“Very,” I say, matching his tone. He’s wearing a white linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and preppy looking swim trunks—little lobsters peppering the light blue background. “I might be too relaxed to walk back to the house.”
His mouth tilts, slow, like he’s enjoying a joke only half-formed in his head. “They do have those golf carts.”
“Will you drive me?” I tease, tilting my head, my robe sleeve falling to my elbow just enough to show a sliver of my wrist.
“Only if bribed,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His leg hooks around the one beside him and drags it closer with an easy scrape across the floor, a silent invitation.
I drop into the seat, and my knee brushes his under the table. A small thing, perhaps, but it lingers longer than it should. Neither of us moves it away.
“So,” he says, picking up his glass and nodding toward mine, “did you try the green juice yet?”
I glance at the swamp-colored liquid. “No, because I have taste buds and a will to live.”
That gets a quiet laugh from him. “It’s not bad. Kinda… sweet.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Really selling it.”
He leans in a little, lowering his voice even though there’s no reason to. “I could tell you what I actually think it tastes like, but…” He lets the sentence trail off, smirking in a way that feels unfair.
I raise a brow. “Is that one of those fondue euphemisms?”
“Maybe.” His eyes hold mine a beat too long. “Maybe not.”
We talk about nothing important—how the rain might cancel tomorrow’s hike, whether the plunge pool was really cold—but there’s a rhythm to it that feels like we’ve done this before. Little pauses. Glances that last a beat longer than necessary. A faint tap of his thumb against his knee, close enough that I could pretend to brush it by accident if I wanted to.
When Jack calls for everyone to head out, I stand, tying the robe tighter. Connor looks up at me, eyes catching the shifting light from the water feature’s reflection a few yards away.
“Guess I’ll see you later,” I say, careful to keep it casual, even though something in my chest pulls at the words.
“I hope so,” he says, quiet but clear over the sound of water and voices.
It’s absolutely nothing. A completely polite response to a normal greeting.
But it doesn’t feel like nothing.
18
CONNOR
The shuttle’s slightly chilly,the windows fogged up from the earlier rain and the body heat inside. Jack is leaning forward in his seat, chatting with the driver in rapid, confident English that’s somehow still peppered with very Swiss-sounding names. Cash has one of his earbuds in, his eyes locked on the screen to something that looks like a replay of an economic summary of some sort. Maybe a news segment specifically on an IPO? I can’t tell. And I also don’t care.
I sit by the window, and even though the weather is terrible outside, the views continue to be stunning. My reflection stares back at me, faint over the blur of green hills and gray clouds breaking apart overhead.
The road curves, and I catch a flash of light over the vineyards—rows and rows of vines rolling toward the horizon and down to the edge of the lake, damp from the storm, the sky still moody enough to make it all feel like a painting. It’s the kind of view people take out their phones to memorialize. I don’t.
Because my brain is too busy thinking about Manuela. Like a fucking creep, I might add.
The robe she wore at the spa, cinched tight, but not tight enough to keep me from noticing the bare skin of her collarbone. The way she leaned in over the table, teasing me about the golf cart like it was a private joke just for us. The sound of her laugh when I deadpanned about the green juice.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve known her for a few years, but since then we’ve had maybe a handful of interactions.
Jack points to a sign as we turn into the drive for the vineyard. “Best wine in Switzerland, I’m telling you,” he says animatedly, eyes shining with excitement. Like everything he does, this is grand. I’m guessing we have the whole space to ourselves for the rest of the evening, with a catered dinner and a selection of wines to get very, very drunk. “This place wins awards every year.”
“Looking forward to it,” I say because it’s easier than pointing out I’m not really here for the wine. We step out into air that smells fresh and sharp from the rain, the faint mineral scent of wet stone rising from the gravel path. The vines stretch out in every direction, leaves heavy and dark, the fruit almost ripe for harvesting.
Far off, the sky’s still holding on to its last streak of gray.
Inside, the sommelier is waiting, smiling like she already knows Jack. She leads us to a long wooden table under an open overhang—gleaming glassware, plates of cheese, thin slices of cured meat, little bowls of olives lined up in perfect symmetry.
