It’s only after he’s set the shoebox atop a shelf just inside the space and called out, “He’s here, just ring the bell when you’re ready to order and your server will be right in,” that I look up and take in the dark, cozy interior.
The room is about half the size of my bedroom, with two tables set up in the center and a small bar lit by red bulbs surrounding the liquor shelves on the opposite end. The tables are empty, but the bar…
There’s someone behind the bar.
Someone with an edgy brown bob and eyes that flash in the shadows as she asks, “What’ll you have? Whiskey on the rocks? Vodka tonic? I also make a mean signature martini.”
It’s Harlow. She’s here.
And she’s wearing some kind of corset thing under her shiny black suit jacket that makes me want to fall to my knees and thank God for whoever decided it was okay to wear lingerie outside the bedroom.
I’m dimly aware of the host shutting the door behind me and my feet carrying me across the room, but I’m too mesmerized by Harlow’s full red lips and the hope surging through my veins like a dogsled team fresh off the starting mark to pay much attention to anything else.
It isn’t until Harlow says, “I came clean with Gram. And with Evie and the others, too. I hope that’s okay. I was tired of secrets,” that I realize my sister isn’t here.
I pause a few feet from the bar. “Fuck. Is she pissed at me? At us?”
“No, not at all.” Harlow holds my gaze in the sultry red light, an unreadable expression on her face. She’s back to keeping her cards close to her chest, but surely, she wouldn’t be here, dressed like that, simply to convey the bad news that my sister hates us for sneaking around behind her back.
“Well, she might be a little pissed at me,” she adds. “But I think I can win my way back into her good graces. Assuming tonight goes as planned.”
I arch a brow, telling the hope puppies bouncing around in my bloodstream to calm the hell down. I have no idea what her “plan” is just yet. All signs point to something good, but Harlow can be unpredictable. It’s one of the things I love most about her. Life with this woman would certainly never be boring.
“So, what’s your plan?” I finally ask, my voice husky with emotion. “Get me drunk on your signature martinis, wait until I pass out, and then carve out my heart and tuck it away in that mysterious box?”
Her lips curve. “Something like that.”
I arch a brow and her smile widens.
“What are you drinking?” she asks. “I’ll whip up something for both of us while you open your present. I didn’t have time to wrap it properly, but I figured you wouldn’t mind. It’s the thought that counts, right?”
“Always,” I murmur. “I’ll try your martini. As long as it doesn’t have olives in it. I hate olives.”
“I know that about you,” she says. “And no, no olives. Two raspberry almond martinis coming right up.”
She starts pouring liquor into the stainless steel mixing container in front of her as I turn back to the box. My gaze locks on it and my pulse speeds with every step I take across the room. My thoughts race, but I truly can’t imagine what’s inside.
But as soon as I lift the lid, I get it.
I get it and I’m so fucking grateful my hands tremble as I pull out the stack of train vouchers, all of them good for a roundtrip journey from NYC to Syracuse and back. There’s also a small calendar, and when I flip through it, I see some dates circled in green and others in yellow.
“Green is for times I’m definitely free,” she says from just over my shoulder. I turn to see her holding two martini glasses garnished with a single sugar-dusted raspberry hooked onto their sides. She holds one out toward me as she adds, “Yellow is for times I can change my other plans if you really need me. Or if I really need you.”
I accept the glass but immediately set it down on the shelf beside the box and turn back to her. “Does this mean what I think it means? That you’re up for giving the long-distance thing a shot?”
“No.” She sets her glass down on the closest table. “It means that we’re going to make the long-distance thing work. I’ve already mapped out our schedule to make sure we never go more than two weeks without seeing each other face-to-face, and assuming you say yes to being my boyfriend again, I’ll be sending you an email outlining the best strategies for building intimacy with technology and social media. I did extensive research on the train ride home.”