“It was a rough night,” I finish evenly, lowering my glass. “I’m not in the mood.”
She pauses, clearly not used to that answer. Most guys lean in harder when they’re offered this close. She recalculates, tries to smile like it’s a misunderstanding.
“I can help with that,” she says, fingers brushing my thigh again like she thinks repetition is persuasion.
I catch her wrist gently and move her hand away, careful but unmistakable. “No,” I say, calm and final. “Really. Not tonight.”
There’s a flicker of offense, then confusion, then something like disbelief. She straightens and stands, smoothing her skirt, dignity scrambling to reassemble itself.
“Okay,” she says, clipped, already backing away. “Your loss.”
Maybe.
She melts back into the crowd, already searching for someone easier.
I don’t watch her go. I don’t follow her with my eyes. No, mine lock with Sofie’s.
She raises one eyebrow. Just one. Like she’s clocked the whole thing and filed it under interesting.
And suddenly I’m irritated. Not at the girl. Not at myself. At her. Of course, it’s her fault.
I take another drink, never breaking eye contact.
This is ridiculous. I don’t get distracted. I don’t lose focus. I don’t go numb in a room full of options.
And yet….
“I’m leaving,” I tell Faulker.
“Alone?” he asks, standing too.
“Double duty last night, I’m good. You have fun.”
“I’m good to go,” he grabs his coat. “I’ll order a car; I just have to piss first.”
“I’ll be outside,” I say, needing to get out of here.
Faulker nods, “Give me a minute.”
Cold Brooklyn air hits my face the second I step out. I breathe it in like a reset. The door opens behind me. Footsteps. Unrushed.
“Where are your boo-boo kissers, AK?”
I don’t turn right away. I don’t need to. I know her voice now. Polished amusement, edged just enough to test. I glance over my shoulder.
Sofie Fairfax stands a few feet away, coat buttoned, phone tucked away for once. No entourage. Just her, eyes bright with mockery pulled straight from that elevator conversation this morning.
“Probably licking each other’s… wounds,” I say. “You checking in on my injuries?”
She smiles, slow and deliberate. “No, absolutely not.”
“Where is your entourage?” I ask cynically.
“My entourage are interns working on a special interest story featuring one of the players.” She rolls her eyes, “I’d ask if there was a story behind your obvious issues, but you aren’t TV appropriate, so why bother.”
"You’re intrigued Tsarina, your privilege doesn’t shield that. No matter what floor you reside on, you live behind a wall of glass visible to everyone who bothers looking up.”
“Wow, and I just came for my car.” She picks at invisible lint, pretending to be bored.
