Just dark jeans that fit her like they were tailored, a cream silk blouse tucked in at the waist, the sleeves rolled up once, exposing clean lines of forearm, and a slim gold watch that probably costs more than my yearly rent. Her hair is down tonight. Not the sleek, controlled version from events, though. It falls loose over her shoulders, slightly softer, almost careless.
It’s unfair.
The lighting catches in her hair and along the bridge of her nose and across the curve of her mouth when she tilts her head towards the bartender. She laughs politely at something he says, brief and genuine, and the sound hits me even across the room and through the dozens of people between us.
I stop walking.
For half a second, I just stand there like an idiot at the other end of the bar, heart pounding too hard for someone who has competed in front of thousands of people without flinching.
She turns before I say her name. Of course she does. And her eyes find me instantly. A direct look thatfeels like stepping into a current I knew was there but wasn’t prepared to feel this strongly.
And then, the most devastating thing happens: she smiles.
Not the public one. The private one.
It changes her entire face.
I have to physically remind myself to move.
By the time I reach her, my pulse is everywhere—throat, wrists, behind my knees—and I’m suddenly aware of what I’m wearing, so much so that it makes me resent my own practicality.
Black jeans. Fitted. A dark green top I chose because it felt neutral and safe and didn’t look like I tried. She looks like she tried. And like she didn’t need to, all at once.
“You’re staring,” she says softly, as I stop in front of her.
I exhale through my nose, slow. “It’s impossible not to.”
Her eyes brighten at that.
There’s something almost girlish in the way she straightens slightly, like she wasn’t sure I’d say that out loud.
“You look…” I start, and then stop, becausebreathtakingsounds adolescent and inadequate and entirely too honest.
Her eyebrow lifts. “Finish that sentence, Ceci.”
I swallow.
“Like you planned to ruin my evening.”
Her mouth curves slowly. “Maybe I did.”
I clear my throat as I pull out the stool beside her before I can overthink it. Close enough that our knees almost touch, but not quite. The bartender slides over, gives me a politenod, and I order something simple so I don’t have to think too hard.
When I turn back to her, she’s already watching me again.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say.
She tilts her head. “You’re three minutes late.”
“I like dramatic entrances.”
Isabella laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corner, and her hand drops to her thigh. “I noticed.”
There’s something warm in her tone, something indulgent, and it does very little to steady my nerves.
“I had to finish something back in my room,” I add.
Her gaze sharpens. “Finish what?”
