“Just so we’re clear,” she says, eyes bright, “you promised that I got to plan tonight.”
I arch a brow. “I’m aware that I said that.”
She snorts. “And you have to stick to your word.”
I lean back against the doorframe, folding my arms. “And what’s your issue with me planning exactly?”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Well, Mr. Moneybags, just because youcanplan everything doesn’t mean you should.”
The laugh that escapes me is real. Unfiltered. It catches me off guard.
“Mr. Moneybags,” I repeat. “That’s what you’re going with?”
She grins. “It fits.”
“It’s terrible.”
“You love it.”
I shake my head, reaching for my jacket. “Where are we going then?”
“You’ll see,” she says, already heading for the elevator. “And you’re not allowed to complain.”
I follow her while something light and unfamiliar settles in my chest.
The bar is nothing like anywhere I would’ve chosen.
Low ceilings. Dim lights. Wood-paneled walls that are worn with age. A dartboard on one wall, a pool table in the back, the faint smell of fried food and beer hanging in the air.
It’s loud but feels alive. More casual than I anticipated.
Melissa slides into a booth like she belongs here, already shrugging off her jacket.
“Beer?” she asks, not waiting for my answer.
She orders for us. Two lagers, burgers and fries. Then she leans back as she watches my reaction with obvious satisfaction.
“You look unsettled,” she says.
“I look observant,” I counter.
She laughs. “Relax. It won’t bite.”
The beers arrive cold and sweating, and I take a sip without thinking too much about it. It’s good. Refreshing. I haven’t had a beer in quite some time.
She clinks her glass against mine. “See? You’ll survive.”
After our first beer, we move to the dartboard in the far corner of the bar.
She picks up the darts like she’s done this a thousand times, rolling one between her fingers before glancing at me. “Ever play?”
“Years ago,” I admit.
“Perfect.”
She beats me on the first round. Easily.
I stare at the board, then at her. “You let me think I had a chance.”