Not Sylvie in her perfect little black dress.
Me.
His eyes lock on mine and stay there.
Heat skates down my spine, sharp and unwelcome. My brain raises a red flag. My body uses it as confetti.
My fingers tighten around the stem of my wine glass.
Hotel guests usually look through me, around me. Past me.
He looks at me like he recognizes something. Like I'm a file he's been waiting to pull.
My pulse stutters.
"Thea," Sylvie murmurs. "Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Like you're about to pass out or propose."
"Relax," I say. "If I pass out, at least I'll finally get some horizontal time."
“With him?” she whispers.
“With a mattress, Sylvie. I still have standards.”
My eyes betray me by flicking back to Gabriel Moretti.
“Questionable standards,” she amends.
Mick slides back to our table like he heard his cue.
"Ladies," he says. "Enjoying yourselves?"
"Depends," I say. "Is mop water an accepted chaser in this crowd?"
Sylvie elbows me, laughing. "Yeah, we're good. Thanks for the drinks."
His gaze drops to my half-finished wine. "You don't like it?"
"I'm pacing myself."
"Smart girl."
I hate the way he says it.
Like he knows exactly how far behind I am in this game.
Across the room, Gabriel Moretti is still watching.
Mick shifts just enough to block my view.
"To old friends," Sylvie says, clinking her glass against mine.
I take a small sip and set the glass back down, reaching for the water instead. Something about tonight feels off. Not the wine, not the bar.
Mick.