I smiled. “Oh, we are absolutely doing that.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I had plans.”
“Your plans were murdered by Pickle the ferret.”
Debra turned around in her seat. “Pickle would want you to live.”
Easton looked between us, defeated and gorgeous. “I cannot believe this is happening.”
I squeezed his hand. “I can. This feels very us.”
The Bent Halo was warm, loud, and packed.
Not packed like The Sin Bin after a game. Different. Stranger. Softer around the edges. Dark green booths lined one wall, gold lights hung low over scarred tables, and the bar itself curved beneath shelves of bottles glowing amber and blue. A small stage sat near the back with a microphone stand, a trivia host in a purple velvet blazer, and a whiteboard listing categories that looked like a cry for help.
Bad Decisions in History
Songs Everyone Lies About Knowing
Legal or Illegal?
Sports Rules Nobody Understands
Rom-Com Crimes
Name That Celebrity Scandal
Mythology or Florida?
I stopped walking. “This place was made for me.”
Easton looked at the category board. “Bad Decisions in History is mine.”
“Legal or Illegal is mine.”
“Sports Rules is mine.”
“Rom-Com Crimes is mine too.”
He gave me a look. “Why?”
“Because every rom-com man is one police report away from becoming a cautionary tale.”
“That’s bleak.”
“That’s law.”
The hostess shoved two answer sheets, a pencil, and a tiny plastic basket of trivia tokens into Easton’s hands. “Team name?”
Easton looked at me.
I smiled slowly.
“No,” he said immediately.
