Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
COLT
I’m early.
Way too early.
I’ve been sitting in this velvet corner booth at The Darling for twelve—no, fourteen—minutes, pretending to read the drink menu like it requires deep analysis.
It doesn’t.
It’s three pages of cocktails named after 1920s celebrities and bad decisions.
My leg bounces under the table.
“Calm down,” I mutter under my breath. “It’s a hang. She said that. Just a hang.”
What does hang even mean? I really wish I got out more.
The bartender, polishing a glass, gives me a look like he can smell lies.
I shift in my seat.
The place is dim, all warm gold lighting and red velvet, the kind of atmosphere that melts people. Couples laugh low. Someone’s perfume hangs sweet in the air. A jazz trio plays something slow and slinky in the corner.
It’s objectively romantic.
I should’ve picked a coffee shop.
Or a diner.
Or literally any place where the lighting doesn’t whisper, kiss someone.
But no.
I picked this, because I’m an idiot.
I check the entrance again, and there’s still no sign of her.
Diesel’s fur stands stubbornly on my shirt sleeve even though I lint-rolled three times before leaving. My sweater feels suddenly too warm. My heartbeat’s weird, tapping out some frantic rhythm it hasn’t used since my early twenties.
I don’t get like this.
Not for anyone.
Not anymore.
The waiter swings by. “Waiting on someone?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He grins. He knows.
And I want to crawl into the floorboards.
I check my watch.
7:59.
Okay.
Deep breath.
She’ll walk in any second and I’m gonna be normal. Professional. Chill.
Nothing about this is a date.
Absolutely nothing.
I take a sip of water, and my hand shakes a little.
Great. I’m nailing this.
Then the door opens, and she steps inside.
Every neuron in my brain short-circuits at once.
Her dress is…
Holy hell.
Silky. Black. Wrap-style that hugs her waist and curves like it was sewn onto her body. Hair loose around her shoulders. Lips soft and glossy. Eyes scanning the room with that mix of confidence and vulnerability that already kills me.
I exhale without meaning to.
She looks beautiful. Like—hurt-your-chest beautiful.
She doesn’t see me yet. Just stands near the hostess podium, adjusting her purse strap, biting her lip slightly like she’s nervous too.
Hope surges through me so fast it scares me.
I stand just as she spots me, and her face lights. Her expression is small, warm, and controlled.
But real.
She starts walking toward me, heels hitting the floor softly, dress swaying around her hips.
And I know, instantly and unquestionably, that I am in trouble as she reaches the table.
“Hey,” she says, breath just a little uneven.
“Hey.” My voice is lower than usual. Rougher. I clear my throat. “You look…”
Don’t say it. Don’t flirt. Don’t compliment her. Don’t—
“…really good.”
Her breath catches.
Her cheeks flush.
“Thanks,” she says faintly. “So do you.”
We both sit, a little too carefully, and maybe too aware.
The silence hangs between us until she breaks it with a shaky laugh.
“So…this is where you chose to…hang.” She grins.
I rub the back of my neck.
“Yeah. I, uh… didn’t really think it through.”
She lifts a brow. “Uh-huh.”
The waiter arrives like he’s been waiting for the exact perfect cinematic moment.
“Drinks?”
Elena opens her mouth, hesitates, and looks at me.
Then orders a cocktail with gin, lavender, and infused honey.
Not shy or timid. It’s a solid choice.
“Same,” I say, because my brain isn’t working at full capacity.
When the waiter leaves, she folds her hands on the table, watching me with careful, fragile amusement.
“So this isn’t a date,” she says lightly.
“No,” I agree. “Not a date.”
“Just a hang.”
“Yes. A hang. Like you said.”
A beat passes while her foot brushes mine under the table, soft and accidental.
Both of us freeze, and her eyes flick to mine.
I feel it hit me, low and hard in the chest.
“Okay,” she says quietly. “Maybe a tiny bit of a date.”
I swallow, hard.
“Maybe,” I murmur.
She smiles, and the entire room tilts.
“Maybe,” she says softly, that smile flickering in and out like she’s afraid to admit it out loud.
I lean back in my seat. “This is ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Oh, beyond ridiculous.” She waves a hand like she’s swatting away a fly. “Absolutely unhinged.”
“Completely inappropriate,” I add.
“Entirely,” she agrees.
We both laugh, but it’s brittle around the edges.
Like if either of us moves wrong, this whole fragile facade shatters.
After what seems like an eternity, our drinks arrive.
Lavender gin cocktails in delicate coupe glasses, beautiful enough to photograph.
She lifts hers, takes a cautious sip, and inhales sharply.
“Oh my god. This is…embarrassing how good this is.”
“Right?” I say. “Last time I came here…”
I stop. Because her mouth is curved around the rim of her glass, drawing my eyes to her lips.
Her eyes lift over the edge, meeting mine, and heat crawls up my spine.
She sets the glass down a little too carefully.
“What were you saying?”
“Lost my train of thought. Sorry.”
“So.” She exhales. “This whole…situation.”
“Yeah.”
She laughs nervously. “It’s kind of insane.”
“It is.”
“And I mean, you’re…twenty-seven.”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m thirty-nine.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re also very…” She gestures vaguely toward my entire upper body. “You know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No, I don’t know. Please elaborate.”
