I was officially part of the in-crowd. Max and I breezed right through the velvet ropes and burly bouncers outside Chocolat as if we owned the place. The bouncer even smiled at me as we passed. Smiled! Like I was royalty or something. Chocolat seemed like the kind of place Max and I would frequent often, the place for people with plenty of money and access to a perfect gene pool. That didn’t mean it wasn’t going to take some getting used to. Hardwood floors, mahogany tables, brushed nickel hardware, soft lighting, private leather booths and gorgeous customers, Chocolat was by far the coolest bar I’d ever been to. If Chocolat had ever lost electricity, the blinding whites of everyone’s teeth could have illuminated the entire room for at least twelve hours. Then there was the artwork. Clever. Framed photographs of chocolate—dark, white, mocha, even chocolate with walnuts—adorned the dark walls, despite the fact that none of the customers, including the servers, looked like they consumed more than five hundred calories a day.
