He looked over at her, half smiling and half incredulous. “I’m not gonna kiss and tell.”
“That’s fine. I’m not asking about kisses.” Sloane didn’t know why she was pushing this. It wasn’t like she cared who he’d hooked up with, she just wanted to hear more about Max putting his mouth on someone. It was interesting.
“I’m not a vampire, either.”
“Because they famously bite earlobes?”
“I just rescued you from your worst nightmare, and you’re being a pain in the ass?”
They were standing on the mezzanine, lit by a handful of faraway emergency lights, half embracing, and Sloane knew she probably had cobwebs in her hair. Max didn’t look like he minded.
If anything, he looked like he was…into it.
“Being a pain in the ass is kind of my thing, if you hadn’t noticed,” she said, and looked up at him. They were touching even more now, her left side up against his right, still awkwardly in a one-quarter hug like they were having their picture taken at prom. “Isn’t that what you dragged me here for?”
“Sloane,” he said, and he was definitely looking at her mouth. After a moment, he glanced back up. “I invited you here because I thought I could benefit from partnering with a skeptic in one of my videos, and I thought you could benefit from taking a vacation and relaxing, for once.”
“And then you put me in a small, enclosed labyrinth?” She should give it a rest, probably. Except Max made a face that was half guilt and half exasperation, and Sloane couldn’t help but enjoy it.
“Keep bringing that up and I’ll put you back in there,” he said, and Sloane laughed. “Maybe you can slay the money-laundering demon while I’m in the hot tub.”
“Oh, the hot tub is closed,” she said as seriously as she could. “It’s got monsters.”
“Okay,” he said, like he was trying not to look amused.
“Bad ones.”
“Wow.”
“If you want, I can show you after you buy me a drink,” she said, then stood on her tiptoes, pressed herself against him, and kissed his cheek. “Come on, let’s get out of here before someone comes to investigate.”
Chapter Five
The Byron was, somehow, the classiest dive bar that Max had ever been in. Or maybe it was the most-divey upscale bar? It had a certain vibe: String lights hung unevenly over the bar, neon lights advertising beer brands all over the walls. The red vinyl cushions on the stools at the bar had seen better days.
But also: It smelled fine, none of the tables were wobbly, and it had fancy cocktails and a bunch of craft beer on tap.
And there were the portraits. When Max and Sloane walked in, they spent a good sixty seconds studying one, standing close enough to see the textured brush strokes. It was of a man in a gray, old-fashioned suit complete with a vest and watch chain. He was angled toward the camera, with one hand in a pocket, the other touching a button on his vest, and had what Max could only describe as a come fuck me expression on his face. Max would’ve.
“Are all the portraits—okay, yes,” Sloane said, breaking off and looking around the room. It was maybe one-third full, which wasn’t surprising for a Tuesday night in October. “All the portraits are doing that thing where the eyes follow you.”
“Try to behave, I guess,” Max said.
“Or what, they’re gonna snitch? Isn’t there a James Bond movie where there’s a painting with the eyes cut out so someone can look through without it being suspicious?” Sloane asked, still glancing around.
Max tried, and mostly failed, to imagine that. “And it wasn’t the creepiest thing ever?”
“Oh, it was,” she said, giving him a smile that was somehow…conspiratorial? “It wasn’t the kind of movie where any of the characters noticed, though.”
“Or,” Max said, and leaned in a little. He was a few inches taller than Sloane, and then corners of her lips twitched when he got close. “It’s the ghosts in the walls, watching the humans to make sure we’re not about to disrespect Belle’s memory.”
“By doing what? Belle wasn’t exactly a nun.”
“No, she was a respectable widow.”
“Sure,” Sloane said, and grabbed a menu from the bar.
Five minutes later, they were seated at one of the high, non-wobbly bar tables with two Death in the Afternoons and a giant pretzel between them. The drinks were a little weird—in Lord Byron’s dive bar, you drank what were apparently Lord Byron’s drinks, and Max wasn’t sure how he felt about absinthe and prosecco as a cocktail—but the pretzel was good and the company was better.