She covers her face with one hand. “No, no, no, absolutely not. Forget I said anything about you seeming mature for your age.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’m…something. You’re…something. We’re…here.”
“This is a terrible summary,” she mutters.
“Yeah, I know,” I admit. “I’m flustered.”
Her head snaps up.
“You’re flustered?”
“I’m trying not to be,” I say. “It’s not working very well.”
She presses her lips together, like she doesn’t know what to do with that information.
Then she blurts it out.
“Well, if we were to, um, make out or whatever—”
I freeze, and she freezes back.
Time freezes while her eyes go impossibly wide.
“Oh god,” she whispers. “I can’t believe I just said that. Pretend I didn’t say that.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I heard it. Curious about the ‘or whatever’ part of that.”
“I’m mortified.”
“I’m not.”
She blinks a few times, lost.
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “You were saying…if we were to make out.”
She inhales sharply. “Right. That. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” I echo, my pulse hammering.
She swallows.
Hard.
“It would have to be a casual thing,” she says quickly. “Like… very casual. Non-serious. Non-anything. I haven’t been with another man in way too long. And you know. There’s the age gap.”
“Seriously?”
“Hand to God. Seriously. I have issues.”
“Got it. Don’t we all.”
“And honestly?” She exhales, looking away. “I hate to say I’m not opposed to that. Some fun could be just what I need.”
A beat passes as the words hang in the air. Well, okay then.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
I nod slowly. “I’m…not opposed either.”
Her eyes snap back to mine.
And suddenly it’s like the table doesn’t exist, the room doesn’t exist, the entire world has condensed into the twelve inches between us.
Her breath catches.
Mine does too.
“Colt…” she murmurs, warning and invitation tangled together.
“Yes?”
Both of us are leaning in, drawn across that forbidden line.
Her knee brushes mine under the table. She doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. Her eyes flick to my lips, and I’m done.
Absolutely done.
Then she laughs—quick, shaky, desperate—and pulls back an inch.
“Wow,” she says, exhaling hard. “We really shouldn’t do this.”
I nod, pretending I’m not wrecked. “Yeah. We definitely shouldn’t.”
“This is a mistake.”
“One hundred percent.”
We stare at each other.
Neither of us moves.
“Oh god,” she whispers. “We are so screwed.”
And she’s right.
We are.
We step out of The Darling into the cool night air, both of us a little unsteady from the emotional whiplash inside.
The city hums around us—taxis, muffled laughter, the wind threading through the trees lining the block.
Elena wraps her arms around herself.
I shouldn’t.
I absolutely shouldn’t.
But I do.
I reach for her waist, barely touching at first—just the ghost of contact—and then her body moves toward mine like it’s answering a question I didn’t ask out loud.
Her breath hitches.
“Colt…” she whispers.
I take one step forward.
Her back hits the brick wall with a soft thud and a soft gasp. I brace one hand beside her head, caging her in.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, pupils blown so dark they match the night.
I swear, I can feel her heartbeat from where I’m standing.
The city noise fades.
It’s just me and her in this moment.
Just the inches between our mouths that feel like drowning.
Her lips part slightly.
Her chest rises, and she’s breathing hard, begging without a sound.
She leans in.
I lean in.
Our noses almost brush.
Her fingers curl into the front of my sweater like she’s holding on to the last second of logic she has.
“Tell me no,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Tell me to stop.”
She shakes her head again, breath trembling. “Don’t stop. No, don’t stop, I mean. Keep going.”
“Elena…”
I’m about to close the distance—I can practically feel her lips—when my phone blasts in my pocket.
I flinch.
She startles.
“I knew it. You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”
The screen lights up.
MOM calling.
I swear under my breath, forehead falling to her shoulder for one helpless, frustrated second.
“Elena… I’m sorry,” I breathe. “I have to take this.”
She blinks, dazed. “Your mom? That’s not code for your buddy calling to get you out of a date?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, fighting a laugh. “She’s been sick. I have to answer.”
She nods, understanding slicing through the haze even though her chest is still rising fast. “Of course. Of course you do.”
I step back, reluctantly.
The space between us feels like it physically hurts.
“Ma?”
I answer the call and speak quietly, checking in, reassuring, promising I’ll be by tomorrow.
When I hang up, she’s looking at me. Her eyes convey something soft. She’s disappointed but gentle.
The air feels like it’s gone out of our balloon.
“So…” she says lightly. “See you next Tuesday, then?”
I let out a breath that feels like defeat. “Yeah. Next Tuesday.”
She steps past me, brushing my arm as she goes—the briefest touch, but enough to send a shock through me.
Then she turns, smirking, eyes glinting with something wicked and sweet.
“Don’t worry,” she says, voice low. “We won’t tell Damien about our little…hang.”
“Probably best to keep it between us.”
“Oh, and I almost forgot this.” She reaches into her purse, grabs something, and hands it to me. “Your card.”
“Ah. Right,” I say as I take it. “Would have been a shame if you had to deliver it again.”
She winks, and walks away, hips swaying like she knows exactly what she just did to me.
I stand there in the cold night air, pulse still thundering, wanting her more than I’ve wanted anything in a long, long time.
Tuesday can’t come soon enough.