Style // 𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙇𝙚𝙘𝙡𝙚𝙧𝙘

23.

Le 300 is the perfect place for a first date. Especially during the evening, when the sun sets sooner and hides the city away in the darkness. Streetlights, headlamps from flashy cars and main lights from countless homes contribute towards lighting up Monaco, creating a view that looks like it's been plucked from a romcom movie. Each table in the restaurant has their own flickering candle, the smell of burning wax and wooden wicks filling up the air. Jazz music plays peacefully in the background, mingling with low chattering and cutlery clinking.

Elliot sits across from me, matching the scenery as if he's been pulled out the same book and plonked in front of me. His hair is tied back into a messy bun, a few stray curls poking out. He's got his glasses on; thin-framed, silver, simple yet classy. He's left his nose ring in, which catches in the light every so often. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing the pearl necklace that sits perfectly along the top of his collarbone, and a small, gold chain to match it. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the ink swirling around his skin catching my eye along with the rest of the jewellery decorating his wrists and hands.

The pair of us hold onto a glass each. I hold my cocktail with one hand, tapping my nails against the glass. Elliot's rum and coke remains on the table, his glasses reflecting the lights surrounding him like fireflies. Our date has been enjoyable, but strange. My mind keeps flashing back to the night we first met, where we had so much fun together. We were full of life and thrills, and now we're sat calm and composed in a fancy restaurant. We're cornered by middle aged couples, drowning in expensive clothes and their accents dripping with money. Would we rather quietly sit here for the rest of the night, or take this somewhere else?

"Where did you go after the night at Jimmy'z?" Elliot asks, frowning at me. "I was meant to ask a while ago, but I forgot."

How am I supposed to tell him that Charles took me home? And I stayed at his house, and I woke up with my dress barely on properly?

"I can't remember." I lie, bringing my glass to my lips. "I remember someone taking me to a car when you went to the bathroom, that was it."

"You can't remember who it was?" Elliot asks, hiding a grin.

Yeah. "No!"

"I didn't think we were that drunk." He continues, watching as I finish my drink.

"We drank quite a bit." I correct him, putting my glass down on the side of the table. "I don't normally climb on people's shoulders when I'm sober."

Elliot smirks, looking down at his drink as he remembers that part of the night. His hand drifts off the glass, his warmth leaving gaps on the cool, misted glass.

"Come on, let's get out of here." Elliot whispers, reaching behind him for his jacket.

Elliot stands up with a composed manner, but the grin on his face says it all. The way his eyes beam with mischief, the way his body language gives away the ultimate need to escape this place. His eyes don't leave mine as he gets ready, waiting for me to agree and jump up to his side. Elliot read my mind, we both find this place far too fancy, but the sensible side of me doesn't want to start tomorrow morning with a hangover.

"Where are we going?" I ask, slipping my arms back into my coat, brushing myself down.

"Anywhere where I can speak properly and won't get glared at for being too loud." Elliot hums.

"I can't drink anymore, I don't want to have a hangover." I tell him, following him as we weave around tables.

"You'll walk it off." Elliot dismisses, waving goodbye to the waiters. "Oh- shit-"

The waiters give Elliot a blank expression, expressing their disgust in his lack of gentlemanly manners. But, it washes off their faces as soon as he holds my hand, guiding me behind him and then holding the door open for me. It's strange to hold his hand, even if it's all just an act for the waiters and waitresses standing like soldiers as we pass by.