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He’s there again, on Thursday.
Goosebumps shiver over Florence’s arms and she firmly insists to her coworker that she’s got the next table. Not that he argues over it- Florence has the vague suspicion that Walter had announced her territory to the entire staff some weeks back. It might have been a little embarrassing if she wasn’t so intent on keeping it.
She manages to squash down her aggression that night, forces her hips to keep still as she walks, no sideways glances, no secret smiles. However, the suggestion he gave her only a few nights before, limbs draped neatly over the car door, makes her hands itch and her mind wander.
For now, they chat in between orders and she flits about to other tables as he eats. It might seem like any other evening that he’s dropped in before, but she catches the quick, meaningful glances he makes to the chair across from him.
Florence wants to sit down with him, wants to clock out early and order anything and everything she can think of if it means sharing a few personal minutes with the man.
But she's still a waitress, here in Vesuvio's, and she's not who she wants Nino to see when she's toting around a tray and a notepad, an apron tied around her waist.
By the end of his meal, she swears he looks crestfallen and she pauses beside his booth, an explanation hovering across her tongue.
Florence tips her head to the side and waits for a busboy to disappear into the kitchen. Her voice drops by nearly a decibel as she glances back at Nino, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“You should drop by again tomorrow. I get off at six.”
Nino’s eyebrows rocket upwards and an almost feral grin stretches across his lips.
Of course I’m still interested, silly boy.
The man nods, so small she barely catches it, then downs the rest of his coffee.
“I’ll get your bill, sir.”
*
The next day, Florence manages to convince Peter, one of their newer hires, to cover the last half hour of her shift, and she ducks into the bathroom to change.
She pulls a slim green dress out from behind one of the stalls, one she’d finally settled on the night before after turning her entire closet upside down. There’s a large, colorful pile of clothes waiting for her at home, but the mess bothers her less now that she’s looking at the final result.
There are sleeves on this one, just the slightest ruffle brushing down over her shoulders, and the material is chiffon. It’s so light that it feels almost scandalous to wear, not to mention that the cut is all the way up to her knees. It might be a little more revealing than it should be. After all, Florence is trying to pace herself, trying to make a good first impression.
But she wants to look nice. She wants to catch and keep Nino’s eye for as long as possible, give him a solid reason to trust the initial instinct of his suggestion.
Beneath the rushing anticipation, a warning that sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Morris’s voice interrupts her thoughts, hissing around in her ears like a wasp.
“Don’t be inappropriate, Miss Florence. A lady should be more subtle.”
Florence decides quickly that subtlety will be the theme for another night and she squashes the voice back into silence.
It’s five fifty when she glances at her watch. Ten minutes and really, she’s as ready as she can be. She’d awoken early that morning and dropped herself in front of the mirror with a Marcel iron in one hand and a magazine in the other. She’d never really bothered with her curls outside of the occasional night out, and she’d gotten a number of frustrating catcalls for it at the restaurant that day, but it was worth it, if it meant Nino noticing.
She’d spent the day a cluster of nerves, hardly getting through her shift without dropping anything. If she allows herself, she knows she could spend the next ten minutes second-guessing herself into cancelling the date.
She won’t allow that kind of consequence.
Florence looks up, watching herself in the mirror for a moment, then takes a long, slow breath.
'He’ll be just as nervous. Surprise him, Florence. Make this easy.'
She slips out the back a moment later, her fingers drifting to her mouth involuntarily. The rouge on her lips is more than usual and a lingering doubt wiggles itself into her thoughts.
“Miss Baker.”
The firm, teasing voice behind her banishes it entirely.
Florence stops where she is, allows the sudden heat at her fingertips to dissipate, then tugs her hand free from her bag and turns.
Nino stands a few feet away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning up against one of the restaurant walls. He sports a suit jacket lighter in color than his usual getup and she spots the glitter of a pocket watch as his thumb drops it back into his coat. Florence realizes in an instant of delight that he’s skipped the hat, and for the first time, she can see the slicked back flare of his hair.
She has the urge to run her fingers through it, to ruin the wax he’s probably applied, just to see how bothered she can make him. But it won’t do to scare him off so quickly. His expression is already shifting as she approaches, pleased surprise mixing with something she hopes is intrigue, and she sees it- the slightest twitch in his fingers.
That’s new.
