Chapter 22 Manuela
MANUELA
“God, I love European towns.” Amelia sighs as she stops in front of a boutique window. A mannequin in a floaty white dress stares back at us. “Everything looks like it belongs in a movie.”
The cobblestones are slick underfoot, still damp from this morning’s rain, even with the sun shining bright in the sky.
The town looks like something out of a postcard—rows of white-and-cream buildings with flower boxes hanging from every window, the scent of fresh bread drifting from the corner bakery.
After getting back from the chocolate tasting, the men stayed at the house and we drifted lazily into the small town by the resort, going in and out of shops all afternoon.
Elle loops her arm through mine, tugging me along. “You just want an excuse to buy that dress and claim it’s practical for winery hopping.”
Amelia grins, unbothered. “Wouldn’t you?”
We duck into the boutique, bells chiming over the door.
Inside, racks of silk blouses and sundresses line the walls, the air perfumed with lavender sachets.
Nicole is towards the back, flipping through hangers with quick, practiced fingers, while Hannah drifts toward a display of handbags, her expression unreadable as always.
After a few minutes of casual browsing, Elle drifts toward a table of colorful scarves near the door, fingers trailing absently over the silk. I wander after her, grateful for the momentary lull and the fact that everyone else is otherwise entertained.
“You’re so quiet,” she says, glancing up with that perceptive tilt of her head I’ve come to know too well. “Are you having fun?”
I laugh softly, touching a red scarf with my fingers. “Of course. It’s been great.”
She narrows her eyes, like she doesn’t quite buy it. “I feel like I’ve been the worst host. Always pulled in ten directions with Jack and the others.” She pouts. “I thought I’d have more time with you.”
“Elle, stop. You don’t have to babysit me,” I say quickly, and I mean it. “I’m having fun. You’ve already done so much, and the trip has been amazing. Truly.”
Her shoulders ease a little. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right?”
I nod, smile. “Right.”
She squeezes my hand before drifting back toward the counter.
And I stand there for a beat longer, letting the noise of the shop swell around me—Nicole’s laugh, Amelia’s mock gasp at a price tag, Hannah’s flat, unimpressed hum.
“Find anything good?” Amelia appears at my side, sunglasses pushed up into her brown hair, a soft smile on her face.
“Just admiring,” I say. “Everything’s beautiful.”
“It is,” she agrees, eyes sweeping the shop. “It’s also a little… much, isn’t it? All of this.”
I glance at her, surprised. “You think so?”
“Sometimes I wonder if we all like the performance more than the actual stuff.” Her smile tilts, conspiratorial now. “Don’t tell Elle I said that.”
I laugh under my breath, the tension in my shoulders loosening a fraction at the unexpected vulnerability.
“Anyway,” she adds lightly, “I’m glad you’re here. It’s nice having you around. I really enjoy spending time together.”
The words catch me off guard, enough that I almost forget to answer. “Thanks. That… means a lot.”
She shrugs easily. “Just the truth.” She gestures toward a display at the front of the store. “Come on. Help me decide if that bag is actually cute or if I’m just bored,” Amelia says, and I follow her towards the window, smiling despite myself.
“Oh my god,” Elle exclaims, turning as she clutches a piece of glossy paper to her chest. I pause mid-browse through a stack of watercolor mini prints, all etched with the familiar views from around the resort. “Ladies.”
Her grin is contagious, even if I have no idea what she’s scheming. There’s the signature gleam in her eye, the one she gets when she’s suddenly obsessed with something, most likely fueled by a wild idea. “Look at this.”
She lifts the flyer in the air and giggles, shaking it like she just won the lottery. From where I stand, I can barely make out the words—it’s for a nightclub in town, it seems. The paper promises “Retro Night: all ’80s hits, all evening.” It gives off locals only vibes.
“Please tell me you’re in,” Elle says, eyes sparkling.
Amelia snatches it from her. “God, yes. Who doesn’t want to dance to Madonna with actual Europeans?”
Nicole tilts her head, scanning the flyer. “We already have dinner plans.”
