It does look cinematic. The lighting is low and moody, with waves of scarlet and royal blue washing over the dance floor. A DJ stands on an elevated platform centered in the back of the room, and the strobe lights that bounce off the black marble floors are synced perfectly with the heavy beats of the music. It’s crowded, but not overly packed like the usual clubs in NYC. Justenough people to appear in-demand, but not quite enough to cheapen the rich glamour.
Esme appraises me. “We’re going to have so much fun tonight! You look incredible. Maybe you can have a last fling before Brescia.”
A fling is the last thing I need right now. One thing I do need? To stop thinking about Giovanni Cattaneo.
A shiver courses through me as air from one of the ceiling vents above the bar blows against my open back. Having looked up the drink options ahead of time, I know exactly what I want to order.
“Ciao! Can I please have an Aperol Spritz?” I ask the bartender.
The bartender nods and makes my drink while I rummage in my silver crossbody bag for my cardholder. After a moment of digging, I retrieve it, but someone’s hand slides a card to the bartender in front of me first, speaking fast Italian.
When I turn around, I find an attractive guy with a buzz cut standing a few inches below my eye level. His outfit—tailored cotton chinos and a navy slim fit button-down—looks expensive.
He smiles at me and switches to English with a perfect American accent. “It’s on me. I love your dress.”
I grin back at him and eye his bright red drink. “Thanks. What’re you drinking?”
He shrugs. “An Americano. Fitting for us.”
“Where are you from originally? Your Italian is amazing.”
“I grew up in California, but moved here after school for work five years ago. I’m in treasury management for Sangue Luna. You?”
“I’m from New York. Just a designer here for fashion week withLamont.”
His eyes widen. “Impressive. Lamontismaking money right now.”
I nod absentmindedly as the bartender places my spritz on a napkin. I take a small sip, and a sharp burst of orange hits my tongue, followed by the crackle of the fizzy bubbles. “Mmm. This is good.”
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” he says, his eyes lingering on my lips. “I’m Cameron.”
I hold out my hand. “Tessa.”
Cameron shakes my hand and flashes me a wide smile. “Do you want to dance, Tessa?”
His fingers feel wet from the condensation on his glass. There’s no spark, but regardless of chemistry, I should at least say I danced with a handsome stranger one time in this fancy Milano club instead of holding up the wallpaper.
“Sure. But I have to warn you—I’m a terrible dancer. An insult to the dance community, really. Big fan of standing and bopping side-to-side.”
He laughs. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Cameron puts his cold hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the dance floor. The deep bass picks up, and people start dancing faster. When he starts swaying to the music, I awkwardly lean along, letting him move me.
He leans in closer to my ear, speaking loudly over the bass. “So, how was fashion week for you?”
I beam at the question. “It was really great. I had a design that walked!”
“Congrats! Who do you all have in treasury management over atLamont?”
The sudden topic change throws me off for a minute. “Oh, um, I know about as much about treasury management as I do about dance. Which, judging from this…” I glance down at my form, stiff as a board. A corpse would look more lively at this point. “Isn’t much. If anything, I know less than?—”
I cut myself off. Because smirking at me from a high top across the bar is none other than my future pretend boyfriend, wearing a structured black blazer and dark wash trousers. Giovanni raises an eyebrow and nods toward my dance partner, as if to communicate, “Him? Really?”
Whatever that look is, it’s not my problem until tomorrow, so I train my gaze back on the guy with his hands on my waist. Blissfully unaware of the human migraine in the corner, Cameron attempts to spin me, which goes as well as expected: with my body nearly hitting the floor. When I right myself, I catch Giovanni’s furrowed brows from his perch, unrelenting with his eye contact.
His eyes on me do what they always do as of late: ground me and irritate me simultaneously.
“I have to use the restroom,” I tell Cameron. “Be right back.”
