I should decline, ask for something citrusy and nonalcoholic since the champagne from earlier is fizzingin my bloodstream, trying its damnedest to suppress my better judgment. One more drink, and I’ll slide right out of Dating App Amanda—polished, flirty, vaguely mysterious—and land squarely in the territory of Real-Life Amanda, who is a tangle of anxiety and overthinking and one emotional hiccup away from hiding in the bathroom.
Declan lifts a single finger like a king summoning a feast.
A bartender who must have been part of the furniture a second ago, because I did not notice him, appears without a sound. He sets down two crystal glasses before fading back into the atmosphere.
My drink is cold, pink, and perfectly poured. The sugared rim sparkles like frost under the candlelight, and a crescent of grapefruit rests on the edge like a wink.
I blink at it. Then at Declan.
“Should I be worried?” My lips twitch. “Or just impressed?”
Declan leans back slightly, his gaze steady. “Try it,” he murmurs, “then let me know.”
The glass is cool against my fingers, condensation kissing my skin as I lift it to my lips.
One sip and I’m hit with sharp citrus, a whisper of liquor, and a punch of botanicals. It’s tart, unexpected, and strong enough to make my mouth water.
“Is this elderflower?” I ask, surprised. “And…tequila?”
His smile is sly and full of secrets. “I figured you’d want something pretty,” he says, lifting his own glass filled with darker liquid, “that knows how to punch back.”
My brows rise. “What made you think that?”
“I can tell you like a little beauty with your burn.”He takes a sip of the dark, heavy drink in his glass, his gaze never leaving mine.
Beauty with your burn.
The words stick to my skin. Wrap around my ribs. That’s the whole illusion tonight, isn’t it? All dressed up, hoping he doesn’t notice the restless fire in my chest. The sharp edges I’ve melted down into flirtation.
We sip our drinks in silence, and I try not to obsess over how close he got with those four little words.
Every second he waits to speak is another inch of rope tightening between us. Like he’s giving me enough slack to bolt only so he can enjoy it more when I don’t.
The air between us crackles, thick with tension and citrus and candle smoke. My skin hums. My knees press together. My fingers toy with the stem of my glass.
“So,” I say too brightly, the word bursting from my lips like it escaped. “This place is…wow. It’s very you.”
I grimace. What does that even mean?
“Like, very mysterious,” I continue, because of course I do. “All dark wood and sexy lighting. It’s got that whole Bond villain meets underground jazz club energy, but in a cool way. Not in a murder-y way.”
“Hmm.” He lifts his glass to his mouth, watching me over the rim. “You think of me as a villain, Amanda?”
A strangled sound that’s halfway between laughter and choking leaves my throat. “No, of course not.” I purse my lips and bite the inside of my cheek. “But…maybe. I mean—I work in publishing. I’m always thinking of the world like a story. And you do co-own a club with a secret back room, and you are very…large.”
One brow twitches, but otherwise his expression remains neutral, giving me absolutely nothing to work with.
I press on. “I just mean you have presence. Like a tall, expensive, slightly villainous presence.”
“And who do you see yourself as in this story?”
The question knocks the breath from me. I take a giant sip of my cocktail and nearly choke on the sugar.
I should be calm. I’ve read enough manuscripts to know exactly what role I’m playing. I know what this is.
And what it isn’t.
This isn’t a love story. This is attraction and desire and two people playing a game they both understand. It’s sex à la carte. A fantasy with a body no matter what either of us might have said in our last round of DMs. A man who wants me in his bed, not in his life. That much is obvious, since he made the decision to meet right before he’s about to leave town. And that’s fine. If he wants to pretend like I never said I’d be open to catching feelings, I’m more than happy to do the same.