Nino clears his throat, adjusts the front of his jacket as if to provide himself the distraction. He shifts in place and his eyes hover erratically over her, never stopping in one place for longer than a moment. She can tell he’s trying not to stare, trying to preserve that gentleman’s image; a rush of appreciation mixes with the anxious fluttering in her gut.
She tucks her own hands down by her side, gives the slightest of curtsies and smiles shyly.
"Is it too much?"
"Not at all. You’re just right."
His voice is strained, just a note lower than it usually is, and she beams, clenches her fists inside the soft folds of her dress. It takes just a moment for him to recover, just a blink of a second. With an unexpectedly fond smile, Nino nods down the street and starts a slow pace forward beside her.
“I know a nice spot down on Seventh. Excellent music, good food. Shall we?”
*
She’s never been to Connie’s Inn before. Heard about it, craved the experience, but the nightclub has always been a little high-end for her. In moments of passing, she’s seen a number of women slipping into the building, furs wrapped around their shoulders, sporting glittering heels and escorted in by suited gentlemen and muscled guards at the door.
It’s brighter, flashier than she can afford on a simple waitress’s wage, and when Nino casually hands over the club’s fee, Florence turns red.
One of her hands darts up to her ears, curls nervously around the shining baubles at her lobes, and she shifts from one foot to another.
Nino notices, as she’s come to expect, and winds his fingers through hers, gently leading her down the carpeted entrance.
She’s not sure how to ask a man if something costs too much, how to thank him for spending an entire week’s pay on her. Perhaps she should have anticipated the treatment- after all, the man dabbles in selling expensive contraband, among other things- but attending such a fine establishment is what she’s come to expect of rare special occasions, not first dates.
“Florence.”
Nino’s voice hums in her ear, low and firm, enough of a rumble that he draws her eyes almost immediately.
“Consider it a nice time for a nice girl. Trust me, it’s worth it.”
There’s something about the way he says it- like she’s worth it- and her stomach flutters at the explanation. Slowly, the confidence in Nino’s gaze solidifies the ground beneath her feet again. With a soft smile, Florence nods.
“I do. It's just a fancy place for a fancy gentleman.”
There’s a flash of a grin on his lips after that one; she drags a silent thank you across his palm with her fingertips and they move forward again, their steps in sync this time.
Florence’s eyes sweep across the deep red carpets, crisp and bright, the streamers across the wall, done up as if it was January 1st. The people filing in around them are a burst of every color on the spectrum. Jewelry and tableware glitters back at her in the soft light of the club and a shiver of excitement darts down Florence’s spine.
“Is it always so lively?”
Nino chuckles as he pulls out a chair for her and she tries to stifle the awe coursing through her veins. It’s strange and new in the nightclub, an entirely different environment than she’s experienced before, and the feeling is overwhelmly loud and terrifying and delightfully mad.
“Just wait till the music starts, doll.”
He looks so thrilled, like a child with an ice cream cone, and she’s so caught up watching him that it takes her a moment to realize a waiter is standing at their table.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Ricci. What can I get you two tonight?”
The menu he hands her has a sprawl of items almost as big as Vesuvio’s, though most of them are small appetizers and drinks she’s never heard of. She supposes that’s the point. She looks for prices, determined to spare Nino from a large bill, at the very least. But there aren’t any, just a long list of ingredients and course descriptions.
When Florence opens her mouth to ask the waiter, she discovers Nino chatting amicably with the man and rattling off his own order with so little difficulty that she knows it’s not the first time he’s ordered it. Unwilling to interrupt, Florence settles on a comfortably familiar-looking sandwich instead. Florence drums her fingers quietly against the tablecloth, considering the menu one more time before offering it back to who she now assumes is “Richard”.
“And a Sidecar, please.”
As Richard leaves, offering them the tiniest bow she’s ever seen, Florence turns back towards Nino. He looks quietly appreciative, nodding his head towards her, and she flashes an unapologetic smile back at him.
It’s not a secret that half the town still drowns their sorrows in any alcohol they can find, and she’s not new to that scene at least. A rather large bottle of gin lays hidden in the second drawer of her own dresser, hidden neatly beneath her underthings. She hadn’t expected the Prohibition Act to stick for quite as long as it had, but she was prepared for it to last much longer.
