Page 15 of Embracing the Beat
MICHAELA
The stairs are steep in the old building, and by the time we reach the bottom of the two flights, I’m gripping his hand and one arm for dear life.
“Ta-da,” he says, pulling me next to him. His breath tickles my ear, and goosebumps lift along my neck and shoulder.
The dim lighting of the long, narrow room glows from the top of the exposed brick walls. Dark wooden tables and chairs are scattered with large leather sofas, while the well-lit bar is the sparkling focal point.
The whole scene lends an illicit atmosphere to where we are, what we’re doing, and excitement thrums through my blood. Low music plays through hidden speakers, and even though the bar is quiet, West stays close, keeping his voice low.
“You want a drink?” His teeth gleam in the shadowy entrance.
I nod, loving the heat of his hand where it rests against the small of my back. “Okay.”
He leads us through the few patrons to two open barstools, holding my hand until I sit down.
“What’ll it be?”
I’m so caught up in West, I didn’t even see the bartender step in front of us.
“Whiskey sour for me,” West says before turning to me.
I frantically scan for a menu, but the pressure of his hand squeezing mine brings my gaze back to his.
“No menus.”
The last part is murmured so only I can hear him.
“What should I order?” I whisper back.
I don’t know what they serve in a speakeasy. Is it different from another bar?
“Trust me?” he asks, and I nod before he turns back to the patient bartender. “Mary Pickford for the lady.”
The bartender taps the bar once and disappears to make our drinks, leaving West and me alone again.
“What’s a Mary Pickford?” I wrinkle my nose. “It sounds like a librarian’s name.”
West throws back his head and laughs, drawing my attention to the strong tendons in his neck.
“God, I missed your sense of humor,” he says. “It’s a rum drink with pineapple juice and grenadine.”
“That sounds really good,” I admit. “Why isn’t it busier in here? It’s Friday night.”
He shrugs. “I heard about this place through a Philadelphia history group on Facebook. I don’t think a lot of people know what it is or how to find it.”
“How sad. Won’t it shut down if people can’t find it?”
“I hope not. I’ve been here twice so far and love it.”
The bartender returns, and West hands me the rose-colored drink while he holds another the shade of amber with a cherry on the top for himself.
“A toast?” he asks, arching his eyebrow as he watches me.
“Sure.” I hold my glass next to his and try to resist the hypnotic draw of his eyes. “What are we toasting to?”
“History?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“No. Not history.” Nothing in my history is worth toasting. “Old friends?”
