“I won!” Bryn laughs and claps in excitement.
“Beginner’s luck,” I tease, grinning down at her. Even with her heels on, I tower over her.
“Not luck. Just reading the signs,” she says with a cheeky smile.
I chuckle. “What signs?”
“We’re in Nightfall, a hotel with a very clear theme and color palette made almost entirely out of black and blues so dark, they’re practically black. You, the owner of said establishment who is standing next to me, has black hair, a black suit, and a black leather cuff, if you’re still wearing it.” I raise my arm and pull my sleeve up enough to show her she’s right, amused she noticed such a detail earlier and remembered it. “She couldn’t have made her signs any more obvious. All I had to do was follow them.”
“She?”
“The universe. The path she’s leading me down right now has a definite dark horse theme. Maybe that’s what you are, my dark horse. And betting on you just paid off.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Not the soft huffs or muted chuckles as are my habit. It’s a full-out laugh coming from deep in my belly. “Does that mean we have a long night of gambling ahead of us?”
Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “Definitely not. I planned on playing with a set amount of money and no more, win or lose. I did that, so now I’m done. It was nice chatting with you, Mr. Verran.”
“Call me Caiden.”
“All right. It was nice chatting with you, Caiden,” she says with a smile. Then she collects her winnings from the dealer, scoops the chips into her purse, and walks away from the table, essentially dismissing me.
I follow as though tethered to her by an invisible thread, compelled to go where she goes, and I don’t even question it.
When she leaves the casino and crosses into the atrium near Darkness, Nightfall’s dance club, my curiosity gets the better of me. “Why didn’t you place smaller bets? Why chance losing it all in one shot like that?”
Bryn stops and turns around, a brief look of surprise flashing across her face to find me still with her. Recovering, she considers her answer for a moment before speaking. “I don’t really do anything by half measures. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of girl, so it was either not play or lean into the risk. And what’s life without taking a few risks now and again, am I right?”
“Some might say it’s not worth the potential fallout.” I step in closer, leaving only a handful of aching inches from my chest to hers. “That it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Hazel eyes framed by thick lashes bounce between my gold ones. The air around us feels charged with electricity, like if I reach out and touch her, we’ll blow every fucking breaker in this place. Finally, she answers, her voice soft and breathy. “I’d rather be sorry for taking a thousand risks than be safe for never taking any.”
I can’t decide if that’s truly the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard or I’m just drunk on this woman’s refreshing authenticity and think everything she says is a revelation. Either way, I can’t bring myself to care. I want to hear more. I want to know who she is and what she likes. What her dreams and aspirations are.
Or not. We could sit and talk about the weather, and I’d be fine with that, too. As long as I can spend time with her, I’ll be happy.
Happy. Not usually an adjective I use to describe myself. Serious, hardworking, loyal, content, even surly or grouchy if you ask those closest to me. But happy? No.
It sounds foreign even in my own thoughts. But why should I question it? If I’m feeling happy, then that’s what I am.
Although, something deep in the back of my mind is telling me maybe I should question it. Except if I do that, then I’m choosing the safe route, and I like Bryn’s philosophy for taking risks. That maybe pursuing whatever this is could be worth that risk.
Even if it means I’m sorry for it later.
“Do you like dancing?”
…
“Uh-oh, you’re empty. That won’t do.” Bryn gestures to the bartender, holding up my glass. When he stops in front of us, she offers him an apologetic grin. “Hi, Brandon. Sorry, can we get him another one, please?”
The first thing Bryn did when we took our seats at the bar was ask Brandon his name. Every interaction with him since, she’s made it a point to address him with it. That, combined with her habit of apologizing every time she asks the man to do his job, tells me she isn’t comfortable treating people as though they’re beneath her.
I bet if she didn’t think it would cause a scene, she’d prefer to go behind the bar and get her own drink in favor of bothering Brandon. And she’d probably still leave him a tip.
“Of course, I’d be happy to,” he says with a megawatt smile, stopping just short of adding a wink.
A handsome kid in his mid-twenties, Brandon obviously knows how to turn up the charm to eleven, as all good bartenders do. But sensing I’d have a problem otherwise, he’s keeping it at a max of nine with Bryn, sparing him from my infamous deadly glower and getting demoted to barback.
Smart kid.
He continues talking as he grabs the bottle of Redbreast from the back wall and pours three fingers of the single-malt Irish whiskey. “How about you, Ms. Meara? Can I get you another dirty martini with extra olives?”
She waves him off. “Oh, no thank you, I’m still nursing this one.”
He places the rocks glass atop a fresh black cocktail napkin with the Nightfall logo in silver. “Here you are, Mr. Verran.”
Before I even get a chance, Bryn is saying, “Thanks, Brandon, you’re the best.”
Then I watch in amusement as she repeats a routine I’ve seen her do twice before this. Earlier when we sat down, she cashed in two twenties for singles, then arranged them in a neat stack in front of her. Every time Brandon serves us, she takes a few dollars from her stash and slides them across the bar to the inside rail.
Just as she’s doing now.
The kid cuts a questioning glance in my direction, and I give him a discreet nod. There’s no reason for her to be tipping him, because the drinks are going on my tab, but I have a feeling not doing so would break some Wisconsinite law, so I’m not fighting her on it.
Brandon relaxes and accepts the money graciously, then says he’ll be back to check on us soon.
She’s so adorably Midwestern in everything she says and does. I’ve spent no more than thirty minutes with Bryn Meara, and I’ve cataloged a dozen things that set her apart from anyone I’ve ever met.
When she suggested we get a drink before heading to the dance floor, she tacked on “my treat” at the end. I didn’t know whether to laugh or check her for signs of fever. I’m a known billionaire in the human world and ruler of an empire in mine; I’ve never had a female, human or fae, offer to pick up the tab.