That gets me a real smile, quick but genuine. The kind that reaches his eyes and makes the corners crinkle. His fingers tap lightly against the side of his glass. “Probably both.”
He studies me for a moment longer, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll fill the silence.
“You’re not from here?” he asks. And it’s an odd question because to me, it’s a little obvious that I’m not. The thick accent alone speaks volumes.
“What gave it away?” I shake my head with a soft smile on my lips. “Argentina. Small town in the mountains called Tres Fuegos. Moved here almost a year and a half ago. I work with Elle.”
He nods once, jaw ticking like he’s tucking the information away. “What do you think so far?”
“About New York?” Or about Elle? Or about this whole glittery Manhattan thing I still don’t feel part of? Sometimes it feels like I’ve walked onto the wrong set entirely, I want to say.
He tilts his head in confirmation.
“It’s… a lot. Loud. Fast. Expensive.” I make a face, and he smiles and nods. “But there’s always something to look at.”
That earns me yet another smile, slower this time, and I catch the faint dimple in his left cheek.
Someone calls to him from across the terrace. He glances over, then back at me, the smile still lingering.
“I’ll remember to stand where you stand next time,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something playful in his eyes before he excuses himself.
I should probably leave now. Instead, I drift through the house, past strangers in tailored clothes and women who look like they belong on TV. I stop by the grazing table and try a little bit of each of the cheeses on display and take way too long todecide which of the seventeen different kinds of olives I’m going to eat. By the time I make it to the kitchen, chasing water and quiet, I find him again.
Not on purpose—just the natural end point of my escape route before I sneak out of this party and head home to my quiet and dull apartment.
He’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand, a half-finished beer resting on the marble beside him. The overhead lights are softer in here, the hum of the party muted through the closed glass doors.
Connor looks up when I walk in, thumb pausing on his phone screen.
“Hydration break?” he asks, nodding toward the bucket of fancy glass water bottles sitting on ice.
“Strategic retreat,” I say, grabbing one and twisting off the cap.
“Are you going to pull an Irish goodbye?”
“A what?” I reply, head tilted in confusion. It’s not a term I’ve heard yet, but this doesn’t really surprise me. “I don’t think I know that expression.”
He smiles, soft and a little crooked, like he’s amused I don’t know. “Leaving without saying goodbye. That’s an Irish goodbye.”
“Oh.” I huff a laugh. “Caught in the act, I guess.”
His eyes glint as he sets his phone down, finally giving me his full attention. “But then you ended up here instead.”
“Yes, well.” I wave a hand vaguely toward the ceiling. “The rooftop was getting loud.”
I shift against the counter, water bottle cool in my hand, suddenly aware of how quiet it is here compared to everywhere else.
“Yeah,” he says, mouth tugging up just slightly. “The kitchen’s better. No small talk.”
I lean against the opposite counter, mirroring his posture. “Isn’t this technically small talk?”
“Maybe. But I like this version better.”
The way he says it, steady, no rush, eyes holding mine, makes my stomach do something inconvenient again.
“Is that your thing?” I ask. “Standing on the sidelines and letting everyone else do the talking?”
His gaze dips briefly to my mouth before he answers. “Sometimes.”