“Really, Nino, you can’t take me to Connie’s and expect me not to take advantage.” She flutters her eyelashes- she’s driven a few men wild with that move- and Nino’s face goes red as his cheeks split into a wide grin.
From the center of the room, a number of excited cheers break up the soft hum of patrons, and Florence turns her gaze towards the sound. A man in a white suit settles gracefully before a grand piano; his fingers tenderly rove across the keys in a cascading arpeggio. It’s simple, a basic technique she’s seen musicians do plenty of times before, but there’s a smile on the man’s face that promises a performance and the air in the room seems to thicken with anticipation.
Goosebumps shiver across Florence’s skin as she watches three hungry-eyed women gravitate towards the piano. She grins knowingly and suddenly Nino leans across the table to brush his lips against her ear.
“They’re always the first to pounce.”
Laughter bubbles up from Florence’s throat, though it’s partially just to cover up the nervous gasp that pushes through her teeth at her personal bubble being interrupted. But she doesn’t pull away and Nino’s fingers drag down her elbow as he settles his arm beside hers on the table.
There’s a blast, as if an elephant has charged into the room, and a man arriving beside the pianist bellows again through a golden trumpet. It’s hardly a breath of a moment before there are others, a bass player, a saxophonist, a drummer. With each one’s appearance, Nino mutters a name into her ear, something about their talents, their origins, “George is having his first kid in a month, Anna’s about to burst,”- but the information stops short of Florence’s ears at the utterly content look on the man’s face.
He’s in his element here. There’s a fluidity to the way Nino moves that she hasn’t seen in Vesuvio’s. His words fumble over one another now and then, revealing the slightest hint of an accent, and he rolls his wrist right and drags a hand down the curve of his jaw. She asks about the pianist, just to watch him ramble and he does, or starts to, before stopping suddenly.
“What?”
He’s watching her, swallowing down a knot in his throat. It’s the first time she’s seen him self-conscious, Florence thinks, and she won’t settle for it. Not when his comfortable chatter warms her insides like it does.
“I’m just… impressed. You seem to know a lot of things about a lot of people.” She gives him a wide smile and his shoulders loosen again, just a little.
“Don’t know a lot about you.”
There’s suggestion in that, and panic and delight pound at Florence’s lungs simultaneously. She fumbles with the tablecloth, feels a blush rising in her cheeks. One of her hands hovers nervously at her lips, but she refuses to be caught off guard again, not if he insists on trying so often.
Surprise him.
“Not yet, you don’t.”
A wild grin climbs back onto Nino’s face and he stands suddenly, nodding towards the kitchen.
“They’ll take awhile. Full house tonight. So, first question.” He takes a deep breath and tugs at her wrist, pulling her to her feet.
“Do you dance?”
Florence fidgets and shakes her head no, but she hangs onto Nino’s hand nonetheless and he takes the hint, pulling her towards the already crowded dance floor.
“Let’s correct that.”
*
Nino is a gas.
He’d spoken of music plenty to her, in their chats at Vesuvio’s, but she hadn’t quite expected the quiet man in the side booth to be so excellent with rhythm.
Her nerves had threatened to choke off her air in the beginning and she’d spent most of the first song apologizing for stepping on his feet, fumbling over moves she knew were supposed to flow and change seamlessly. But Nino was patient, laughing it off or shrugging in such a relaxed fashion it seemed part of the dance, and by the time the third song rolls around, Florence just wants to let loose.
It’s not hard, with the audience around her roiling like a burning wave, the music so loud it drowns out every thought in her head. And Nino’s hand presses firmly against hers, his palm warm to the touch. He leads her without words and for once, she’s willing to follow, mimicking his legs kicking in and out, spinning when he lifts their arms just a tad higher. The trumpet blasts again, a strangely melodic scream, and the music shifts, like a play approaching its third act.
Nino draws her a little closer, tightens his own steps, and rests one hand on the small of her back. They’re so close she can smell his cologne, a masculine combination of bergamot and pepper. Heat flutters up the back of Florence’s neck and she leans forward into him. Nino grins, his eyes flickering with amusement, but the dance is quick, and he spins her before pulling her close again.
She's reminded of when she started training at the restaurant, carrying trays and drinks and plates, absolutely positive she’d trip and spoil it at any moment. But challenges have never swayed Florence away before, and she leans into each step now just as she did then.