“Early dinner,” Elle corrects as she tucks her phone in her tiny crossbody purse.
She’s grinning, her smile so big her eyes crinkle at the corners.
She looks much more amused than at the chocolate factory earlier today, that’s for sure.
“Then this.” She grabs another flyer from the counter and waves it again like a flag.
“Come on, when are we going to get another chance like this?”
My heart gives a little leap. A night of dancing sounds like exactly the kind of reckless thing I came here for. And, if I’m being honest, the thought of Connor in a dim, crowded club—close, hidden, maybe touching me the way he did on the terrace—sends a flush straight through me.
Hannah gives a noncommittal shrug, though I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Nicole takes longer but finally says, “Fine. But I’m not dancing. I hope they have good drinks.”
“Liar,” Amelia sing-songs, looping her arm through Nicole’s as we head for the door.
Elle leans close to me, voice pitched low so only I hear. “Tell me you’re ready to blow the roof off a Swiss nightclub.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t even imagine what that looks like.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” she says, slipping the flyer into her purse.
The dance hall doesn’t look like much from the outside. It’s a squat concrete building with a hand-painted sign that has seen better days, and all the flowers on the boxes hanging from the window are on the verge of death. Inside, though, it’s a different story.
Colored lights spin lazily from the ceiling. A disco ball glitters halfheartedly, and the first beats of a very eighties song thump through the speakers. Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, sneaking into my older sister’s parties over the summer back home in our small town.
She used to throw them in our backyard—music blasting from borrowed speakers, fairy lights strung haphazardly between the lemon trees, and half the town’s older boys showing up just to orbit her.
Agustina was loud and dazzling, always at the center of everything, and I wanted so badly to be part of it.
I’d slip in unnoticed with Martina, weaving through her group of effortlessly cool twenty-somethings, trying to keep up with their jokes and pretending I wasn’t giddy just to be allowed near them.
Those nights convinced me that life could be bigger than whatever small box I was living in.
That I could be bold too—that if I just pushed past the fear, I might find my way into rooms that glittered like that backyard once did.
I think that’s what’s kept me moving all these years, from Buenos Aires to New York: the hope that somewhere out there is another night like that, waiting for me.
The place is half-empty when we arrive. Older folks cluster near the bar, leaning on stools, nursing beers. The dance floor yawns wide open, polished wood that looks extremely clean and shiny under the rotating lights.
Elle and Jack are the first ones out there, of course. Amelia drags Nicole with her, laughing when Nicole protests, and Cash heads for the bar, muttering something about “liquid courage.”
I hover near the edge, looking around and adjusting the strap of my dress. It’s nothing fancy, just a black loose-enough-for-comfort mini, but Connor’s eyes catch mine from across the room. A slow, deliberate pass, like he’s checking me out without any apology.
Heat blocks in my chest, and I pretend to study the drink options behind the bar a few feet away from me.
“Do you dance?” His voice comes low behind me.
I turn and find Connor close to me, the warmth of his body stretching in my direction. No one is watching us, I think. His brown eyes are darker in the neon light, and his delicious forearms are on full display.
“Not well,” I say, shrugging.
“Perfect.” His mouth tilts, and before I can argue, his hand slides down my arm to catch my fingers. “Come on.”
For the first twenty minutes, the dance floor feels ridiculous. Couples move in clumsy circles, and the women in our group are the loudest ones, their laughter rising above the music unapologetically.
But when Connor pulls me closer, one hand at my waist, the ridiculousness fades into background noise.
“I thought you hated this kind of thing,” I tease, leaning in to be heard. “Being like this at the center of things.”
He dips his head, his lips brushing close enough to my ear that I shiver. “I don’t hate it when it’s with you.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t fight the smile. “That’s a terrible line.”
“Yeah.” He smirks. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
We move to the beat, awkward at first, then easier, like our bodies already know the rhythm. My hair sticks to my cheeks; his hands steady me when someone bumps past us.
When a song I don’t recognize starts pulsing, the floor fills up.
