“Sounds awful,” she says, laughing into her glass. “But in a good way.”
I shrug. “Maybe we’ll cross paths.”
As soon as I say the words, I realize how silly they must sound. She’s not going there until October. Not until the grant project is up and on its feet, and not until she’s saved and tucked away a few more dollars.
She’s smiling at me now, soft, slow, and a little surprised, and I feel something shift.
Not a spark, but a pull.
The kind that settles in your chest and refuses to leave.
THREE
RHEA
The music hangs in the air like a hush after the final line of a good book—gentle, lingering, full of feeling.
Spencer’s hand brushes mine, like he’s testing a boundary he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross.
“I’ve spent the last year trying to brush up on my French,” he says, swirling the ginger ale in his glass. “Mostly so I can read Camus without crying over the translation. And maybe flirt a little better.”
I laugh—unexpected and unguarded. And we lock eyes.
I should look away.
The way he’s looking at me—steady, curious, a little amused—it’s dangerous. The kind of look that slips under your skin and settles somewhere you don’t have armor.
But here’s the thing:
He’s SpencerDevereaux.
Richer than God. Impossibly polished. The kind of man who probably owns cufflinks worth more than my car.
Prince Charming, who has leveraged old money into new empires and now sits on half a dozen boards, including one that funds rare manuscript preservation.
His name pops up in business journals, philanthropy roundups, andArchitectural Digestspreads about oceanfront properties no normal person will ever set foot in.
He’s not real.Not for me.
Which is precisely what makes this feel safe.
There’s no risk of morning-after awkwardness. No slow-burn confusion. No “maybe-we-could-be-something” conversations.
He’s fantasy material and out of my league by a mile.
And yet?—
The man cites French poetry.
He’s madetwobook recommendations that are already on my TBR list.
He’s either the most compelling hallucination I’ve ever had… or he’s exactly the right kind of mistake.
So, when he leans in just a little and says, “Should we dance again?” his voice dips. “Or would you rather get out of here?”
I don’t hesitate when I say, “I think we’ve danced enough.”
Not because I’m reckless.