She kicks her right leg back confidently and squares her shoulders just a little; she swears that Nino’s eyes drift down the curve of her neck, and a laugh bursts out of both of their throats simultaneously.
He spins her again, wide this time, and an admiring shout emerges from a dancer nearby. Florence glances towards them for a moment and it occurs to her that a number of other patrons have slowed their own dancing to watch her and Nino. She can’t help but beam with pride at the fact she seems to be swinging about with the hit of the dance floor.
“You’ve drawn a few eyes, Mr. Ricci.”
Nino’s gaze shifts towards their audience for just a moment, but returns back to her face quickly. He shakes his head.
“We have drawn a few eyes, Miss Baker.”
The hand surrounding hers squeezes her fingers and she smiles softly in response. After a moment, the music eases to a slow, bluesy croon. Claps emerge from the crowd and as many of the dancers amble off of the stage, Nino leads her back to their table.
He’s hardly out of breath as he sits and he leans back into his chair with a satisfied exhale. She retires to her own, picks up her newly delivered glass and takes a sip. Strong- that’s pleasantly unexpected, with the swill that half the shops have now that the coppers are watching.
"So if you don't dance, what do you do for fun?"
Florence pauses, considering the question carefully and just how much she’s willing to share.
First date. But he’s let her into his strange world of dancing, bright lights, and talented musicians. The least she can offer him is a bit of insight into her own.
"I draw actually." Florence swallows, savoring the hints of orange on her tongue, and places her glass back on the table. She leans back, watching Nino’s face closely.
He’s not bored- nor overwhelmingly excited, both of which she’s received for her interest in art before. She’s lost count on the number of times she’s been asked to draw a friend or a suddenly close acquaintance. Nino seems to be a refreshing exception to the rule.
Instead, something like revelation crosses his face. At the lift of her eyebrows, Nino shrugs softly, takes a long sip from his own glass, and gestures towards her.
“You have the hands for it.”
Florence smiles, takes a small bite of her sandwich, and wiggles her fingers at him. His eyes catch on one of her hands as it falls back to the table and she realizes suddenly that his response would have required more than just a glance. She wonders how many times he’d watched her hands before, vows to scrub them twice as hard now.
“Maybe I’ll show you my work sometime.” Nino brightens, seems to rise from the distraction she never meant to offer. He clears his throat and she scoots forward a little, bumping their knees together under the table.
“My turn. Where’d you learn to do that?” Florence nods towards the dance floor. Sure enough, Nino idles between pride and embarrassment and he rolls his shoulders before answering.
Florence is a waitress. She knows what it looks like when someone has a story on their tongue and Nino looks like he has an entire book. She could wait a lifetime if it means keeping that fond look on his face, but the man responds eagerly enough, and Florence settles into each word willingly.
They spend the rest of the evening recounting moments of inspiration, small beads of memory that made them who they were today, and somewhere in the middle of it, Nino’s voice fits itself neatly into her own box of souvenirs.
**
They’ve been out for hours by the time they leave the restaurant. The steady beats the band put up still have Florence’s feet buzzing. Her legs will be sore tomorrow, with the number of times she and Nino dragged one another back onto the dance floor, but it’s a satisfying ache.
As Nino nods to someone inside and joins her at the sidewalk, she finds she doesn’t really want to go home just yet.
The feeling is strange.
She’s always enjoyed socializing, mingling in town square or by the river or in some side joint with a secret beer tap in the back. People to see, people to draw. But for the most part, her dates had always ended in either disappointment or an entirely inappropriate romp down some back street. She’d normally sated her interest after a couple hours in, then promptly ducked out or run for higher ground.
With Nino, she thinks she could stay out till the early hours of the morning. The pleasure of his company is as quietly calming as it is alarming and the tone of his voice alone sets her nerves to a quiet strum. She’s not quite used to it, feels almost exposed at the man’s teasing interest, but the number of possibilities he offers ticks higher and higher by the minute.
“It’s nice out.” They’ve come to a stop beside his car, but Florence’s limbs ache to stay and she takes her time by the door. The street lamps flicker on all at once and her eyes drift down the street to watch shop signs light up one by one. New York never sleeps. There’s always someone awake somewhere, under the fading sun or the rising dawn, but somehow, the city feels safe by Nino Ricci’s side.
