Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
ELENA
My phone buzzes.
I expect something simple.
A time.
A location.
A neutral, boring, safe spot where no one could possibly mistake it for anything else.
Instead, I see:
Colt: How about The Darling? 8:00. They’ve got a quiet corner table that’s usually open late. Good drinks. Nice atmosphere.
I blink.
Then blink again.
The Darling.
The Darling.
A velvet-and-mahogany cocktail lounge that looks like a Great Gatsby fever dream.
It’s where couples go when they want low lighting, expensive cocktails, and the kind of ambiance that whispers things like:
You look incredible tonight.
Come closer.
Let’s make bad decisions.
My stomach drops straight to my knees. Why, oh why, did I have to divulge so much to him already…
“Oh my God,” I whisper to my empty apartment. “Is this…did he…did he just ask me out?”
My pulse flutters, ricocheting against my ribs.
The Darling is just not a casual place.
It is not a gym-trainer-returning-a-credit-card place.
It is not a professional boundaries, HR-compliant exchange zone.
It is a date place.
A very obvious date place.
I stare at the message until the letters blur.
Do I actually have a date tomorrow?
With Colt Evans?
Twenty-seven-year-old, ridiculously hot, former-football-player Colt Evans?
The man whose abs should be sculpted into a national monument?
God, I’m sweating.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I can’t get enough control over my brain to form words.
A date.
A real date.
With a man twelve years younger than me.
I suddenly sit up straighter.
“No. No no no no no. This is not a date,” I tell the universe, my lamp, my plant, my entire building.
“He is being professional. I’m returning his card. We are returning things to each other. This is mutually returning.”
I glance back at the message.
Nice atmosphere.
My face heats so fast I nearly combust.
Who suggests The Darling for a non-date because of the nice atmosphere?
Who casually selects a romantic speakeasy with dim lighting and corner tables and cocktails that arrive with smoke pouring off them?
Not a trainer or coworker.
A friend? I don’t think so.
A man trying—however subtly—to not look desperate.
“Oh my God,” I whisper again, covering my face with both hands.
Is this happening?
Am I spiraling?
Yes.
Absolutely yes.
But also…
Is he for real asking me out?
I scroll back up through his earlier messages.
What are you up to tomorrow night? Friday’s probably a big date night for you I’m assuming?
My lungs tighten, because this is a date.
This feels like a date.
This looks like a date.
And the worst part—the truly unhinged part—I want it to be.
I force myself to breathe.
Okay. Okay. I need to text back. Something breezy. Something cool. Something that does not make this sound like the date I am absolutely terrified it is.
My fingers hover over the screen.
I type:
Elena: It’s a…hang. Drinks are on me this time.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
And then immediately overthink it.
“A hang?” I mutter. “What am I, seventeen?”
I rub my forehead until my skin threatens to peel off.
Maybe paying makes it less of a date, though.
Right?
That’s a thing?
My phone buzzes again—Harper, of course, because the universe has excellent comedic timing.
I answer on the first ring. “Well.”
“Well???”
“I think I have a date.”
She gasps so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
“With HIM? Hot Trainer Colt? Olympic Thighs Colt? Abs You Could Cry Into Colt?”
“Shh! Yes! Maybe! I don’t know!” I whisper-yell, pacing my living room. “He picked The Darling.”
Harper screams. Full throttle.
“OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A DATE.”
“It’s not a date,” I insist, clutching the phone like it’s a flotation device. “I told him it’s a hang. And I said I’m paying. So technically—technically!—that nullifies the date vibes.”
Harper snorts so loud it echoes.
“Elena. Sweetheart. My love. My favorite naive friend.”
“Excuse me?”
“You could show up in cargo shorts and a mustard-stained hoodie and that man would still think it’s a date. He chose The Darling.”
I throw my free hand into the air. “Maybe he doesn’t know what it is!”
“He knows what it is. He’s twenty-seven, not twelve.”
I groan and flop face-first onto my couch. “Harper…what am I doing?”
“You,” she says, “are living. And flirting. And going on a date with a younger man who obviously likes you. And honestly? I’m so proud.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling like it has answers hidden in the paint.
“I’m scared.”
“You should be,” Harper says. “He’s hot enough to ruin your life. Now go pick an outfit.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“You always say that, and you have a closet that could clothe an entire Broadway chorus. Don’t lie.”
“I need something…non-date-y,” I say, already sliding off the couch.
Harper laughs again. “Honey, he asked you to a speakeasy bar with velvet booths. There is no non-date outfit for that.”
I open my closet anyway.
Immediately the panic returns full-force.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “What am I going to wear?”
Harper sighs dramatically. “That’s what I’m here for. Put me on FaceTime. Let’s ruin some men’s nights.”
I laugh helplessly and hit the video button.
“Well,” I say, holding up two dresses in despair, “It’s not a date if I pay…right?”
