Luca
“This is…wow,”
“You like it?” I ask. But as Olivia’s eyes do not one but three slow sweeps over the Lantern Society, a high-end speakeasy with exceptional cocktails and over the top appetizers, I know she likes it. It was a rhetorical question.
“Yeah,” she says before snapping out of it, offering me a smile as she straightens up.
I have to bite back a small smirk of my own.
I don’t think she was expecting this, although that’s kind of the point.
I also have to divert my gaze. I’d told her through text a couple of hours ago where we were going and to dress appropriately.
But considering the fact that she’s probably never been to the Lantern Society, or anywhere like it, she may have gone a little overboard.
Overboard enough that in her sleek, satin, backless dress she has the attention of everyone in the room.
And to top it off, she genuinely doesn’t notice.
We are guided to a table in the corner with velvet chairs and candlelight. Jazz music is playing over the speakers, crackling for vintage ambiance. It’s dark, moody, and the light in her expression tells me Olivia is loving it.
Good.
“Have you been here before?” I ask as I pull her chair out for her, knowing full well she hasn’t.
“Here?” she asks with a fluttery laugh. Then she stops. “I mean…I’ve been places like this. It was on my list. Of places to go with my friend Sa–” she stops. “Kiersten.”
“Of course,” I say, musing over several parts of that answer. As her eyes graze over the cocktail menu, I watch them widen. “Everything alright?” I ask.
“Yes,” she smiles and clears her throat, “These are just so…elaborate. There’s one here, the Midnight Reverie.
A velvety blend of small batched smoke rye, blackstrap molasses and amaro, stirred over hand-cut ice with a whisper of blackberry bitters.
I didn’t know blackberries could whisper,” she giggles, biting her lip.
And between the naivety and everything else, the first word that comes to mind is cute. Of course, it’s followed by Matt’s voice in my head, which is very much not invited, so I shove all of it to the back of my head again, the word cute included.
“I’m pretty sure they can do a vodka cranberry if that’s more up your alley,” I say as I skim the food menu.
“I’m not in college,” she snaps back, though she’s smiling.
“And yet you prefer your blackberry bitters on the louder side,” I joke. Because yes, I can joke, though people never really know how to respond to it.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks as she arrives at the table.
“Would you like me to order for you, or do you need more time?” I ask, and Olivia’s eyes flicker with something stubborn.
“Neither,” she says, smiling at the waitress, “I will have the Golden Hour #7. Thank you.”
I order a smoked Old Fashioned and a charcuterie board to share.
Then I turn my attention to her. It’s interesting looking at her now that I know what I know.
And who she is. All that acting na?ve is actually just that.
An act. An act to distract. And the aforementioned cuteness?
It’s coy. But no matter. Livv–Olivia Ramone–may be the self-proclaimed Queen of Anti-Internet Dating, but I am the CEO of Realr and that outranks. And in my case, outwits.
No one fucks with the King. Not even the Queen.
Our drinks and food arrived; my drink wafting in smoke and hers bright and yellow with a small, wooden honey wand in it.
“Cute garnish,” I say as she pulls it out. Honey slowly drips from the round tip, drizzling back into the glass, and she puts it on her tongue, a string of it escaping down her lip.
Cute is the wrong word.
Olivia Ramone is not cute.
Not in that dress, not in this lighting, and not with honey dripping from her bottom lip.
“You have–” I start to say, but she notices and wipes her lip softly with the pad of her finger. She goes to wipe it off on her napkin, but I reach out, catching her hand in mine before she can. Then I watch her eyes as I slowly bring her finger to my mouth and even more slowly suck the honey off.
“Oh…” she gasps softly, her lips parting at the contact. And the warmth. And the wetness.
I unwrap my own set of silverware and place the napkin on my lap before eyeing the charcuterie board. “Too much?” I ask.
“Hmm?” she asks, clearly still in shock. I bite back a smirk.
“For a second date. Was that too much?” I ask.
Olivia blinks. Then shakes her head, clearing her throat. “Not at all,” she answers, clearly a little flustered. She picks up the cocktail menu to browse for a second drink, and suddenly her phone lights up on the table. I glance at it and see a text notification.
Sadie.
I’m not one to dig into business that’s not mine. But it’s also hard not to see what the text reads when it’s right there.
Sadie: How’s it going? Is he in love with you yet?
And there it is. Confirmation of what I already knew.
“This looks really good,” she says, pulling my attention back to the date.
“I love charcuterie. Although it’s been a while since I’ve had one this fancy.
” Olivia’s eyes ping-pong around the board like she’s doing an internal rock paper scissors.
She finally lands on the Camembert and grabs a rosemary cracker and the cheese knife.
As difficult as it is, I play along.
“Bold choice. But if you’re not a fan of–” I start to say, but Olivia cuts me off.
“Mushrooms,” she says, spreading some of the cheese on the cracker before adding a small slice of prosciutto.
