"Something connected to our childhood?" I repeated. "What does that mean?"
"You'll see."
"That's not helpful."
"I'm aware."
I narrowed my eyes. "Augustus."
"Juliette."
"Tell me where we're going."
"No."
He was enjoying this. The amusement in his eyes gave him away.
"I'm wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater," I pointed out. "If this requires a cocktail dress, I'll murder you."
"You're dressed perfectly."
"For what?"
"You'll see in twelve minutes."
"Suspicious."
"Good."
He opened the passenger door of his Aston Martin. I climbed in, considering the possibilities.
Augustus drove away from Shorebridge's glass towers and fashionable restaurants. The streets narrowed, giving way to older storefronts and familiar brick buildings.
Then I recognized the neighborhood.
"Augustus."
"Almost there."
Our families visited here when business dinners included bored children and promised desserts.
