A beat.
His smile softened. Just slightly.
“Good taste.”
Something low in her chest tightened, sharp and uninvited.
She shut it down.
“I’m leaving.”
“They’re gone,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink.”
She should’ve said no.
Instead, she hesitated.
Then nodded.
Ten minutes later, they stood at a small high-top near the edge of the patio. April had escaped Salmon Shirt and was now laughing with someone far more tolerable. Out here at the fringe, the music blurred into a steady thrum and the square below was just color and movement.
Condensation slid down the sides of their beer bottles.
“You handled that well,” Eleanor said finally.
“I try not to escalate.”
She arched a brow.
“Liar.”
His mouth curved, slow and wicked.
For a moment, the night narrowed to the table between them, the scrape of glass on wood, his body an inch away from hers. The air felt thick, charged.
Then—
Ping.
Her phone shivered against the tabletop.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Reid’s phone lit up in sync.
They both glanced down.
And there they were.
A photo of them at the railing.
Her shoulder angled toward his.
His head tipped just enough that, frozen in pixels, it looked like intimacy instead of oxygen.
Too close.
The caption was already everywhere.
