Inside, the air was warm and thick with the scent of hamburgers and chocolate. Red vinyl booths lined the walls, a black-and-white-checkered floor gleamed with a recent polish, and a long counter stretched across the room, dotted with chrome stools. A man in a crisp white apron with a white paper hat stood behind the counter while a waitress served their guests.
Every eye in the room turned to us with immediate recognition. It was hard to go anywhere in Hollywood without people recognizing me and asking for autographs—but standing next to Spencer Hayes, in an evening gown and tuxedo, made it even more difficult to go unnoticed.
A young woman rose and ran over to us. “This is the bee’s knees! Spencer Hayes and Ally Bennett in the same room! My friends will never believe me when I say that you were here! Can I get your autographs?”
“Sure.” Spencer guided us to the counter as I shook the raindrops from my dress.
“Can I get a piece of paper, Mack?” Spencer asked the counterman.
He nodded and pulled a slip of paper from his order pad. Spencer scrawled his signature and passed it to me. I did the same and then handed it to the girl.
“Oh! Thank you! Thank you!” She ran back to her table, where she showed her parents.
“What can I get you tonight?” the counterman asked.
“We’ll take a couple of burgers and two chocolate malts, please,” Spencer responded.
The man nodded and wrote the order down. As he did, I noticed a subtle sign pass between him and Spencer—a tilt of the head, a raised eyebrow.
The counterman tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Spencer, then turned away to start making the malts.
Spencer took my hand as if he’d done it a hundred times, his gaze finding mine.
My heartbeat escalated at his touch and the intense look in his eyes.
He tugged me toward the back of the malt shop. I went along, uncertain and wary, but he only grinned and turned a corner, where a narrow cement staircase descended into a dimly lit space below. He leaned in close and whispered, “Are you hungry for something really good?”
My pulse raced for an entirely different reason. “Where are we going, Spencer?”
“Somewhere that no one will bother us.”
At the bottom of the stairs, we stopped at the door, and he looked at the scrap of paper before knocking with a specific pattern. A moment later, the door opened, and we emerged into a lavish underground lounge.
I had never been in a speakeasy before. Spencer still held my hand, and my surprise made me helpless as he led me to a small booth in the back of the crowded room.
Dozens of people laughed, smoked, and drank as jazz musicfilled the dimly lit space from the stage at the front of the room. The women wore drop-waisted gowns, low-cut and dangling with glittering beads, while the men were in tuxedos. Some of the couples were in intimate embraces as others flirted and danced.
A waiter arrived with a white towel draped over his arm. “It’s been a while, Spence,” he said. “The usual drink?”
Spencer glanced at me and then said, “Not tonight. We’ll have a couple burgers and chocolate malts instead.”
“Sure thing,” he said and walked away.
I leaned forward, my jaw tight as I asked, “What are you thinking? We can’t be seen here.”
“Relax. Look around, Ally. Everyone comes here to get away from the public. No one is going to rat on each other.”
There were several actors and actresses I recognized, as well as other community leaders, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be there.
“I’m leaving.” I stood, clutching my purse.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” he said, taking my hand. “Where are you going to go? And how are you going to get there?”
I removed my hand from his grasp as the song ended and another began. People cried out in excitement at the new music. The Lindy Hop had become a popular swing dance after Charles Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic two years before, and several couples started dancing it.
“I’ll use a pay phone and call my parents to pick me up. And I’ll let Mr. Mayer—”
“Know that you are canceling your contract with him.” Spencer sighed and shook his head. “Sit down, Ally.”
