Chapter 17 Manuela
MANUELA
THURSDAY
I sink deeper into the lounger in the spa’s indoor pool area, the white fluffy robe puffed up under my neck, warm and heavy in a way that makes my eyelids dip.
It’s nice and humid here, and it’s a perfect day to be inside since the weather turned and it cooled down compared to yesterday.
Storm clouds threaten in the distance—dark gray and approaching fast, like they do in Tres Fuegos in the summer.
Somewhere behind me, the whirlpool churns steadily, and there’s the occasional splash from the indoor pool where a couple is laughing out loud and messing around, something about playing mermaids that has the woman giggling like a little girl.
The spa smells like eucalyptus and salt, I think? I don’t know what salt smells like, but this is what I imagine when someone says something has notes of Himalayan pink in it.
Nicole stretches beside me, her legs a perfect tan. “So, Manuela,” she says like she’s been waiting for this precise moment of perfect quiet to pounce. “What do you do in New York?”
The question shouldn’t make me nervous, but it does.
I thought everyone knows I work with Elle, but I guess maybe they don’t know the details.
And I know I’m already on edge—still replaying last night over and over, every glance and every too-long pause feeling more loaded in my head than it probably is—so her tone grates at me.
“Oh, I work with Elle at the agency,” I say, lifting one shoulder casually. “But we’re on different accounts.”
Elle smiles from across the circle of loungers. Her head is tilted back, and there are slices of cucumbers over each of her eyes. Really, if you were to look up “relaxed woman at overpriced spa,” this is what you would find.
“She’s underselling it,” she says, blindly going for her cup of lemon water on the side table next to her. “Manuela is the most requested strategist at the agency, and she fucking rocks.”
“Not true,” I protest.
Amelia leans in, her robe slipping off one shoulder. “It’s a little true, isn’t it? You practically run your accounts, especially since that fucking boss you guys have is a good-for-nothing asshole.”
I smile like it’s no big deal, but my stomach tightens.
I’ve been pretending their praise still fits, that this job still fits, even as I keep replaying the email from my old boss in Buenos Aires asking if I’d ever consider coming back.
I haven’t answered her. I’m not even sure why.
Maybe because saying yes—or no—would make it real.
Nicole tilts her head in the direction of Elle. “Wait, James? I hate that guy. We went to prep school together, and he was always such an asshole.”
“Yes, he has his moments,” I say, keeping my tone light. “But I really like the job, most days. And the city.”
“Oh, that’s true,” Nicole adds, and I catch the faintest flick of a smile. Maybe it’s harmless, but it’s leaning towards not. “You’re not from around here.”
“No,” I say, tucking my feet up under the robe. “Argentina, originally. Buenos Aires before New York.”
Hannah glances over, expression unreadable. “That’s… quite the jump.”
“It was. Still is sometimes,” I admit. “But Elle made it so much easier.”
Elle lifts her head from her lounger again, eyes warm, like she’s remembering those first months too. “She’s being modest. She handled the move much better than most people who’ve lived in the city their whole lives. And she learned the subway faster than I did.”
“That’s debatable,” I say, grinning. “I got so lost my first week that I ended up in Queens when I was supposed to be in Midtown.”
Amelia laughs. “Oh god, I could never take the subway.”
“She texted me in a panic, and I sent a car to pick her up,” Elle says. “The benefits of having a car service on speed dial, honestly.”
“Yeah, and I haven’t really taken the subway alone since,” I say with a faint smile on my face. The idea terrifies me. I know that I should learn how to navigate the city but… “I gave up and started walking to work every day. About thirty blocks one way.”
Nicole’s brows jump. “That’s… commitment.”
“Completely out of necessity,” I say, smiling. “But then I realized I liked it—taking different routes every day, finding new thrift stores, and seeing shop windows change with the seasons. There’s always something to look at.”
Elle points a finger without opening her eyes. “See? This is why she fits in. She actually looks at New York instead of just rushing through it.”
“That’s actually how I discovered this tiny little antique shop in the Lower East Side that has the best vintage jewelry. I’ve been working on my bangle collection since I moved here.”
Nicole’s gaze flicks up at that, softer than usual, like she wants to admit something but thinks better of it. The moment is gone as quickly as it comes, her glass tipped back toward her lips.
Hannah hums like she doesn’t quite agree. “Guess I’ve never thought of walking as fun.”
“Different perspectives,” I say, settling deeper into the lounger. “That’s half the fun of moving somewhere new.”
