Page 11 of The Final Draft

“I moved here a few weeks ago, the same day Lawson moved to Carolina.” He nods, processing my timeline. “I hated the suddenness of it, but honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better scenario.” My smile brightens as his fades.

“That’s, um, good. I’m glad it worked out.” His voice has a tinge of sharpness and his mood seems to dim.

We walk another half block in silence when I stop walking. He takes another step before turning to me, realizing I’ve stopped. Worry sets in.

“Was it something I said?” I hope I didn't tick him off, but I'm clueless about this sudden mood change.

He looks at me, and he transforms in a split second. His eyes glitter with mischief, and a playful grin slowly stretches his lips.“No, no. Sorry. Had an errant thought. I’ll turn off everything in my head and focus on welcoming you to New York.”

We walk two more blocks, and he stops near a plain glass frosted door that has a worn, cardboard sign that saysBack in 15 minutes. Not much help if you don’t know the start time I mumble under my breath. Yellowed newspaper clippings from a decade ago, with faded ink, cover the windows. Someone painted “Mitchie’s” in a loopy script, but chipped the M as if they tried to scrape it off and gave up. Pink bubble gum fills a crack in the glass.

“Um, this place looks like it’s closed. Like years ago, closed.” I scrunch my face at this rundown storefront, thoughts of murder and darkness running rampant through my mind.

Julian gives me a full-bodied laugh. He puts his arm around my shoulders and leans down to whisper in my ear. “That’s what they want you to believe. Remember, not everything is as it appears. Come on.” He steps toward the door, and I stay put.

“I swear, if there’s plastic on the floor and you Dexter me,” I mumble.

“Noted.” He’s holding back his chuckle. “I promised you lunch and champagne, and Mitchie’s won’t disappoint.” His eyes drink me in. “Do you trust me?”

“I did until ten seconds ago. I mean, I might be a little overdressed.” As we stand on the sidewalk discussing murder scenarios, a celebrity actress and her husband approach us.

“Jules, so good to see you,” she says casually. He leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek. Obviously, she’s more than an acquaintance. This reminds me of Julian’s elite social circle, and the jarring contrast makes my presence here feel even more surreal.

“Lettie, good to see you. Colin.” He acknowledges her husband with a nod. They’re holding hands, so casual, no paparazzi around. Are they hiding in plain sight?

Her eyes meet mine, and the warmth of her smile chases away any lingering nervousness. “You eating lunch at M’s?”

“M’s?” I’m truly confused. And star-struck. She’s stunning in jeans and a fisherman’s sweater, her blonde hair in a messy bun. This is a far cry from the glamorous world depicted in magazines.

“I’m trying to convince Harper I won’t murder her.” Julian winks, and my face turns crimson.

She wraps her arm around mine. “Harper, I can promise he won’t murder you. If he so much as hurts your feelings, you let me know, and I’ll avenge you.” With a determined nod, she pulls me towards her husband, who tugs the door open. She leans in close to say, “I swear, he’s one of the good guys.” She lightly squeezes my arm and lets me go once we cross the threshold.

“Enjoy your lunch,” Colin says to me. He puts his hand to the small of her back, and they walk over to a table with Iron Man and his wife, who are waiting for them. They greet one another, and I stand there watching in shock. Avengers assemble, indeed.

Julian leans over, puts his chin on my shoulder, and his breath tickles my cheek. “I take it you’re a Marvel girl?”

I’m on sensory overload and I’m slow to process it all. His voice pulls me out of my daze, and I look around the brightly decorated restaurant. It’s cheery and modern, a stark contrast from the outside. I do my best to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. Is this real life? I’m dumbfounded, but in a good way. I need to keep my head on straight. Approach with caution. Act like I’m used to this. Despite my lack of acting talent, that’s my plan.

The hostess at the podium smiles at Julian. “Mr. Decker, your table is ready. Right this way.”

He takes my hand, and we walk through the small restaurant filled with people I’ve only seen in movies and magazines, all enjoying their relaxing lunch. A long, black marble bar adornsone wall. Behind it, expensive bottles of alcohol fill the glass shelves, glistening in the light. It’s understated and simple. The white tile walls bring a brightness to the room, as well as the pops of color in the modern art hung throughout.

I manage to put one foot in front of the other until we are at the back of the room. The wall is a glass garage door that, when up, opens to a brick courtyard filled with flowers and trees. It’s stunning. And surprising. Who would’ve suspected that this place existed beyond the shabby, covered windows? The heaters take away the slight chill from the air, and the inside and outdoors effortlessly blend.

“Is this okay?” the hostess asks.

“Of course.” It’s more than okay.

Julian holds my chair, and I stare at him as he takes his place across from me. The hostess hands me a simple menu printed on bright white cardstock, and there are ten items listed and no prices.

“We’ll have a bottle of Ace, please.” Julian looks across at me. I snap my jaw closed because I’m sure my mouth is hanging open. A bottle of Ace of Spades? Jay Z’s champagne? That bottle costs several hundred-dollars, maybe more. I’m not a big drinker and was kidding about only drinking champagne. I’m good with a ten-dollar bottle of wine from the grocery store for special occasions. What kind of alternate reality did I enter?

“Oh no, that’s okay. I was kidding about the champagne, really.”

Concern fills his face. “Do you like champagne? Or would your rather have something else?”

“It’s just, I don’t.” He has me flustered. It’s too expensive. Too much. Too everything.

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