The No Pressure Pact (Love in the Alps #1)

Prologue

MANUELA

Two years ago

The rooftop smells like money and grilled peaches.

Not in a gauche, new-rich way, but in that curated way where the peaches are probably organic and the prosciutto draped over them was special ordered from an artisan producer in the mountains of Italy. It’s all very New York, I’ve come to learn.

Elle’s engagement party hums around me, the string lights overhead trying to look casual. Linen and glassware, heels tapping on the slate tile, the occasional pop of a champagne cork.

The city sprawls behind it all, golden in the late summer dusk.

I’m posted near an olive tree taller than me, doing my best impression of someone who belongs here. I’ve been in New York for over a year now, long enough that the skyline almost doesn’t make my breath hitch anymore. Almost.

“Manu!” Elle appears through a knot of guests, a flash of white linen dress and bare feet, carrying a drink in each hand like she’s out clubbing instead of at a very fancy party in her honor.

There’s a flush high on her cheeks, either from the summer heat or the cocktails, and a strand of blonde hair has escaped the sleek bun at her nape.

Her eyes catch on my wrist. “Oh my god, that bangle is spectacular.”

I glance down, twisting it so the metal glints under the string lights. “Thrift shop on the Lower East Side. Isn’t it cute? Ten bucks and a little elbow grease.”

I moved to New York City from Buenos Aires over a year ago, and Elle and I took a quick liking to each other.

She’s the one who helped me get set up in the city—navigating the real estate situation, subway transfers, and avoiding looking like a tourist in my own neighborhood.

We knew each other from before I moved since we worked on adjacent teams before I moved to this one, and now we report to the same arrogant asshole.

But in the time since I’ve been here, we’ve been getting closer.

I would definitely consider her my closest friend.

“Stop,” she says with a delighted gasp. “Don’t show Nicole. She would actually die. She loves thrifting, especially for unique jewelry and art.”

I laugh, already picturing Nicole with an entire curated collection she’d claim was just stumbled upon. “Okay, I’ll be careful,” I say with a smile that she returns in earnest.

“I’ve been looking for you.” She hands me one of the glasses, a low container with a suspiciously orange fizzy drink. “Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Before I can protest, she’s steering me away from the safety of the olive tree. My low heels catch slightly on the slate, the tag in my thrifted dress itching between my shoulder blades in exactly the place I can’t reach.

We stop near the railing, where a man is standing with a drink on one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his slate-gray trousers.

He’s not holding court like some of the others in attendance, more like watching from a comfortable distance.

But when Elle stops beside him, his attention shifts immediately.

“Hey, Connie,” Elle says, beaming at him, then turns to me. “This is my friend Manuela. Manu, this is Jack’s cousin.”

I take him in quickly—brown hair that’s just a little too long to be neat, a couple of strands falling toward his forehead; deep brown eyes that seem to take in more than they give away; warm skin, like he actually spends time outdoors.

And the faintest shadow along his jaw, as if he didn’t bother shaving for this.

There’s a steadiness about him that makes the rest of the crowd seem louder, more performative by comparison.

He straightens, offering his hand. His grip is warm and firm but not rushed. A subtle squeeze before he lets go, and I feel the world slow down around me.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and even. “Connor.”

“Hi.”

Elle’s name gets called from somewhere behind us—a singsongy “Elle!” followed by a wave of laughter. She glances over her shoulder.

“Back in a sec,” she says, already heading to the other side of the rooftop terrace. “You two talk.”

And then it’s just… us.

The quiet lasts a beat too long. He takes a slow sip from his glass, thumb brushing along the rim as he lowers it, gaze flicking toward the skyline before coming back to me.

“That’s a good spot you had over there,” he says finally, nodding toward the olive tree. “Best angle of the city from up here.”

I tilt my head. “Is that your polite way of saying that you know I was hiding?”

One corner of his mouth curves, not quite a full smile, but it changes his whole face, softens it. My stomach twists a little, in a good way. “Just observing. Big difference.”

“And which were you doing before Elle dragged me over here?”

That gets me a real smile, quick but genuine. The kind that reaches his eyes and makes the corners crinkle. His fingers tap lightly against the side of his glass. “Probably both.”

He studies me for a moment longer, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll fill the silence.

“You’re not from here?” he asks. And it’s an odd question because to me, it’s a little obvious that I’m not. The thick accent alone speaks volumes.

“What gave it away?” I shake my head with a soft smile on my lips. “Argentina. Small town in the mountains called Tres Fuegos. Moved here almost a year and a half ago. I work with Elle.”

He nods once, jaw ticking like he’s tucking the information away. “What do you think so far?”

“About New York?” Or about Elle? Or about this whole glittery Manhattan thing I still don’t feel part of? Sometimes it feels like I’ve walked onto the wrong set entirely, I want to say.

He tilts his head in confirmation.

“It’s… a lot. Loud. Fast. Expensive.” I make a face, and he smiles and nods. “But there’s always something to look at.”

That earns me yet another smile, slower this time, and I catch the faint dimple in his left cheek.

Someone calls to him from across the terrace. He glances over, then back at me, the smile still lingering.

“I’ll remember to stand where you stand next time,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something playful in his eyes before he excuses himself.

I should probably leave now. Instead, I drift through the house, past strangers in tailored clothes and women who look like they belong on TV.

I stop by the grazing table and try a little bit of each of the cheeses on display and take way too long to decide which of the seventeen different kinds of olives I’m going to eat.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, chasing water and quiet, I find him again.

Not on purpose—just the natural end point of my escape route before I sneak out of this party and head home to my quiet and dull apartment.

He’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone with one hand, a half-finished beer resting on the marble beside him. The overhead lights are softer in here, the hum of the party muted through the closed glass doors.

Connor looks up when I walk in, thumb pausing on his phone screen.

“Hydration break?” he asks, nodding toward the bucket of fancy glass water bottles sitting on ice.

“Strategic retreat,” I say, grabbing one and twisting off the cap.

“Are you going to pull an Irish goodbye?”

“A what?” I reply, head tilted in confusion. It’s not a term I’ve heard yet, but this doesn’t really surprise me. “I don’t think I know that expression.”

He smiles, soft and a little crooked, like he’s amused I don’t know. “Leaving without saying goodbye. That’s an Irish goodbye.”

“Oh.” I huff a laugh. “Caught in the act, I guess.”

His eyes glint as he sets his phone down, finally giving me his full attention. “But then you ended up here instead.”

“Yes, well.” I wave a hand vaguely toward the ceiling. “The rooftop was getting loud.”

I shift against the counter, water bottle cool in my hand, suddenly aware of how quiet it is here compared to everywhere else.

“Yeah,” he says, mouth tugging up just slightly. “The kitchen’s better. No small talk.”

I lean against the opposite counter, mirroring his posture. “Isn’t this technically small talk?”

“Maybe. But I like this version better.”

The way he says it, steady, no rush, eyes holding mine, makes my stomach do something inconvenient again.

“Is that your thing?” I ask. “Standing on the sidelines and letting everyone else do the talking?”

His gaze dips briefly to my mouth before he answers. “Sometimes.”

The glass doors slide open again, laughter spilling in and footsteps moving closer, then fading as someone closes them behind them. The air between us feels charged in a way it didn’t out on the terrace. Maybe it’s the close quarters, maybe not.

“That’s my cue,” I say, turning around to leave in the opposite direction I came in. “See you around.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I hope so.”

I don’t let myself smile until I’m two blocks away.