Without explaining further, Florence tugs at the man’s sleeve, moves a little ways down the sidewalk; Nino follows without question, practically orbiting her as she moves. He offers his arm and her cheeks burn a soft pink against the darkening sky. Florence accepts, curls her fingers into the crook of his elbow, wonders if he’s always this warm.
“You wander around at night often, Florence?”
She likes the way her name sounds on his lips, delights in the sound of his accent curling quietly around his tongue. It’s dangerous, thinking of such things, when she could find a number of interests all to do with his tongue, but heavens, they aren’t that familiar with one another yet.
She clears her throat, hums as if she’s muddling over the question and not trying to grapple with propriety.
“Can’t see the stars if I don’t. Not that there’s much of a chance anyway in this city.”
No, in New York, she’d be lucky to catch a dim outline of anything other than the North Star. More often, she’s out at night walking home from the restaurant. It’s not far of a walk, just around the corner really, but she gets the feeling she might look foolish, admitting that she ambles about by herself late at night. Still, the city is loud and full of light, if she keeps to the right places. And she likes the shadows, when she doesn’t.
Nino seems to catch on that she’s not telling him everything- it is perhaps a double-edged sword to care for a man with such observance skills- but he’s smart enough not to push. A slip of concern wriggles its way into his smile, and then his fingers brush against hers just enough to make them both stagger a bit.
Florence laughs and it comes out of her throat disturbingly close to a giggle, breathless and disoriented. She looks straight up, trying to desperately catch a glimpse of the stars she can’t see just for the distraction. Her stomach flips, unconcerned with her demands for control, and in an attempt to regain it, Florence catches hold of his wrist.
The leather of his gloves is soft and warm and his sleeve glides up her palm easily, but she can feel it. Nino’s pulse thuds hard against her thumb and Florence’s lips flutter upward into a slope.
Well. It’s nice to know she has the same effect on him.
“Anyway-” She struggles for words, grasping for something to say to distract them both. His eyes are glued to the walk ahead and she knows better than to twist already taut strings. Another night, perhaps.
“-I’ve got you around, for the moment. People seem to know who you are well enough,” she bumps her shoulder into his softly, looks up slowly from beneath weighted lashes. Her hat presses a few strands down over her eyes and she revels in the look Nino gives her. “How’d you earn that, big man?”
It’s his turn to laugh, a bark of surprise erupting out from between his teeth as he balks at her. Something between delight and alarm fights for dominance on his face and he stops the both of them short, turning to look at her with a proud grin.
She can see his teeth. That feral part of him that makes her feel advanced upon- and her own pulse quickens as he steps forward closer than before.
“You don’t need to be concerned with that, Miss Florence. I just happen to know the right people.”
A part of her scurries into the smallest position she can go and she imagines the doors in her mind locking tight, the sound of gunshots and shouted commands, and one dangerously attractive grin driving straight through her consciousness. God, what would her mother have thought?
Nino has paused, his eyes watching her carefully. She catches the way his shoulders square up, how he seems to grow an inch taller within the space of a second. There’s a moment, just a moment, like he’s drawn a line between them just to see if she’ll cross.
She stifles the thoughts in her head, the panicked warnings and rushed mutterings that this could be it, just one date, just one night, all fun and games where no one would get hurt. Florence has watched this man in his booth for long enough now, pined over the possibility that she could be more than the waitress who brought him pie, and part of her shouts that he’ll have to try harder than that to make her feel small.
Florence steps forward- there’s a hint of surprise in his face that fills her with heat- and she carefully tucks her fingers around the knot of his tie, straightening it carefully as she looks back at him.
“I should maybe get to know you a little better too then, shouldn’t I?”
Nino’s smile is slow this time, darker than the ones she usually sees on his face, and he remains still beneath her fingers. She commits the image to mind, considers drawing it later. Charcoal this time, she thinks.
“Sounds like a good plan, Flo.”
His voice is practically a rumble, deeper than she would expect of the lanky man before her, and he turns back down the walk again, offering his arm again.
She realizes after a few minutes that they’re back where they started and a flicker of disappointment settles into the pit of her stomach. Nino turns towards her, his eyes glancing from Vesuvio’s sign back to her. She doesn’t quite notice her smile has fallen until a warm hand drags across her chin, Nino’s fingers skimming the very edge of her lips. Her mouth burns as his hand dips back into his pocket, hardly there if it wasn’t for the blush in her cheeks.
