Page 71 of The Viper
The maitre d’ appeared like he'd been summoned by thought. "Everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Dane?"
"More than," I said. "Is there a place nearby we can walk? Somewhere private?"
He considered for a moment, then nodded. "There's a neighborhood not far from here. Very quiet, very discreet. The locals won't bother you." He glanced at Lexi, the meaning clear.
"Perfect," I said. "Can we get the bill?"
He smiled. "It's been taken care of, sir."
I frowned. "By who?"
"Dominion Hall, I believe."
Lexi’s mouth curved, eyes glinting. “Bywhom,” she said, her voice lilting with mock primness.
I arched a brow. “You correcting me now?”
She grinned. “Occupational hazard. I spend half my life memorizing dialogue.”
I glanced at her, trying not to smile. "The perks of being a Dane, huh?"
"Apparently," I said, standing and offering her my hand. "Come on. Before they change their minds and make me wash dishes."
She slipped her hand into mine, still grinning. "You're going to need that wheelbarrow."
"Lexi."
"What? I'm just saying. Man up. Lock it up. Whatever you soldiers say."
I pulled her close, my hand at the small of her back. "You're lucky you're beautiful."
"I know," she said, her smile radiant.
And she was. Radiant. The kind of light that made everything else dim by comparison.
The car ride was short, just a few blocks through Manhattan's maze of streets. The neighborhood the maitre d had recommended appeared like something out of a time capsule—narrow cobblestone lanes, wrought-iron lampposts glowing soft yellow, brownstones with ivy climbing their facades. It looked like it had been plucked from pre-WWII America and dropped in the middle of the city, untouched by the glass towers and neon just blocks away.
Lexi stepped out of the car, her eyes wide. "Oh, my God."
"What?"
"This is perfect." She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in—the quiet street, the old-fashioned storefronts with their hand-painted signs, the flower boxes under windows that glowed with warm light. "It's like we stepped back in time."
I watched her, the way her face lit up, the way her shoulders relaxed. Here, in this pocket of the city, she wasn't Lexi Montgomery, actress. She was just Lexi. And she loved it.
"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "Let's walk."
We walked for blocks, her heels clicking against the cobblestones, her laughter spilling into the quiet night. She pointed out details I wouldn't have noticed—the brass numbers on the doors, the way the streetlights cast soft halos, the faint scent of jasmine drifting from a garden we couldn't see. She was lighter here, freer, and I felt something tighten in my chest watching her.
"My feet are killing me," she said finally, stopping near a bench tucked under a tree.
"Sit," I said.
She collapsed onto the bench with a dramatic sigh, pulling off one heel and rubbing her foot. "Heels are a lie. A beautiful, painful lie."
I sat beside her, close enough that our shoulders touched. The street was quiet, the kind of quiet that only exists in cities when the world decides to take a breath. A few windows glowed above us, but no one was out. No cars. No voices. Just us.
She turned to me, her eyes soft. "Thank you."
