Nicole doesn’t look up from her phone, her scrolling steady and a little too pointed. There’s a flicker of tension in the air. It’s quiet but present. No one says anything about Athena again, and I start feeling like I can relax and breathe. Even though I have done nothing wrong. It just feels weird, to be monopolizing this man’s time.
One of the staff members sets down a fresh plate of roasted vegetables between us, and the conversation drifts toward safer territory. Lunch, the boat ride next week, the wedding wine list.
The breeze of the lake picks up enough to rustle the cloth napkins, and everything looks golden filtered through sun and vacation vibes.
Across the table, Connor catches my eye.
He doesn’t say anything but holds my gaze for a beat longer than usual, like maybe he’s still thinking about this morning.
I look away, pretending I’m focused on the food, but the flush creeping up my neck says otherwise.
14
CONNOR
The hallway upstairs is quiet.There’s movement downstairs as the staff prepares the house for dinner, but otherwise, everyone else is in their rooms—showering, dressing, touching up their makeup or recharging their social batteries. I should be doing the same, maybe changing into something less wrinkled and warmer for dinner out on the terrace. But instead, I’m leaning against the doorframe of the sliding glass door in my room, half watching the lake through the open window and half hoping she’ll walk by.
The thought takes me by surprise—the whole point of this trip was to reset, regroup, and figure out what’s next for me after years of working myself to the ground and walking away from something that should have been permanent but never felt right.
The last time I traveled internationally was five years ago, a trip Athena had planned down to the last minute. I spent most of it holed up in a hotel room, trying to put out a fire for a client who panicked about his portfolio. She gave me the silent treatment for months after that. It should’ve been a red flag. For both of us. But I let it slide, the way I let too many things slide.
This time feels different. I’ve got an out-of-office reply running, my phone is stripped of work apps, and for once I’ve promised myself I’ll actually be here. Even if “here” means watching everyone else—including the groom—float around in their happily paired-off lives while I sit on the sidelines.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up withMom.I almost let it go, but years of conditioning win out. I swipe to answer.
“Connor, son,” my father says without preamble, “have you given more thought to that proposal from Joe?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Not now, Dad. I’m?—”
“It’s a good opportunity,” he presses, voice clipped like a verdict was already handed down.
My mother cuts in before I can respond. “We’ll see you next week at the wedding, darling. It’ll be so nice to have you there, looking settled.”
The word lands with a thud.Settled.Like that’s the metric. Not happy. Not present. Just… squared away, box checked, correct on paper.
I hang up, the echo of their voices still in my ear, and let the phone slide face-down on the nightstand.
I don’t know why the word grates me so much, like nails to chalkboard.Settled.
I don’t have time for dating, anyway. I’m still buried in a demanding job and trying to figure out what comes next. And it hasn’t even been that long since Athena and I walked away from each other. Long enough for the dust to settle but not long enough to forget.
So why the hell am I standing in my room, glancing over my shoulder every two minutes, half hoping Manuela will walk by?
“Are you hiding?” She slows by the door to my room, her hair still damp at the ends, and a soft sweatshirt is slung loosely over one shoulder. She’s wearing no makeup and is barefoot, even iftemperatures have decreased since we spent the day soaking up the sun on the back deck.
“Definitely.”
Her smile is faint but it’s there, curling at the edges. She takes one step into my room, then another. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” I close the slider and turn, waiting for her next move.
Inside the room, it’s warm and golden from the setting sun. She sits at the foot of the bed on a very stiff leather bench that really ties the whole vibe of the room together. She crosses her legs so naturally, like she’s done it a hundred times before while having a conversation with someone who has been friend-adjacent for years. Her fingers pick the bottom of her lounge pants, running over the stitching in a back-and-forth motion.
“So,” she says lightly, “do you think Nicole suspects we got stranded on purpose?”
I smile. “You mean because we definitely didn’t?”
“Right. Complete accident.”
