Open @cypresscove-starters Where: Rowan Dining, Cocktail Night
The warm evening breeze carried the distant sound of laughter and clinking glasses from inside the restaurant, where cocktail night was in full swing. Twinkle lights draped across the back patio twinkled like tiny stars, and the scent of fresh basil and grilled lemon lingered in the air. But Fallon wasn’t on the patio. No, she was tucked away behind the thick hedges that surrounded the restaurant’s side garden, hidden like a teenager sneaking out past curfew. One hand held a delicate coupe glass with the last few sips of her amaretto sour; sweet and just boozy enough to make her feel delightfully rebellious. In the other, she balanced a slim cigarette between two fingers. She took a slow drag, tilting her head back against the cool stucco wall with a quiet, guilty little giggle that bubbled up before she could stop it.
Cocktail night always brought in the liveliest crowd—regulars mixing with tourists, everyone loosened up by limoncello spritzes and her father’s famous arancini. Fallon was supposed to be inside playing the perfect hostess, flashing her brightest smile and making sure no one’s glass stayed empty for long. Instead, she was out here, stealing five minutes of peace like it was contraband.
A twig snapped nearby—the sound of someone moving through the piles of oyster shells and old pallets. Fallon froze, cigarette hovering near her lips. Her eyes widened, the bubbly mask slipping just enough to show a flicker of real panic. “If that’s my father, I’m just holding this for a ghost,” she called into the dark, her voice wavering between a squeak and a laugh. “And if you’re a health inspector, I’ve never seen this stick of nicotine in my life. We’re all very confused here.” She squinted into the shadows, holding her breath, ready to either charm her way out of trouble or bribe whoever it was with something strong.