“Only the ones who can handle it.”
She winked and clinked my glass before taking a sip. “Oh God, this is some serious champagne.”
“Well, yeah. I’m not buying the cheap kind.”
She threw her hand over her heart. “Aw, because I deserve quality champagne?”
“No, because I deserve quality champagne.”
She smacked my arm again but hid her growing smile behind her glass.
“Who’s the one with high standards now?” she asked. I proudly raised my hand. “I’m taking this in the shower with me.”
“If I knew you were going to shower, I would have waited. You know, to save water.”
“Sorry. I only allow people who kiss me in the shower with me.”
She laughed when my mouth opened. I wanted to defend myself by saying how I was trying to kiss her in Cop Cot before those pesky kids ruined it but decided to save that bit of knowledge for myself. Although we’d agreed to take it slow and let our chemistry flow naturally, she wasn’t going to stop teasing me until I finally kissed her.
When she emerged from the bathroom a half hour later, that urge to kiss her buzzed on my lips again. She wore a knee-length violet dress that hugged every inch of her body. It revealed enough cleavage and skin to reel me in, yet it withheld enough for my mind to wander about everything underneath. Her straight hair shined in the light, and her makeup highlighted the most gorgeous features of her face. She had me completely stunned. As she observed my shocked expression, she poured herself another glass of champagne, and a wave of freshly spritzed perfume wrapped me up in another hypnotic spell.
“What?” she said as her lips curved upward, and her cheeks turned pink.
“Nothing,” I said softly, taking in the color of her soft eyes. “You’re just really beautiful.”
“Oh yeah? You’re not too bad yourself.”
“Let’s finish this champagne and go feast. I want to show you off.”
When we stepped outside, the tense humidity greeted us. Gray clouds warned of precipitation, and I prayed to the weather gods that any rain would hold until we got to the restaurant. We looked too good to have the rain ruin the hard work we put into primping. I ordered the Uber before we left the hotel, and we only waited a minute until a black Escalade rolled up in front of us. Kennedy’s eyebrows drew together when the driver, wearing a black suit and tie, came around, opened the door, and gestured us in.
“Did you seriously order an Uber Black?”
“Um, of course I did. We’ve waited five years for this date. Why not have fun with it?”
“Did you suddenly become bougie? Fancy champagne, roses, Uber Black?”
“It’s about to get even bougier. Now get in the Escalade.”
I’ve never used Uber Black but thought the gesture would add a fun element to the date. We were about to embark to the fanciest restaurant I had ever been to, and I didn’t feel right rolling up to a high-end restaurant in a Toyota Camry. The mood needed to be set, and champagne, roses, and a black Escalade set it perfectly.
I loved how close she sat next to me during the ride. She made conversation with the driver, something she no doubt always did because Kennedy Reed had been a social butterfly from a young age. Apparently, our driver had just moved to Brooklyn the weekend before from a small town in Mississippi, and Kennedy’s face lit up at all the recommendations and insider scoop he wanted from her. As she helped my Uber rating go up to a solid five, I reveled in her leg pressing against mine. I wasn’t sure if she did it on purpose or if her body naturally wanted to relax into me. But either way, I wanted more. I wanted to bask in the thrill of sneaking in a secret moment in the back of the car. I moved my hand on top of hers, and my midsection fluttered when she didn’t hesitate to grip me back. She didn’t stop talking to the driver or take her eyes off the rearview mirror. I studied our hands as her touch sent a buzz through me. Hers were smaller than mine, her fingers slender, and she started rubbing the soft part between my thumb and forefinger. I rested my head against the back of my seat and held her tighter, not caring that the traffic going uptown to Midtown was bumper to bumper or that the ETA for our arrival was ten minutes after our reservation time. I was holding her hand for the first time since high school, and it was even better than I remembered.
I could have sat like that forever, honestly.
When there was a lull in their conversation, Kennedy turned to me, noticed our hands still intertwined, and her eyes darkened, with a soft smile touching her lips.
“What?” I asked quietly.
She smiled as she looked at my lips. “Nothing,” she said, squeezing a little harder.
The restaurant was in Midtown, on the forty-eighth floor. I waited to see how long it would take Kennedy to realize where we were, but instead of picking up on it, she seemed too fascinated by her ears popping while the elevator propelled us upward. When the double doors opened, we were greeted by a sign that said Axis. Her mouth dropped open.
“Seriously, Quinn?” she said, grabbing my wrists.
I couldn’t help but laugh; she was like a child being told they were going to Disney World. “Yes, seriously,” I said and pulled my arm to get her to move.
“But this is Axis.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “This is a Serena DeLuca restaurant.”
“You don’t have to whisper,” I whispered. “We’re allowed to go in. That’s where the food is.”
She still held my hand as we approached the hostess, and two women in black jackets, black slacks, and black ties greeted us, and one of them led us to our table.
“You know this restaurant moves,” Kennedy whispered.
“I figured that based on the name.”
“It’s one of two restaurants in the city that spins a full three hundred and sixty degrees.”
Our table was right next to the window, offering us a perfect view of Midtown, the lights from Times Square bouncing off the skyscraper windows. The table was adorned with a white tablecloth and a glass candle flickering against the soft lighting.
“Quinn, this place is absolutely beautiful,” she said as she took her seat. “You know I’ve had this restaurant on my NYC bucket list for a year now? I never thought I would actually get the chance to come here. This is, like, a two-star Michelin restaurant.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means it’s fancy as fuck. And equally delicious.”
“When did you become so high class?”
“My one year in France,” she joked in an impersonation of a thick French accent. “But seriously, you didn’t have to take me to a two-star Michelin restaurant.”
“I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. We’ve waited a long time for this.”
Apparently, Serena DeLuca specialized in Italian food. I had no idea until I opened the menu and saw a bunch of words I couldn’t read. The only Italian I’d been exposed to was in Olive Garden or the one authentic meal I had in Naples, but I stuck to the ravioli. This restaurant was so eclectic, I didn’t even know where to start. I told Kennedy to pick a bottle of wine, and it took about five minutes to convince her to stop looking at the prices and enjoy a place she’d wanted to go to for a year.
“Quinn, the wine is so much.”