The conversation drifts on, the storm clouds outside drawing closer. I let their voices swirl around me—some warm, some cooler—feeling both part of and separate from the group. Elle’s presence is an anchor, though, her occasional smile or squeeze of my knee reminding me I’m not entirely adrift.
By the time our treatments are over, the rain has started in earnest, fat drops streaking the floor-to-ceiling windows in uneven trails. The indoor pool area is busier now, steam curling above the water and blurring the edges of everything.
We pad out from the changing rooms, hair still damp from the showers, robes cinched tight. The air is warm and humid, the faint chlorine tang mixing the citrusy smell coming from the juice bar. This definitely looks like any upscale New York gym, except make it heavily European.
Elle spots the guys first—Jack, Connor, Sterling and Cash—sitting at one of the low tables tucked under an overhang in the lobby. Jack is gesturing animatedly with a glass of something bright green, while Cash scrolls his phone with the single-minded focus of someone avoiding small talk.
Connor is the only one who looks up as we approach.
And it’s more than a glance. It’s a slow shift, his attention narrowing until it lands squarely on me.
His hair is darker wet, pushed back carelessly, a few short strands falling loose to his forehead.
There’s the faintest shadow along his jaw, like he hasn’t shaved since yesterday, and his brown eyes are fixed on me in a way that feels too deliberate to be casual.
They flick down—quick, almost imperceptible, to the rolled cuffs of my robe before coming back to my face.
“Still in your robes?” Jack says, getting up to kiss Elle’s cheek. “How was it?”
“Amazing,” Amelia says, reaching for the bowl of mixed nuts on the table and moving slightly to sit on Cash’s lap. “Except for Nicole almost drowning in the plunge pool.”
Nicole snorts. “I did not almost drown. It was cold. Where’s Banks?”
Elle and Jack fall into their own side conversation, and Cash starts talking about what the men did for their part of the spa day to both Amelia and Nicole. I overhear something about Banks enjoying the sauna a little too much—whatever that means—and heading to the house earlier to take a nap.
Somehow, I end up standing across from Connor, the table between us, and the rest of the group drifts around us like background noise.
It’s ridiculous, but the second our eyes meet, my brain cues up last night again—his voice low in the dark, the warmth of his hand when it brushed mine, the way I’d gone to bed with that stupid restless hum under my skin, my heart thumping nonstop in my chest.
“Good massage?” he asks, voice pitched low enough that it doesn’t have to compete with the others.
“Very,” I say, matching his tone. He’s wearing a white linen shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and preppy looking swim trunks—little lobsters peppering the light blue background. “I might be too relaxed to walk back to the house.”
His mouth tilts, slow, like he’s enjoying a joke only half-formed in his head. “They do have those golf carts.”
“Will you drive me?” I tease, tilting my head, my robe sleeve falling to my elbow just enough to show a sliver of my wrist.
“Only if bribed,” he says, leaning back in his chair. His leg hooks around the one beside him and drags it closer with an easy scrape across the floor, a silent invitation.
I drop into the seat, and my knee brushes his under the table. A small thing, perhaps, but it lingers longer than it should. Neither of us moves it away.
“So,” he says, picking up his glass and nodding toward mine, “did you try the green juice yet?”
I glance at the swamp-colored liquid. “No, because I have taste buds and a will to live.”
That gets a quiet laugh from him. “It’s not bad. Kinda… sweet.”
“Wow,” I deadpan. “Really selling it.”
He leans in a little, lowering his voice even though there’s no reason to. “I could tell you what I actually think it tastes like, but…” He lets the sentence trail off, smirking in a way that feels unfair.
I raise a brow. “Is that one of those fondue euphemisms?”
“Maybe.” His eyes hold mine a beat too long. “Maybe not.”
We talk about nothing important—how the rain might cancel tomorrow’s hike, whether the plunge pool was really cold—but there’s a rhythm to it that feels like we’ve done this before.
Little pauses. Glances that last a beat longer than necessary.
A faint tap of his thumb against his knee, close enough that I could pretend to brush it by accident if I wanted to.
When Jack calls for everyone to head out, I stand, tying the robe tighter. Connor looks up at me, eyes catching the shifting light from the water feature’s reflection a few yards away.
“Guess I’ll see you later,” I say, careful to keep it casual, even though something in my chest pulls at the words.
“I hope so,” he says, quiet but clear over the sound of water and voices.
It’s absolutely nothing. A completely polite response to a normal greeting.
But it doesn’t feel like nothing.