“Francesca,” she says, holding out her hand.
I stand up, enjoying the way she looks surprised at how tall I am, and I step closer, leaning against the bar. “I’m Logan. Nice to meet you. Are you Italian?”
She shakes her head. “It’s a long story.”
“I got all the time in the world.”
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s not my favorite story.” She hesitates. “It was a compromise name between my parents, and they aren’t my favorite topic.”
“Say no more. Parents can be off-limits.”
She laughs. “And what do you do, Logan?”
Now it’s my turn to make a face. “Currently, not my favorite story.”
“Ah, sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just a tough week that I’d rather not think about.”
She winks. “Then jobs can be off-limits.”
“We’re rapidly spiralling toward having nothing to talk about, Francesca.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She licks her lips and takes a deep breath. “How long are you in Vegas?”
“Flew in yesterday. Fly out tomorrow.”
“And you aren’t doing anything special for New Year’s?”
“I’m here for work. And my co-workers are the last people I want to spend time with tonight, so…”
“Same.” She exhales and slumps against the bar. “Not co-workers for me. My dad and my friends.”
“Your dadandyour friends? Damn, that’s a lot of people to disappoint you.”
“Oh, to be clear, my friends didn’t—” She cuts herself off and wags her finger at me. “You’re sneaky at that.”
“At what?”
“Pulling details out of a girl.” She drains her glass.
I zip my lips shut and gesture for the bartender.
When he comes over, Francesca glances my way. I gesture to my mouth, my voluntary muteness and she laughs. “I’ll have another glass of Prosecco and Logan here will have…”
I hold up two fingers.
“He’ll have a glass with me,” she finishes.
When we’re alone again, she smiles, her full lips curving into a teasing pout. “You can talk again.”
I exaggerate my relief. “Oh thank God, that was torture.”
She laughs. “So how old are you tonight?”
“Thirty.”
“Logan! That’s a milestone!”
