Page 113 of A Million To Fall

But I am.

And that’s exactly what’s going to get me hurt.

thirty-five

Skye

New York has a way of swallowing you whole. The honking cabs, the swirl of languages, the smell of street food and exhaust—it’s constant and so alive.

We flew in this morning, and already I feel like I’ve lived a week. We made a pit stop at our hotel only long enough to freshen up before Archer let me drag him through the Museum of Modern Art, playing the reluctant tourist while I soaked in every exhibit. To his credit, he didn’t complain… much. Afterward, he tugged me into a small boutique and insisted on buying me a dress that, truly, had no right costing what it did.

It’s Archer’s way of trying to smooth over the tension that’s simmered between us since Wednesday night and yesterday’s disaster at AJ’s, when Maya accidentally let it slip that I’d spilled soda all over Boston the weekend before. Archer drove me home screaming the entire way while I sobbed and rubbed my wrist—the one he grabbed so hard it bruised.

Archer isn’t one to apologize with words. His way of fixing a problem is by throwing money at it. And I don’t push it. Any further discussion of the subject would only result in another fight.

Now, as we weave through the crowds, Archer’s hand is firm at the small of my back, guiding me toward our next destination: a brick-front Irish pub Wilder swears has the best shepherd’s pie and the strongest drinks in the city. The gold Gaelic lettering above the dark double doors glows in the late afternoon sun, announcing the restaurant’s name: Murphy’s. There’s a five-leaf clover mounted next to it. My brain catches on it—the five leaves instead of four. Weird.

The second we step inside, we’re met with the smell of rich food and stout and the low hum of conversation over live music coming from the small stage at the back.

We’re early because Archer doesn’t like to arrive anything less than first. And first we are, by something like thirty minutes. Then again, judging by how busy this place is, maybe being early is not such a bad thing.

“Alright, well, I guess I can see why my brother likes this spot,” Archer says, looking around the spacious but cozy interior. With its hardwood floors and dark brick-and-wood interior, the place feels older than the city itself.

“Let’s wait at the bar,” Archer decides, steering me toward the centerpiece of the restaurant—a long L-shaped counter with dark-green, leather-upholstered stools in front of it and an elegant mirrored shelf lined top to bottom with liquor.

Despite the bustle, Archer and I snag a couple of empty seats. He holds mine out for me, letting me climb up before sliding into the stool beside me.

Onstage, a young woman has just finished singing, her guitar propped against the mic stand. Applause follows her as she hops down, her laughter weaving into the hum of the room.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, his voice low and warm. My gaze flicks to him. He’s all sharp lines and strong angles, a slight stubble on his cheeks and chin that matches his dark hair. For a split second, he reminds me of Boston—masculine features, tall, broad frame, and dark hair—if it wasn’t for the fact that Boston’s eyes are gray instead of brown.

“Water, no ice. With lemon, please,” I say.

The bartender nods with a small smile. “And for you, man?”

Archer leans forward, forearms braced on the counter. “Old-fashioned,” he says smoothly.

“You got it. Can I see your ID?”

Uh-oh.

“Yeah, for sure,” Archer mutters and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. He retrieves a small plastic card and slides it across the counter.

Before the bartender can check Archer’s ID, the girl from the stage bounds toward the bar, sliding into the space between Archer and another patron.

“Hey, Jack,” she greets the bartender, bright and easy. He gives her a tender smile that I’d be willing to bet he doesn’t offer many people.

“Hey, Trouble. Need water?” Jack asks, reaching for a glass.

“Trouble?” Archer echoes, smirking as he turns toward her.

The girl cocks a bemused eyebrow, one hand resting on her hip. “Only to him,” she says with a quick nod at the bartender. “To everyone else, I’m Randi.” She sticks her hand out.

Archer takes it. “Randi? What kind of name is Randi for a girl?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, embarrassment prickling.

The girl shrugs, unbothered. “A perfectly fine one. What’s yours? John? William? Sir Thomas the Third?”