Harper chuckles.
“Elena. My love. You’re adorable. But yes…you have a date.”
And my heartbeat kicks into a new gear.
Just then, my phone buzzes again.
Colt: It’s a…hang.
Friday comes.
I am a corporate work professional.
I’m competent and unflappable.
That’s the version of me I am determined to inhabit today.
Unfortunately, that version of me seems to have called in sick.
I’m ten minutes into my morning, staring at a spreadsheet that keeps dissolving into a blur of gold lighting, velvet booths, and Colt Evans in a soft sweater looking at me across a cocktail table.
Get it together, Elena.
I straighten in my chair, smoothing down the front of my blouse. A blouse I absolutely did not pick because it transitions well into nighttime outfits. Didn’t even think about it.
A knock on my open office door pulls me back to reality.
“Morning, Elena.”
It’s Greg, my boss.
He’s in his fifties and friendly; the human embodiment of a Patagonia vest.
“Oh—morning!” I stand automatically.
He waves me back down and steps inside with a cup of coffee. “I just wanted to check in. You’ve really been on your game this week. Numbers look good. Team feedback is glowing.”
My eyebrows lift. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” He sips his beverage. “If you keep this up, that promotion we talked about? It’s looking more and more likely.”
A spark of pride shoots through me. A real, solid, grown-woman thrill.
“Thank you, Greg. I appreciate that.”
“I mean it,” he continues. “You seem…energized. More confident than usual. It’s great to see.” He gestures vaguely at me. “And you look nice today. Big Friday plans?”
I nearly swallow my tongue.
“Oh—just, you know…” I wave a hand vaguely. “Plans.”
“Date?” he asks casually.
My whole body tries to shut down.
“NO,” I say too fast, too loud, too aggressively. “Nope. Not at all. Just…a hang. With…someone.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
Greg laughs. “Sounds fun either way. Enjoy your night.”
“I will,” I squeak.
He gives me a thumbs-up and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
As soon as he’s gone, I lean back in my chair and stare at my office.
My nice, clean, professional office.
I’m thinking about my desk, specifically. It’s a good desk, sturdy and wide.
Exactly the kind of desk one could theoretically…
“Nope,” I mutter. “NOPE. Absolutely not. Zero making out. Zero touching. Zero romance.”
I spin my chair in a slow circle. I’m not going there.
“It’s not a date. It’s a hang. A logistical exchange.”
My eyes drift to the window, catching my reflection.
I look…good, fresh and excited. Plus alive in a way I haven’t in maybe two years.
“Oh God,” I whisper at my reflection, “it’s a date.”
I bury my face in my hands, then force myself upright.
“No. No it’s not. I’m paying. I used the word hang. There will be no making out on this desk or any other furniture in this city.”
I really need to stop talking to myself.
Luckily my phone buzzes.
I check and it’s a message from Colt.
My stomach flips so hard I nearly lose consciousness.
I grab it before my brain can start narrating the moment.
COLT: Just wanted to make sure last night didn’t stress you out too much.
Hope your Friday’s treating you good.
It’s just a harmless text, innocent and friendly.
Except it’s not.
Not really.
Nobody with that jawline texts hope your Friday’s treating you good unless they’re wearing a half-smile while they type it.
My heartbeat ramps up like someone hit a speed button on my cardiovascular system.
I type back, carefully:
Elena: All good here. Just another corporate Friday. You?
I set my phone down, trying to look busy in case the entire building is watching me.
The reply comes seconds later.
Colt: Same. Training clients. Pretending I don’t miss my credit card already. Feels weird not having it.
Feels weird not having it.
I bite my lip.
Why does that sound…personal?
Focus, Elena. Respond normally.
Elena: You’d survive. You probably have Apple Pay.
Colt: Yeah. But still. There’s something about having it back that I’m… looking forward to.
My body does a full internal meltdown.
Okay.
That is not innocuous.
That is criminally close to flirting.
That is flirting wearing a suit labeled NOT FLIRTING and hoping I won’t notice.
Who am I kidding, though? We’re stomping all over the no flirting zone at this point.
I type back before I can think:
Elena: Well you’ll get it tonight. Don’t worry.
He sends something immediately.
Colt: I’m not worried. You seem like the type that I could trust with big things. Just…counting down a little.
I blink twice.
Then three times.
My phone nearly slips out of my hand.
He’s…counting down? There’s something about that.
My brain collapses into a puddle of overheated circuitry.
I answer with the safest possible text:
Elena: See you later then.
Safety. Professionalism, and zero emotion. This is my corporate side.
His reply?
Colt: Can’t wait.
I exhale so sharply I almost pass out.
“No,” I whisper aggressively at my screen. “No no no. Absolutely NOT a date.”
But my reflection in the dark window behind my desk?
She’s smiling back at me.
Way too hard.