Somewhere between the last chorus and now, more people have trickled in without me noticing—slipping through the doors, shedding jackets, letting the music pull them straight into dancing.
Elle twirls under Jack’s arm, and he dips her low, planting a kiss on her mouth that has them both laughing loud. The space shrinks, bodies pressing in, and suddenly Connor and I are tucked into the far corner, half-hidden by shadows.
The corner isn’t part of the dance floor, exactly. It’s a narrow strip of wall between the edge of the bar and the DJ booth, partially concealed by a stack of chairs that towers over us. From here, the crowd looks like a single moving organism, a blur of limbs and glittering lights.
“Manu,” he murmurs, his hand tightening at my hip.
My breath catches. “Hmm?”
The beat thrums through the floor, up my calves and through my ribs until it feels like my whole body is vibrating.
Connor’s mouth is hot on mine, one hand firm on my lower back, pulling me tighter against him.
My body presses into the rough wall, lights flickering over us in dizzy spins of pink and blue.
Everywhere else is chaos, but in this corner, obscured, it feels like the world has shrunk to just Connor’s lips and the relentless beat of the music.
“Connor,” I murmur against his mouth, my fingers curling into his hair, tugging just enough to hear the sound he makes. The half groan, half laugh runs through my body and settles low in my belly.
“Manu,” he whispers again, low and rough, like he’s unraveling. His hand slides lower, from my waist to my thigh, thumb pressing through the thin fabric of my dress.
I should one hundred percent stop him. I should remind him there are people ten feet away, on top of the group that knows us on the other side of the room. But then his lips trail down my jaw, finding the place just under my ear, and my knees actually buckle.
“Someone could see,” I manage, though my voice is already betraying me.
“No one’s looking,” he murmurs. His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the edge of my dress. “And no one needs to know our business.”
The words hit low in my stomach, and my pulse jumps. I grip his shoulder harder, torn between pulling him closer and shoving him away.
And then his fingers skim up under the hem of my dress. My breath catches so hard I almost choke on it. His palm anchors on my thigh, sliding slowly and deliberately, until his knuckles nudge the edge of my underwear.
Heat floods through me, sharp and dizzying. My head tips back against the wall as the bass rattles my bones.
“Fuck,” he hisses, then kisses me again before I can say more.
A moan threatens to spill out of my mouth, but before I can manage to take in some air, he’s swallowing the sound and keeping it between us.
His hand stays right there, not moving but in a way that makes every nerve ending light up.
“Let me touch you where anyone could see and no one would know.”
The crowd surges closer as the DJ shifts into “I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me).” The music is so loud now I can’t even hear my own thoughts. I can only feel his body pressing me against the wall, his thumb on my clit and his mouth stealing every breath.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice ragged against my lips.
I don’t. I kiss him harder, nails digging into his shoulder, silently daring him to keep going.
And he does.
His other hand moves to catch my leg and lifts it to his hips. It involuntarily wraps around his body, and he moves closer. “You’re going to make me ruin these pants if you keep pushing me closer to you, baby. Is that what you want?”
His fingers press firmer, circling once, just enough to make my hips jerk. I bite down on his lips to stifle the sound that wants to rip out of me.
Someone nearby shouts in laughter, so close that we both freeze. My pulse hammers so hard I swear the whole club can hear it, even through the thundering sound of the music and seemingly every patron singing along to the lyrics.
Connor pulls back just enough to look at me, chest rising hard against mine, eyes dark like he’s memorizing every inch of this moment. His hand drifts down my thigh again, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing my skin like a warning.
“Later,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked and low, the single word landing like a promise I can feel all the way down to my toes. He eases back, adjusting himself with a rough tug, and then—because he’s shameless—he brings his fingers to his mouth, tongue dragging over them as his eyes hold mine.
My stomach drops, heat rushing through me so fast I have to grip the wall to stay steady. And I nod because my voice would give me away.
When Elle appears out of the crowd, flushed and laughing, Connor’s already taken a step back, casual, like he’s been leaning against the wall this whole time.
And I… I’m trying to remember how to breathe.