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It had been Annie’s idea.
Of course it had.
River never booked places with tablecloths — or tasting menus, or waiters who used words like reduction. But she’d found somewhere new and insisted, and honestly, he hadn’t stood a chance once she’d sent the link with we’re going here and a little heart emoji.
And seeing her in that dress — black, low-backed, her hair pinned up — well, it turned out to be an excellent decision. One that he was taking full credit for, seeing as he’d made the reservation himself.
The waiter appeared with the menus and that posh confidence that made River sit up straighter.
“Would sir and madam like the wine pairings with the tasting menu?”
Annie raised an eyebrow at him.
“Go on,” River said, before she could answer. “We’re celebrating.”
She smiled. “What are we celebrating, exactly?”
He hesitated for a beat, then said, perfectly straight-faced, “I’ve kept that houseplant from your dad alive for two weeks.”
She burst out laughing. “That is worth celebrating.”
He watched her laugh, that unguarded, musical laugh he never got tired of hearing. God, he’d do anything for that sound. Even keep the bloody plant alive another fortnight.
“Thought so,” he said, pleased with himself.
“All right then,” she told the waiter, still smiling, “we’ll do the wine pairings. But he’s the one who’s going to have to carry me out of here.”
River grinned. “Deal. I’ll even do it with dignity.”
“Mm,” she said, sipping her water, “we’ll see about that.”
“More dignity than you’ll have, anyway.”
“Oi.”
He should have remembered that his tolerance for fine-dining wines was roughly two glasses.
By the third course, she was glowing. By the fourth, she’d started laughing at the waiter’s pronunciation of amuse-bouche.
“Amuse-bouche,” she whispered, half under her breath. “Tickle my taste buds.”
River raised an eyebrow. “Well, we both know how you like that.”
She nearly snorted her wine. “River!”
“What? You started it.”
They both dissolved into helpless laughter, and by the fifth course he’d realised he was absolutely hammered.
Somewhere between the venison course and the thing described only as foam, his sense of balance—social, moral, and physical—had gone. Everything was pleasantly soft round the edges. Annie’s hand brushed his and it felt like an event.
He tried to act normal, of course. Sat up straight. Nodded seriously at the sommelier’s spiel about “notes of apricot and oak.” Said “mm, yes, quite,” like a man with thoughts about terroir.
“River,” Annie whispered, leaning closer, “you just said oaky little number out loud.”
“I did?”
“Yes. To the waiter.”
He coughed. “Well, it was.”
She snorted into her napkin.
When the dessert arrived — a tiny chocolate sphere with something gold sprinkled on top — River blinked at it in disbelief.
“That’s pudding?”
“Apparently.”
He prodded it with his spoon. “I could eat twelve.”
Annie snorted. “River.”
“What? It’s not often you only get one in your mouth after dinner.”
She stared at him for half a second — and then dissolved into helpless laughter.
He grinned. “I’m still hungry.”
“Of course you are.”
By the time they made it out of the restaurant, the cool air hit him like a wall. He swayed, caught himself on the doorframe, and turned to find Annie clutching her heels and giggling helplessly.
“I can see two of you,” she said.
“Excellent,” he said solemnly. “Double the fun.”
She jabbed a finger at him. “You said you were going to carry me.”
He squinted at the pavement. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Health and safety would have words.”
“But you promised,” she said, mock-pouting.
And because those heels were ridiculous, and because she was looking at him like that, he sighed, bent, and scooped her up.
His arms ached, his brain sloshed, but she was laughing against his neck and that was enough. He’d carry her to the end of the earth if she asked.
“Babe,” she murmured, grinning against his jaw, “you know you said that out loud?”
“I meant to,” he said solemnly. “I’m very romantic when I’m drunk.”
She giggled helplessly. “You’re something, all right.”
He managed three unsteady steps before she started kissing his jaw — which would have been lovely if balance wasn’t now a full-time job.
“Annie,” he said, laughing breathlessly, “you’re not helping.”
“Don’t drop me.”
“Working on it.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere to soak up the culture.”
They made it to the kebab shop like that — him half-carrying, half-staggering, her laughing against his neck — and stumbled inside to the bright lights and the smell of chips.
The man behind the counter looked up, unimpressed. “You all right, mate?”
“Never better,” River said, straight-faced.
“Two cheesy chips and a large doner, please.”
Annie was still laughing when he set her down on the plastic bench. “See?” she said. “Told you you could carry me.”
“Barely,” he said, collapsing beside her. “You’re a menace.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, still smiling. “You love it.”
He looked at her — hair loose now, mascara a little smudged, absolutely perfect — and grinned. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I really do.”
The cab ride home was an experience.
Annie, charmingly plastered, had somehow become best friends with their driver by the second traffic light. She’d already given him advice on his tax return — surprisingly good for someone who was probably made of eighty percent alcohol — congratulated him on his new baby daughter, and learned the name of his dog.
River watched it happen — the way she drew people in without trying — and felt himself relax.
They were halfway down the Embankment when Mr Brightside came on the radio.
Annie gasped like it was divine intervention.
“Oh my God,” she said, turning in her seat. “Can you turn it up, please? Like, way up?”
The driver grinned. “Sure thing.”
The car filled with music, loud enough to rattle the windows. Annie whooped, grabbing River’s arm.
River blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The driver caught his eye in the mirror, smiling. “We’re vibing, mate.”
Annie was already mouthing along, completely in her element.
“Annie,” River said, trying and failing to sound stern.
She turned to him, eyes bright. “We’re vibing, River!”
He should have been mortified. Instead, he found himself grinning like an idiot, watching her charm the driver like she charmed everyone. That was the thing about Annie — she left the world better, even drunk. And maybe that was it — maybe that was why he’d follow her anywhere — or even carry her.
So instead he laughed, hopelessly, and by the time the chorus hit, she had both his hands in hers and was singing at the top of her lungs.
When they finally made it inside, Annie was still humming Mr Brightside and River was doing his best impression of a man in control of the situation.
“Right,” he said, kicking the door shut. “Water, then bed.”
“Boring,” she mumbled, already barefoot and heading for the sofa.
He sighed, fetching her a glass and setting it down beside her. “Drink that.”
She squinted at him. “You’re pretending to be sober, aren’t you?”
“I am sober,” he said, trying for dignity and missing by a mile.
She laughed so hard she nearly spilled the water. “Sure you are.”
He sat beside her, watching her eyes go heavy and soft, that lazy smile tugging at her mouth.
“Annie,” he said slowly, “you should at least try to drink—”
She leaned in and kissed him. Warm, lingering, far too distracting.
He forgot what came next. He’d been struggling for words before she kissed him; now his mind was just static and heartbeat.
She pulled back a fraction, grin wicked. “River,” she said, voice low and slurred, “are you going to amuse my bouche?”
For a second he just stared, mouth open, brain short-circuited — and then she was laughing so hard she had to press her face into his shoulder.
He tried to look stern, failed completely, and laughed with her — helpless, happy, drunk on her and the ridiculousness of it all.