Silk || hs

Prince Naveen of Maldonia

When we arrive at our destination, I am surprised to see that it's not a club at all. I almost think that he has driven to the wrong location. We're still downtown, but the only places that seem to be here are banks, law firms, and fancy restaurants. I don't see how we're going to be able to dance here. Despite my confusion, I follow him without question into one of the fancy restaurants and assume that maybe he wants dinner first? This theory is quickly proven wrong as we walk to the back of the restaurant and go through a door near the kitchen. Behind the door is a dark staircase that leads into the basement of the restaurant. Okay, I don't think so. That's where people go to get murdered.

Harry notices my hesitation and holds out his hand to me, an enchantingly soft smile on his lips, "Don't worry. It's one of those speakeasy-type places. Listen, you can hear the Dean Martin impersonator."

Dean Martin? I guess I do kind of hear something down there. Biting the inside of my cheek, I take his hand and he grins contentedly. He holds my hand so gently in his own that I can't help but feel the butterflies in my stomach. I've seen a different side to this boy tonight. Before, I don't think I would've called him sweet, but now, he's tiptoeing his way there. I mean, what college guy thinks to take a girl to a speakeasy? Most guys think that taking a girl to Chipotle or some kind of bar will sweep her off her feet, so this unique destination is undoubtedly giving Harry some creativity points.

When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Harry knocks on the door, his other hand still lightly grasping mine. I expect him to let go of it, but he doesn't. I am shook. The door opens and I am hit with a wall of sound that I did not expect. Harry shows the security guard a small card and we are ushered into probably one of the coolest, swankiest places I have ever seen. The lights are dim and there is a throng of well-dressed people of all ages, some of them dancing on the floor and some chattering away at high-top tables. Red velvet curtains line the stage on which a sharply dressed man is belting out the words of a Dean Martin song. The brick walls are covered in black and white photographs from throughout the decades and there is a very 50s-looking bar against the back wall. This place really is straight from a movie.

Several moments pass before I realize that my mouth is hanging open in shock at the scene before me. I close my mouth, embarrassed at my reaction, and Harry laughs beside me.

"Do you like it?" he leans in to ask me.

Finding myself at a loss for words, all I can manage is a question: "What is this place?"

"It's called Vault 89, but it's a speakeasy that my step-dad owns. He owns the restaurant upstairs, too," Harry tells me and I can't help but pat myself on the back for my initial musing that Harry owned a bar. Granted, we're not at the same bar where we met and Harry doesn't own it himself, but I'm close enough for my guess to count. My inner thoughts are interrupted by Harry as he releases my hand and slips it to rest on the small of my back, the feeling of which sends literal shivers up my spine, "Let's get a drink, yeah?"

I nod and he guides me towards the bar, the heat and pressure from his hand remaining steady against my back. I can't explain why, but when he keeps his arm around me like this, I can't help but feel a little special. With some guys, such a gesture might feel like a trap or like there's some pressure to do something with him, but the way Harry does it doesn't seem like that at all. It feels comfortable, like it's supposed to be this way. When we reach the bar, he lets his hand fall down to his side, and I find myself missing his touch. Camryn, you need to chill.

"Do you like wine?" he asks me, his face relaxed yet hopeful. I've never been a huge wine fan, but I'm sure if I had the right wine, I would like it. That's terrible logic, but given the look on his face, I don't want to disappoint him. So, I nod and tell him I do. Harry tells me that he'll be right back before walking through the door behind the bar. He returns shortly, a glass bottle in hand. Slipping behind the bar, he opens the bottle then grabs two long-stemmed wine glasses before returning to my side.