The wine was a rich merlot, a stark red against the glass that felt almost as deep as the secrets we were spilling. Lila was perched on the plush, overstuffed couch in my living room. Her legs were tucked under her as she leaned forward, eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint that matched the playful twirl of her wine glass.
"I still can't believe it happened," I admitted, my voice rising over the soft croon of jazz playing in the background. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a subconscious tell of my flustered state. "Alex in Willowbrook? It's like spotting a lion on the subway."
My townhome was a charming slice of history in the heart of downtown Willowbrook. Its pre-war bones gave it character, from the creaky floorboards that sang underfoot to the crown molding that held echo
