Page 33 of If It Can't Be Us

“About your past relationship, or whatever it is that you won’t talk about?”

I nod.

“And he had the audacity to ask you about it?”

“Ha. Yeah,” I scoff. “And then I basically told him to fuck off and left him standing alone.” I laugh softly to myself, still shocked by my own actions.

“Well, that’s un-fucking-believable. Are you alright?”

I search his face, scanning his eyes for any hint of insincerity or pity, but all I see is genuine concern and respect. Keeping eye contact, my voice is barely audible. “I’m good,” it comes out as a whisper. “Thanks, Leo.” He doesn’t break eye contact, and I feel… seen. Why is it so easy with him?

“Hey,” he whispers, swiping a piece of wind-blown hair out of my face. “That was fucked up of him. And good for you, for standing your ground. You should be proud of yourself. Yeah?”

The corners of my mouth tug upward into a small smile. “You’re right… I should be.” It’s all I can think to say, my thoughts scattering under the intensity of his gaze.

Despite this growing connection, Leo still shuts me out when it comes to any questions regarding his family. I feel like we have a mutual understanding. We both have something we aren’t necessarily hiding, but aren’t completely truthful about either. And I think we just know that when the time is right, and we feel ready, we will share it with each other.

* * * * ** * * **

Saturday, October 21

The Following Weekend

I told Leo I’d meet him at The Red Door for Michael’s birthday get-together. He had a business dinner and was going to have to go straight from there to the speakeasy. I intentionally arrive twenty minutes late to avoid the chance of being there before him.

I’m standing outside the door, gathering all of my confidence as if it’s something tangible, something I can hold in my hands. I’m incredibly nervous and uncertain as to why. I’m good with people… but these are Leo’s people, and I want to make a good impression. I survey my outfit one last time in the reflection of the door. I have on a black sweater tucked into a warm taupe wool mini skirt, paired with black suede knee-high boots, showing off my legs. My hair is softly waved and parted down the middle.

I take a deep inhale, exhaling slowly as I enter the code that Leo gave me. Apparently, this place changes the entrance code daily, ensuring only those with a reservation can enter. The lock clicks, and I open the door, greeted by a hostess in a black flapper dress with a jeweled bandeau on her head. She is young and stunningly beautiful.

“Hi, what’s the name on the reservation?”

“It’s under Leo Weston,” I say.

“Your party is this way,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her. It’s a decent-sized room for a speakeasy. Longer than it is wide, I take in the ambiance. It’s early 1920s, the bartenders all dressed accordingly; the men in long-sleeve button-up shirts, buttoned vests, and newsboy hats or fedoras—many of them with mustaches that fit the time period—and the women in flapper dresses and bandeaus. It has a veryPeaky Blindersfeel. As she leads me to the back of the room, I spot Leo and give him a wave.

“Walker!” he shouts as he stands to meet me. “You made it!” Giving me a quick kiss on the cheek, he turns to his friends for introductions. “Everyone, this is my neighbor and friend, Vivian. Vivian, this is Michael, his wife Stella, Meredith, and Adam.” I shake everyone’s hands as he announces their names.

Our little corner is furnished with different styles of leather-back chairs, a leather sofa, and two round coffee tables. Meredith, who looks like a runway model, is sitting on the sofa, next to where Leo was, and the other three are in chairs. Meredith is the kind of stunning that makes you question your own confidence. If I didn’t know she was happily married to her wife, I’d probably feel a pang of insecurity at the mere thought of any chance with Leo. She is that beautiful. Leo gestures for Meredith to scoot down to make space for me on the sofa.

“Let’s get you a drink before you sit, love,” Leo says, taking my arm and guiding me to the bar. “We have a waitress, but I don’t bloody know where she is.”

We inch our way to the bar, and Leo flags down one of the bartenders.

“Hey man, what can I get you?”

“Hey mate,” Leo says to the bartender, then turns to me. “What are you drinking tonight?” He studies me so intently that I feel he’s trying to memorize my face.

“I’ll have a Manhattan.”

“She’ll have a Manhattan,” he tells the bartender without taking his eyes off me. I look away, admiring the bartenders and their 1920s attire, but I can feel his eyes boring into me, making my palms sweaty.

“This place is really cool,” I tell him, turning back to face him. “Do you own this place too?” I tease.

He laughs. “No, not yet anyway. I’m working on it.” He winks at me, and I realize his accent is heavier tonight. I’ve noticed this a few times now. When he drinks, it’s like all of his London upbringing comes out.

“Let’s go get you acquainted with the gang.” He starts to leave the bar but pauses, turning back to me with a mischievous smile. “By the way, Walker, you look fucking sexy tonight.”

I feel a flush of warmth as he turns back around and heads towards our table. I follow, drink in hand and my confidence bolstered by his comment.Goddamn him!

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