting our meal, the next our plates are empty, and Franco is bringing us tiramisu we didn’t order, winking at me like the meddling bastard he is.
“I really should get going,” Marley says eventually, glancing at her phone. “It’s getting late.”
I don’t want this to end.
I don’t want to take her home and watch her walk away.
But I stand anyway, pulling out my wallet.
“Nitro, let me—” she starts, reaching for her purse.
“Don’t even think about it, Small Town.”
“But—”
“I asked you to dinner. I’m paying.”
She huffs out a breath but doesn’t argue, and I toss enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a generous tip. Then I move beside her, placing my hand on the small of her back and leading us outside.
