Chapter 15
MANUELA
“A no-pressure pact?” I mutter to myself as I go down the stairs. “What kind of fucking idiot suggests something like that? God, not like you’re in your mid-thirties or something.”
The words sound even louder out loud. A no-pressure fling.
With someone I barely know. I mean, sure—we get along.
There’s chemistry. There’s definitely attraction.
He listens when I talk. He makes me laugh.
He looked at me like I was the only person in the universe last night and again five minutes ago when his hands were halfway under my shirt.
But this?
During this trip?
Too many eyes. Too many questions. And I’ve never been the type to do this, to hook up on a trip, let alone with someone in the same friend group.
I’ve dated, sure, but it’s always been deliberate, slow, something with labels and expectations.
Maybe I’m just touch-starved and it’s making me delusional. That’s what it is.
I reach the bottom step, slow my pace, try to smooth the flush from my face with my palms. I make it two feet into the hallway before Nicole appears out of nowhere like she’s been waiting to corner me.
She’s holding a wineglass and wearing a gauzy linen set that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. There’s a glint in her eyes that I can’t place.
“Oh, hey,” she says, voice light and friendly in a way that makes all my instincts stand on edge. “You missed aperitivo.”
“Lost track of time,” I say, keeping my tone breezy.
She sips her wine. “Connor too?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“I just assumed,” she says with a small smile, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind one ear. “Since you two seem to have synched schedules lately.”
There’s nothing in her voice I can technically call out. No accusation or sharpness. But instead, there is a sugary glaze that feels put on too thick, intentional. I smile, even though I want to roll my eyes. “I think he was reading or something.”
“Mmm,” she says, letting the sound stretch. Then: “It’s nice that he’s so… relaxed, you know? I always got the impression Athena keeps him on a tight leash.”
My spine stiffens just enough for her to notice.
I want to say what the fuck is that supposed to mean, but instead I just smile tighter. “I’m sure they have their reasons for how they work.”
Nicole’s eyes sparkle. “Of course. Every relationship has its rhythm.”
And just like that, she takes another sip and walks away, humming to herself.
I stand there for a second too long, trying to shake the interaction off and trying not to read too much into it. It’s expected that she’s defensive of her friend, especially a friend that was in a relationship with someone for so long.
A few minutes later, after a quick stop in the bathroom to calm myself down, I step onto the terrace where the large table is set for dinner.
My cheeks are still hot, and my skin is still buzzing like I haven’t fully returned to my own body.
The table is already filling; Elle and Jack are at one end, Amelia taking a sip of wine from a very elegant glass in a deep purple color.
I take the only open seat left next to Amelia.
Connor is across the table, directly in my line of sight.
He glances up just as I do, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
It’s small, private, and totally devastating.
My face flushes hotter. Amelia offers me a sunny smile.
“We were starting to think you two were going to skip dinner entirely.”
Before I can respond, Nicole cuts in from across the table. “Maybe they were just finishing the last of that fondue they had last night.”
There’s a chuckle or two, but it’s not exactly a joke, and I know it. My stomach knots.
Connor just raises an eyebrow and says, “Are you jealous of our culinary detour, Nicole?”
She lifts her wineglass with force, the liquid sloshing slightly off the rim. “Deeply.”
Conversation shifts back to the wine list and the spa treatments scheduled for tomorrow, but the undercurrent is still there.
Tense. Watching. Everyone pretends not to be paying attention to who looks at who and for how long.
I can feel it in the way Nicole’s eyes flick toward Connor every time someone says his name, in the way Elle keeps her tone light like she’s trying to smooth something over, in the way Hannah studies me like she’s still deciding if I should be at this table at all.
Amelia turns to me as the servers come out and begin setting plates in front of us. “You know,” she says lightly, with her usual easy smile, “I was surprised Athena didn’t come. Trips like this are her thing.”
I blink. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
“She probably just needed a breather,” Amelia adds, tone gentle and almost conspiratorial, like she’s offering reassurance. “They’ve been… figuring things out, I think. It can be good to take a little space.”
There’s no malice in it—just casual kindness—but the words catch in my chest.
“And I’m also surprised that Connor joined. Athena always said that he would never do one of these big group events again. Said he wasn’t the type.”
I glance at Connor before I can stop myself. He’s looking down at his plate, jaw tight, as if the comment slid straight under his skin.
I clear my throat. “Well, you know, things change.”
“Sure,” she says brightly, turning back to the breadbasket as if nothing about what she said could possibly be news to anyone at the table.
Connor doesn’t look up. And neither do I.
The tension pulls tighter than a rubber band. Like everyone knows something is happening, but no one’s naming it. Not directly. They just keep poking at the edges, and it makes me very uncomfortable. More than normal.
I reach for a piece of bread I don’t want and chew slowly, hoping the food gives me an excuse to stay quiet.
The thing is, Athena’s always been part of this group—louder than me, more polished, the kind of woman people naturally gravitate toward.
I’ve spent years on the edges, watching her command every dinner, every trip, every moment.
And now she’s not here, which feels strange for everyone.
Maybe that’s why it feels like all eyes shift to me when Connor laughs or when his gaze catches mine.
Across the table, Connor finally looks at me again.
No smile this time but instead something careful and watchful. Like he’s trying to figure out if I regret everything already.
I don’t. I just didn’t realize how many eyes would be on us the second we came back down.
No pressure, I said.
But pressure is everywhere.
The servers clear dessert like they’re on a mission, working fast and diligently so that they can close the kitchen and probably head home.
Chairs all around the table scrape. Someone suggests cards inside.
Someone else yells “hot tub,” and three people cheer like they’ve trained for this moment their whole lives.
