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Her gaze locks with mine, and I swear my heart skips a fucking beat.
I want to forget the drink and ask her in. Hell, I want to carry her in over my shoulder and never let her leave.
And she was the one who suggested skipping dinner altogether!
“Shall we?” I say as a cold wind whips around us.
We walk a few minutes through my neighbourhood until we round a corner onto a quiet street. The place doesn’t look like much from the outside – a red glow bleeding out from behind blacked-out windows and a faded sign above the door that readsMidnight Rose.
“This is it,” I say, opening the door for her.
Warmth envelops us as a soft saxophone melody floats through the air, mingling with the low hum of quiet conversation. The interior is dimly lit, intimate, the scent of vanilla and oak heavy in the air. Deep burgundy sofas curve around low tables, each adorned with a flickeringtealight and a single red rose in a slim vase. The walls are hung with moody, eclectic art, partially hidden by thick velvet drapes.
I lead her to one of the open sofas near the back, her leg pressing against mine as she sits, sending a thrilling jolt coursing through me.
God, it’s really been too long since I’ve been with someone.
“Drink?” I ask and she nods, smiling like she knows exactly how undone she’s making me.
Giving her a quick kiss on the cheek, I head to the bar, returning a minute later with two purple cocktails, each topped with a tropical umbrella and cherry garnish. I slip my arm around her as she adjusts her body to nestle in closer to me.
“What is it?” she laughs, her smile playful and curious.
“Try it.” I take a sip of mine before setting the glass down on the table. As I lean back, my hand comes to rest on her bare knee, and I try not to react at the desire surging through me from the feel of her skin under my fingers.
She takes a sip, her eyebrows rising.
“Wow, that is… sweet,” she says with a laugh.
“I thought you might like it. It’s their signature.”
Her gaze drifts around the room, and the sparkle in her expression dims. Only one other sofa remains open, the others occupied by couples holding hands, talking intimately. She lowers her eyes to her lap.
“Do you come here a lot?”
Fuck. The signature drink. Idiot.
“I used to,” I tell her honestly. “I haven’t been for a long time.”
A tense silence falls between us.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I venture.
“Oh?” she asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a sadness in her voice.
“You’re wondering if I bring all my dates here.” I look at her carefully, drawing her eyes to mine. “I don’t.”
Her smile returns, small and shy, her cheeks flushing.
“It’s not exactly the kind of place you come to with the lads though, is it?”
I laugh – really laugh - at the mental image. “Fair point.”
I pause, taking a deep breath.
I hadn’t expected this to come up. Not tonight.
But with her, I decide honesty is the best policy.