A neutral, boring, safe spot where no one could possibly mistake it for anything else.
Instead, I see:
Colt: How about The Darling? 8:00. They’ve got a quiet corner table that’s usually open late. Good drinks. Nice atmosphere.
I blink.
Then blink again.
The Darling.
TheDarling.
A velvet-and-mahogany cocktail lounge that looks like a Great Gatsby fever dream.
It’s where couples go when they want low lighting, expensive cocktails, and the kind of ambiance that whispers things like:
You look incredible tonight.
Come closer.
Let’s make bad decisions.
My stomach drops straight to my knees. Why, oh why, did I have to divulge so much to him already…
“Oh my God,” I whisper to my empty apartment. “Is this…did he…did he just ask me out?”
My pulse flutters, ricocheting against my ribs.
The Darling is justnota casual place.
It is not a gym-trainer-returning-a-credit-card place.
It is not aprofessional boundaries, HR-compliant exchange zone.
It is a date place.
Avery obviousdate place.
I stare at the message until the letters blur.
Do I actually have a date tomorrow?
With Colt Evans?
Twenty-seven-year-old, ridiculously hot, former-football-player Colt Evans?
The man whose abs should be sculpted into a national monument?
God, I’m sweating.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I can’t get enough control over my brain to form words.
A date.
A real date.
With a man twelve years younger than me.