I stand too fast and pretend it’s to help stack plates instead of to stop my hands from shaking.
I’m halfway to the kitchen door when a warm-hued glass appears in my line of sight.
“Water?” Connor’s voice is low and soothing, like a salve to my nerves.
I don’t quite know why I’m so on edge. I was fine when it was just Connor and me, stranded in a small town, anonymous.
But back here, under this roof with these people, everything feels magnified.
Every laugh, every glance, every pause is another chance for someone to connect the dots. And maybe they already have.
“Thank you.” My throat is dry enough that the word comes out scratchy. I sip. I don’t look at him. Not yet.
He tips his head toward the kitchen. “Walk with me?”
We cut through the swinging door into soft light and the hum of the fridge.
We’re at the back of the kitchen, tucked inside a butler’s pantry that rivals the size of my bedroom back in New York.
Under-cabinet LEDs make everything look prettier than it already is in natural daylight.
The bowls they used to serve dinner are stacked on a drying mat, and although it’s messy, it looks incredibly aesthetic.
The terrace chatter blurs to a muffled chorus.
“About earlier,” I say and then stop because I don’t actually know what I want to say. Sorry I climbed you? Thank you for making that noise I can’t stop hearing? “I didn’t expect a welcome committee the second we came downstairs.”
He leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms. Sleeves pushed up. Forearms tan. There’s a damp ring on his glass from the condensation, and he idly traces the drops with one finger. “I should’ve seen it coming.”
“You did,” I say. “You handled Nicole like a pro.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’ve had practice.”
“Right.” Of course. He’s been around these people—he is one of these people—for years. I rest my back against the opposite counter so we’re parallel, a safe strip of tile between us. “So. The pact?”
One of his eyebrows lifts, barely. “The no-pressure pact.”
“Don’t make fun.”
“I’m not.” He shakes his head, eyes steady on mine. “I just want you to know I heard you.”
I set the water down. My hands are calmer now. “Okay. Then here are my terms.” I count off on my fingers like I’m pitching a client. “No making it a thing in front of the group. No explanations. No… fondue jokes.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “That euphemism was definitely a stretch.”
“And we check in. If either of us feels weird, we stop. No resentment. No… emotional hangovers. Discretion is welcome, of course.”
He nods once, like he’s tucking each into a mental drawer. “And a rule for me,” he says. “If anyone starts taking shots, we vanish.”
I blink. “That’s… oddly specific.”
He glances toward the door, rueful. “Big groups, alcohol, and gossip? Not our sport.” He pauses, thumb dragging over the edge of the table.
“People get sloppy, and sloppy usually means loud. Too many ears, too many opinions. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better not to hand them anything they can twist.”
Something about the flat honesty in his tone makes my chest pinch.
We let the quiet sit while the sound outside grows louder by the second. I swear I can hear someone chanting “shots, shots, shots,” but it’s so faint that I can’t be sure. If it were the case, then we could, potentially, retreat upstairs while no one is looking.
Connor straightens, like he’s about to move away, and then doesn’t. “You have, uh…” He gestures to his own jaw, and I touch mine, mortified, thinking, Mascara? Crumb?
“Here,” he says softly and takes a step.
He stops short enough that I can smell the slight notes of citrus from his cologne, lifts his hand, and very carefully tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
His knuckles brush my cheekbone, and it’s not a big moment, but my whole body lights up like I’ve swallowed a live wire.
“You’re going to get us in trouble,” I whisper.
“Probably.” He doesn’t step back. His gaze flicks to my mouth and then away, like he’s disciplining himself and forcing his body to retreat. “We should rejoin civilization.”
“Or we could hide here with the lemons,” I say, nodding at the cutting board.
“One more logistics thing.”
I groan. “So fucking sexy.”
That smile appears again. He moves closer, his mouth barely touching my ear. “You think you can be quiet?”
I gasp, and the question hangs between us like it’s carrying extra weight. My pulse jumps so fast I’m sure he can hear it.
I lean back against the counter, casual on the outside, pure electricity on the inside. “Depends. Are you planning to test me?”
His gaze flicks down my body before returning to my face, so quick it could be an accident if he wanted to lie about it. “Just wondering how much trouble we’d get into before someone opened that door.”
The hum of the refrigerator fills the space where my answer should go. My brain is doing dangerous math—distance to the door, volume of the group outside, how easy it would be to close that space between us.
“You’re terrible,” I say finally, but it comes out low, not even close to an accusation.
He tilts his head like he’s considering it. “Maybe.” Then, quieter: “But I’d behave. For now.”
I laugh, softer than I mean to, because I believe him and also don’t. “Good. Because I have a strict no-being-caught-in-the-kitchen rule.”
“Sounds like a challenge,” he murmurs, stepping aside so I can pass.
When I do, my shoulder brushes his chest, light and intentional. His hand lifts and catches my waist, pulling me back against him in one smooth motion.
My inhale is sharp, unplanned. His chest is solid at my back, his palm warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. I can feel the heat of him everywhere he touches me and in places he doesn’t.
“Connor.” It comes out more breath than word.
“I love how you say my name.” He dips his head, close enough that I can feel the whisper of his breath at my ear again, warm and electrifying. “Still think you could be quiet?”
My brain short-circuits. I don’t turn to face him because I don’t trust what I could do if I look at his handsome face.
“Guess we’ll never know,” I say, forcing lightness into my tone that doesn’t match the way my heart is hammering inside my chest.
His hand lingers long enough to make it clear he’s in no hurry, and then he lets go, fingers dragging lightly over my hip before he steps back. The absence is absolutely dizzying.
I push through the door, cheeks hot, and rejoin the noise outside. But I feel him behind me for a long time after, that smile still pressed against the back of my neck.