The wine bar smelled like expensive oak, spilled merlot, and the faint, sterile hum of the air conditioning unit working overtime near the vaulted ceiling.
Galathea Brooks stared at the condensation sliding down her water glass, tracing the droplet's path with her index finger. The ice shifted with a soft clink.
"If you zone out one more time, I'm ordering the squid ink pasta and telling the waiter to bill it directly to Artemis," Jadelyn Roscoe said, her voice cutting through the ambient hum.
Galathea blinked, her gaze snapping up from the glass. "You hate squid ink."
"I do," Jadelyn agreed smoothly, taking a slow sip of her Pinot Noir. "But it stains your teeth black like a Victorian consumption victim, and I feel like you'd appreciate the aesthetic tonight. You look like you're mentally drafting a will. Or plotting a corporate assassination. Honestly, it's a toss-up with you."
