Page 52 of Bitter Beats

SEVENTEEN

MCKENNA

The Ivy isone of Boston’s trendiest restaurants, where you go to see and be seen. It also boasts incredible food, a divine atmosphere, and an impressive wine list. You need to make a reservation well in advance if you’re not one ofThe Burnt Clovers’bandmates or a hockey player for the Boston Hawks.

While I’ve been to The Ivy countless times for brunch or dinner, for drinks with friends, tonight feels different.

I’m on edge, unsure of myself. It makes no sense since The Ivy is my element. Still, nerves skate up my spine, and doubt clouds my head.

I’m wearing a black miniskirt from three seasons ago, a tight, cream-colored turtleneck, and boots. I smooth my hands over the front of my skirt and give myself one last glance in the mirror.

Tonight is going to be fun. Allegra will be there. The guys from the band. This is hardly a date; it’s a night out with friends. And Mav and I have been getting along lately.

My heart nearly cracked when he shared Warren Willoughby with me earlier today. I hate to admit it, but the thing that caught me most off guard is Maverick’s depth. Since I met him, I’d written him off as a party guy with no substance.

But his relationship with his pop, his confiding in me, and my oversharing with him about a time in my life I’m not proud of felt too real.Why the hell did I tell him about the stupid lipstick?

Is that why I’m nervous?

I grab a small cross-body purse from my nightstand and steel my shoulders. I used to frequent The Ivy, and restaurants like it. I used to wear the latest fashion trends and effortlessly flit in and out and around different social clusters. I inhabited this world and its wealth naturally.

This isn’t a big deal. The skirt is fine! Not new, but classic.

I take the stairs slowly, not wanting to trip and fall on my face. When I’m halfway down, Mav comes into view. He’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his gray slacks. He’s wearing a designer blazer, a colorful pocket square tucked into the pocket, and loafers. His blond hair, freshly dyed to cover the blue, is styled away from his face, and his blue eyes drink me in slowly, like hot chocolate on the first day of winter.

I grip the banister tighter as I hear his audible inhale.

His cologne greets me, male and masculine, and distinctly Mav.Why the hell does he smell so good?

“You’re wearing loafers,” I babble.

He snickers and waits for me to clear the steps before responding.

“I happen to have good fashion sense,” he retorts.

I give him a look, and his grin widens.

“I’m serious,” he continues, walking to the closet and tugging open the door. He removes my black wool coat, correctly assuming it’s the one I plan to wear. “I may have a personal shopper”—he holds the coat out to me, and I slip it on—“but I know what I like.”

“Well, you look nice,” I admit, tying the sash at my waist.

Mav pauses and catches my eyes. The corner of his mouth quirks. “And you look beautiful.” His tone is filled with sincerity, and his words, his words nearly bowl me over.

Beautiful? Mav thinks I look beautiful? Is he serious? Or is this all practice for our date? For our budding relationship?

Gah! It doesn’t matter!

“After you.” He pulls open the front door and gestures toward the waiting Escalade.

I step outside and clasp the neckline of my coat, bunching the material together to ward off the cold. “It’s freezing.”

“It’s Boston,” Mav replies. He opens the back door to the SUV, and I slide inside.

He slips in beside me, his presence more comforting than I’d like to admit.

We exchange pleasantries with Alfred, who drives us to The Ivy. While Mav and Alfred talk sports—the Hawks’ win against Tennessee, the Badgers’ loss to Phoenix—I stare out the window and try to handle my emotions.

I’m downright scared. The edge of frustration I usually hold in Mav’s company has morphed into uncertainty.Will people buy our fake relationship? Will anyone call us out?

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