“Yes,” I say. “It does have a bit of a mushroom flavor.”
“And I know a bit about cheese,” she smiles before taking a bite and then touching her fingers to her lips as she chews. After she swallows, she reaches for her drink. “One of my first jobs, in college, was at a wine bar. And we also did boards like this.”
“So you do know cheese,” I nod, dressing a cracker the same way she did, but adding some spicy mustard as well.
“And wine,” she adds, popping a candied almond in her mouth.
“So you knew the petite Sirah really was eight years aged, and that wasn’t an empty bribe to get you to come back to my place?” I ask, but it comes out more like a statement.
“No,” she says, taking another bite, and my eyes flash up to hers. “I didn’t know until I saw the wine. But I also didn’t assume you were lying either.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“Why is that interesting?” she asks.
“Because women assume men are usually lying, especially in scenarios like that,” I answer, this time going for the Stilton.
“Men usually are lying in those scenarios,” she says with a flirty smirk.
She’s good, I’ll give her that.
“So why did you believe me?” I ask, picking up two small pieces of dark chocolate. I pop one in my mouth and hold the other out to her. She leans in, eyes on me, and opens her mouth. I place the chocolate on her tongue and she chews slowly before answering.
“I didn’t. But you were a good kisser, so I figured, what the hell?” Her smile widens as she chews, and I bite back the threat of a smirk.
Then I dust off my hands and dab my mouth with my napkin, leaning back in my chair with my drink. “So you worked at a wine bar,” I say, doing a conversational U-turn.
“In college,” she reiterated.
“And what did you say you do now?” I ask.
“Communications,” she answers. “Boring things really.”
“Boring?” I ask with an arched eyebrow.
“Yeah,” she answers as she spoons some brie on a crostini and tops it with a raspberry habanero compote. Spicy and sweet.
“If it’s boring, why do you do it?” I ask.
“Because I’m told I’m good at it,” she answers.
“Are you?” I ask, and she looks up at me.
“Am I what?”
“Don’t phrase it that way,” I correct her. “Don’t say you’re told you’re good at it. Tell me you are good at it.”
Olivia studies me and picks up her drink, taking a sip before answering. “I am good at it. I’m very good at it. I have over five hundred thousand followers.”
“Five hundred thousand,” I echo. “Impressive number.”
Olivia snorts and looks back at the board.
“I mean it,” I say. “You should be proud of five hundred thousand.”
“I don’t know,” she says with a little snark in her tone. “It’s not five hundred million…”
“Well, look at you, doing your homework before class,” I say.
“I didn’t really have to,” she says, licking compote off her finger. “Everyone knows who you are.”
“Do they…” I say. “Is that why you swiped right? Because you knew who I was and that if you played your cards right, you’d get bragging rights? For your communications job?”
“No, I swiped right for the free sushi and charcuterie,” she says flatly, and I almost show the hint of a smile.
She laughs, telling me she saw it. I take a sip of my drink, telling her it wasn’t that funny.
Or cute.
“Your hair,” she says, and my eyes flash up to her again.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your hair. It’s the color of dark honey. Or bourbon. But flecked with–”
“Don’t say it,” I cut her off, and her grin spreads.
“Silver,” she goes for the less offensive hue that describes my hair color. “And your eyes.”
“My hair and my eyes,” I echo.
“Is something wrong with that?” she asks.
“It’s cliché,” I answer dryly.
“Well, I couldn’t swipe right on your warm personality and playful sense of humor, could I?” She teases, and it earns her a quarter of a smirk.
Like I said…she’s pretty good.
The drive to her apartment is quiet. But not in an awkward way.
I’m not a fan of small talk. I’m also not a fan of overt conversation either.
I’d rather it be silent than fill the air with the unnecessary.
Olivia doesn’t seem to be unnecessary about anything.
It’s hard to believe she’s trying to screw me over.
At the same time, women do that. Women, even ones you think you can trust–especially ones you think can trust–can be really good liars.
“This is me,” she says as I pull up to the complex. I put the car in park and unbuckle my seatbelt.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” I say.
“Or…you could come inside…” she says. Her eyes are dancing in the glow of the streetlight, and her lips look devourable.
I bet she tastes like honey…
I don’t say anything. I simply get out, round the car and open her door.
She smiles up at me, and I offer the smallest smile in return.
Then I walk her to her door, like I said I would.
We scale the three steps that lead into the building, and she reaches out to punch in the code. Then she stops and turns back to me.
“Did you forget the code?” I ask.
Olivia giggles. “No…I was just going to say last chance…”
“Last chance for what?” I play dumb.
“To come inside…” she says. “Going once…going twice…”
I gaze down at her and gently pull her into a kiss. A long, slow, hot kiss that melts her body against me. Then I pull back, tell her I’ll call her, offer another quarter of a smile and head down the steps.
“...gone,” I say to myself. And I swear I hear her jaw hit the ground behind me.
Then, and only then, do I actually grin.