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Or maybe it just feels that way because it’s been a while since I’ve worn something that makes me feel like this. Like a woman who could wrap someone around her finger with nothing more than a slow smile. Like someone who isn’t tired of running.

I smooth the hem down anyway, throw on my leather jacket, and step outside, where Cassie is already waiting at the curb, looking impossibly chic in a fitted black jumpsuit and red lipstick sharp enough to cut glass.

She lets out a low whistle when she sees me. “Damn, Dawson. If you were trying to make me question my sexuality, congratulations.”

I smirk. “Good to know I still have options.”

She loops her arm through mine as we head toward the bar. “So, what’s the plan for tonight? Drinks? Dancing? Flirting with men we have absolutely no intention of calling back?”

“All of the above,” I say breezily. “And I expect at least one round of shots before the night is over.”

Cassie nods approvingly. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

Crowley’s is walking distance from my Airbnb. It’s exactly the kind of place I need tonight—lively without being chaotic, upscale without being pretentious. The kind of bar where the music is loud enough to drown out overthinking but not so loudthat you have to shout over it. A mix of polished professionals and people just looking for a good time, all tucked beneath the warm glow of brass fixtures and rich mahogany.

Cassie and I weave through the crowd, past clusters of patrons leaning into conversations over cocktails, past the low hum of laughter and the occasional clink of a glass against marble. It’s busy but not overwhelming, with just enough movement to disappear into.

We make it to the bar, where I slide onto a stool, leaning against the cool edge of the counter. When the bartender approaches, I don’t hesitate and ask for something strong and just sweet enough.

“Whiskey sour,” I say, flashing a small, knowing smile.

Cassie smirks, nudging me. “Look at you, getting straight to business.”

“Don’t jinx it.” I tap the counter as the bartender moves away. “Tonight, I just want to drink, talk nonsense, and pretend I don’t have responsibilities.”

She lifts a brow. “Ah, yes. The classic Ivy Dawson method of coping. Drink now, regret later.”

“Exactly.”

The glass is set in front of me, amber liquid catching in the low light. I take the first sip, letting the warmth curl through me. Half a drink in, the first casualty of the night arrives.

“Ladies,” a voice slurs.

I turn to find two frat-boy types grinning at us, their button-ups just wrinkled enough to look “effortless”, their cologne strong enough to fumigate the entire establishment.

Cassie, ever the opportunist, takes one glance at them and says, “Oh, thank God. I was hoping we’d get aggressively hit on by guys who still think flip-cup is a personality trait.”

The blond one frowns. “What?”

I clap a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing great, buddy. Really.”

The brunette, clearly undeterred, leans in. “Come on, let us buy you a drink.”

Cassie smiles, all teeth. “I’d rather lick the floor.”

He blinks.

I sip my cocktail. “And I’m more of a pour-my-own-poison kind of girl.”

They exchange a look, clearly trying to decide whether this is a challenge or a rejection.

I save them the trouble. “But thanks for playing. Better luck next time.”

Cassie grabs my hand, already laughing as we spin back toward the bar. “God, that was too easy.”

I’m still grinning when I turn…

The laughter dies in my throat.