“May I walk you home?”
She’s not sure how wise it is, offering a mobster her home address, but then again, she’s glad to give him another place to associate her with beyond the restaurant. And if he’s intent on finding her again…
“It’s not too far. Practically round the corner.” Florence’s voice is soft again, her confidence chased away with the promise of the night ending. Nino hums in response, shrugging his shoulders and glancing over at her.
“That’s a shame.”
It brings her smile back quickly enough and Florence sidles into him, carefully slipping her hand into his pocket. She winds their fingers together before she can stop herself, come up with a reason not to. Nino squeezes her hand in response, drags his thumb up along her wrist, and her head spins for a moment.
She leads him around the corner and down a small flight of steps. It’s quiet there, off the beaten path and a surprisingly empty street of the ever busy New York City. Most people stick to the main street, frequenting Vesuvio’s, Murray’s, or any ice cream or sandwich shop that lines the block for nearly a mile. When they ever strayed around the corner, they were met with a modest collection of apartments, clearly not what they were looking for, and rerouted quickly.
The quiet always steadied her nerves and it was a blessing to not worry about noisy neighbors, but beyond that, now, standing underneath a gleaming lamppost with her shoulder pressed up against Nino’s, she is even more grateful for the lack of company.
Florence idles, her hand gesturing towards the door as she glances shyly back at the man. She almost regrets it, watching the lamplight glimmer over his face and outline the edges of him in gold. Her fingers itch to touch him and she desperately grabs for Mrs. Morris’s reminders from where she’d stowed them earlier, the woman’s firm tones reminding her that she must be a lady first and foremost. She manages to listen and detaches her hand from inside of Nino’s pockets, but the flicker of longing that crosses his face makes her pause again.
She leans forward without thinking, damning her manners to another night, and presses her lips to Nino’s cheek for a quick kiss. Her nose drags against the soft stubble of his chin and the hollow of his neck beckons for her to stay put. She has to pull back quickly- heavens, any further and a number of Pennsylvanians would be beating down her door for her impropriety- but she stops one last time to look him in the eye.
The Adam’s apple at Nino’s throat bobs- she can practically hear him when he swallows that hard- then he leans his head in until it nearly touches her own. Florence waits just a moment, tips her head up and flutters her eyelashes again. Nino closes the last inch between them quickly, crushing his lips against her own.
His mouth is warm and insistent against hers and the last of her thoughts scatter as he winds his hand around her back. Florence’s hands have a mind of their own- thank god, because she’s lost her own at the moment- and they flatten against the lapels of Nino’s jacket.
She leans into him, a hum of pleasure escaping from her throat, and by the time he pulls away again, she has to suck in a burst of air to keep her head from spinning.
There’s a long moment of quiet after that. In the dimness of the street, she can just make out the softest hint of red in Nino’s cheeks. By the burning in her own, she knows they match. Slowly, they both straighten, though she can feel the faintest brush of fingers as Nino tucks one of her curls back behind her ears.
“Right.”
She nods, silently agreeing with the sentiment, and gestures again towards her door, but her feet refuse to move. The night feels suddenly like a break in reality and Florence is almost afraid crossing her threshold, as if the action might reset the clock and erase this particular timeline.
“I had a good time, Nino. We should do it again sometime.”
He’s easing back now, his posture relaxing back into that comfortable confidence he’s always commanded. His eyes settle on her face again and her skin burns with anticipation, but his self-control is greater than hers, it seems.
“We should.” One hand curls itself into his pocket and he shifts his feet, considering her carefully. “Sometime next week?”
He lifts one of his eyebrows and nods toward her. Florence traps one lip in her teeth to keep from grinning too widely in response. Something flutters at the back of her throat when she considers that he wants to see her again. It knots into something thicker at the thought she might want to see him again too.
Florence bobs up onto her toes for just a moment, her fingers digging into her dress. She leans her back up against her door, fishing for time just to watch him wait.
“I’m off at six next Tuesday.”
Nino nods again, pondering this; she admires him, keeping eye contact so easily when she can barely stand for her nerves. He pats his jacket and gestures around them.
“Seven then? I’ll pick you up here.”
Her stomach flips, a panicked reminder that she is promising someone her company for the second time in a week. She ignores it, imagines stamping out each nervous doubt, and then-
“Seven. I look forward to it.”