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“All right. I’ll be right down.”
I slip out of my apartment and quickly head down the stairs. I open my apartment building’s outer door to find a well-dressed man standing on the steps with a box in his arms. He sets it down when he sees me, giving me a polite smile.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right Sophie Anderson?” I ask. “I don’t think I ordered this, whatever it is.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t. The order was put in by Mr. Wright. He asked us to deliver it to you.”
My gaze flicks down to the box. “What is it?”
“Glenlivet Eighty Year Old.”
I choke out a breath, my jaw dropping. “Holy shit. He bought me a bottle of the Glenlivet?”
“No, ma’am.” The man’s lips twitch a little, as if he’s suppressing a smile. “He bought you six bottles.”
I barely know what to say to that, so I quickly sign for the delivery before the man carries the box upstairs to my apartment, holding it carefully as if it’s precious cargo. Which I guess it is, considering it’s over six hundred thousand dollars’ worth of whiskey.
As soon as the delivery man leaves, I snatch my phone up and type out a quick message to Declan.
ME: You bought me SIX bottles of Glenlivet? Are you crazy?
DECLAN: About you? Yes. In general? Undecided.
ME: Declan, that’s way too much. I can’t drink whiskey that expensive.
DECLAN: You can and have.
ME: Yeah, but this isn’t the same. Tasting your bottle isn’t the same as owning six of my own.
DECLAN: Yes it is. But if you don’t want to drink it, you don’t have to. It’s yours. You could use it to water your fucking plants or pour it down the drain if you want.
ME: You know I’m not gonna do that. But… will you help me drink it? The same way you did before?
There’s a slight pause before his answer comes through.
DECLAN: Spitfire, you never even have to ask.
A little shiver runs through me, memories of that night filling my mind. As overwhelming as it is to think about indulging in a whiskey this expensive, it means a lot that Declan went to the trouble to track down six bottles and buy them for me. And the idea of recreating that night, letting him drink whiskey off my body while I get myself off, has my thighs clenching.
ME: Good. Now stop sending me expensive shit. I’ve gotta finish getting ready for our date.
He texts back an eye roll emoji, and I grin, tossing my phone down on the bed before digging through my closet for something to wear.
About half an hour later, Declan arrives in a black SUV. As I step out of my apartment building, he slides out of the back seat to greet me, which means we must have a driver tonight. I didn’t expect that.
“Hey, Spitfire.” He presses a kiss to my lips, his hand going to my lower back. “You look gorgeous.”
“You’re lucky I’m still sober,” I tease, kissing him back. “Someone decided to send me an ungodly amount of whiskey while I was getting ready.”
He chuckles, nipping at my lip before fixing my smudged lipstick with his thumb. He leads me to his car, and I’m about to climb into the back seat when I stop, cursing under my breath as a sudden realization strikes me. My phone is still upstairs. I forgot to grab it on my way out the door.
“I’ll be right back,” I say apologetically, turning back toward my building. “Just forgot something. Two minutes, tops.”
But as I head back upstairs to my apartment, I realize that Declan is following me. I feel a twinge of embarrassment. Now that I’ve seen his place, with its modernist fixtures and gleaming granite kitchen, I’m worried that he’ll think I live in some kind of hovel.
“You don’t have to come up,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“I’m curious,” he responds. “I have to see your place at some point, right?”
