[ A N D R E A ]

I pause. Yes, but I don't want him to get the wrong idea. "Yes, but only because I'm starving, and I don't know this area. Lead the way. And if I feel like you're going to kidnap me or something, I'm running." I raise my hands and Dante grins, setting off. He initially moves too fast, but slows down to keep my pace. Short legs and all.

"I promise I have no intention of kidnapping you. Do I give off that...I dunno, vibe?" He raises a brow.

"If you're careful, every person gives off that vibe. Just a little."

"You mean, if you're slightly paranoid."

I start to retort something snappy back, but he's joking; it's clear from his grin, the playful crinkle of his eyes. I just huff.

"No. You don't look like you'd kill me, and you haven't given me any warning signs yet."

"Good. Your glare is deadly, so I think I should be scared of you."

I purposefully deepen my scowl, just to get back at him. He walks a little faster. I dig my hands into the pockets of my jacket and keep up.

"Right, because a chubby, clearly exhausted, barely-five-foot woman in a dress and boots is terrifying."

"Who knows who you can become, though."

He says that nonchalantly. I look around—the street's empty. An older couple is on the opposite sidewalk, walking their dog; we're definitely not in earshot.

"You want to say that any louder?" I growl.

"I'd love to, actually." Dante laughs, then cups his hands around his mouth, and starts to yell, "Who knows—"

I go cold, then hot, with panic, and my arm shudders, skin slipping, rippling, fur—

Dante turns toward me and frowns, cutting himself off. "I was joking. I wasn't going to say—are you already shifting? Again?"

"Yes!" I stop walking and bite my tongue. The blood tastes bitter and metallic, but everything reverts back. Dante rakes back his hair, exhaling, breath becoming mist. He waits for an answer. An explanation. Something.

But I don't give it to him. 

I just walk ahead, ducking my head a little. The wind softly howls through the street. Distant sirens, speeding cars. Rustling trees—Central Park must be close.

"How far is this place?" I ask, filling the silence.

"Next block; turn left."

I nod, cross the street. There's a few boutiques, restaurants; all clean, updated. New signage, faintly glowing. A few people are walking around. Must be a popular street.

This definitely isn't my part of the city...

"Sun Deco—there it is."

The text is thin, angular; lit brightly. There are no windows in the building, at least from what I see—just double doors made of engraved metal. They shine in the low, pale city light, showing Apollo on a chariot, pulling the sun over an angular, stylized New York City. It's impressive, intricate—even the buildings have markings for windows. I run my fingers along the pattern, which is cold and calming.

"After you." Dante says, opening the other door. A gust of warm, delicious air rushes out, smelling faintly like cherries and warming spices and roast duck. I walk in, brows raised.

The ceilings are high. The space is made of wood, but bathed in golden light. A fireplace crackles at the entrance; two velvet, oversized chairs are on either side. A coat rack, menu on the wall, host at the stand. Golden bars, art deco design; fancy, rippled marble. Everything is symmetrical and angular, yet stripped-back and aerodynamic.

"Welcome to Sun Deco—would you both like a table?" the host says with a grin. Even her outfit is fashioned like something out of the '20s; a flat, long dress and a headband.

"Yes, please. In the back." Dante says, and the host nods, picks up menus, and walks. I follow them, weaving through tables, a handful of patrons; people giggling, leaning into each other, sharing food, drinks. The back of the restaurant is even dimmer; we're seated at a booth, and I cautiously sit, looking around for exits.

"This place reminds me of how I used to imagine the city as. All angular and stylish." Dante says, looking at the menu. "The chef has another restaurant, called Moon Deco; it's for dressy dinners, multiple courses, all that. This is more casual."

"Casual, huh..." I echo, looking up. The ceiling is more of that gold metal, yet it's covered in lights that dim and brighten. Another carving of Apollo and the sun. It distracts me for a moment; I look back at him. "My version of casual is a corner bodega sandwich or tacos. Not, uh—"

"Welcome back, Mr. Ferro. Miss." A waiter says. I didn't even notice him. "Would you like to start with the usual for drinks?"

"That sounds great, thank you." Dante nods, leans back.

Ferro? That name sounds familiar, but I can't remember from what...

"Are you an...investor here or something? Or just a usual customer?"

"I'm an entrepreneur. I work with tech startups in the city to help with efficiency models; automating things that would take up valuable time. Straightforward stuff, y'know?"

"I don't know, actually." I say. "Sounds interesting, though. And useful." I survey him. He's staring at me lazily, with those low-lidded eyes, look of amusement. I shift in my seat, thinking of the entrepreneurial archetype. Rich guy in a men's club where they throw away money on ideas that more often fail than work. That's what comes to mind.

So he's probably a smooth talker. He's a business guy, able to persuade, convince. He's probably not too moral, right? Thinking of efficiency and money, but helping workers save time is useful for them, too; still—

"Speaking of vibes, you give off an entrepreneurial...air."

"Oh? How so?" He leans forward, propping his chin on a hand. I lean back in my seat.

"It's all in the confidence. The way you carry yourself. Chin held high, eyes crinkled, shoulders back. I dunno. You just look like you have something you're ready to sell me, almost."

Dante laughs. "That's cute."

My eye twitches slightly. Yeah, makes sense that he's an entrepreneur. He's an asshole who's just charming enough to win women over. He knows what to say, to do...

"My turn to guess your 'air.'" He air-quotes, then inhales slowly, lips pinching, eyes narrowing. "You hate people too much to do anything service-related. Cold, as your friend says. You're sharp, but you're used to bodegas, so you're not rich—or don't come from wealth. I can hear a faint Spanish accent..."

"Any day now..." I mutter.

"And you're impatient. So probably not good with kids, or idiots. I'll guess...the arts?"

"As?"

"A...singer. Or a musician of some sort."

I chuckle. "Nice try, but no."

The waiter comes with two glasses of water and a bottle of wine. "Our finest Frappato wine, lightly aged. Smooth, fruity, with hints of cherry and strawberry. Would you like a taste, sir?" He holds out the bottle to Dante, who only grins.

"No need—I know it'll be good. Thanks, Marcel."

"Of course."

I give Dante an annoyed look. All I wanted was water; no drinks—even if they're not hard liquor. I can't afford this. He only smiles, but there's a tease in his eyes.

"Are you ready to order?"

"I think we are." He says, which sends a flutter of small panic through me. I didn't even look at the damn menu! I glance down, trying to find something familiar, but this is upscale bar food, with micro-greens and EVOO and ingredients I wish I could cook with, but can't, and—