The late-afternoon rush hums around you, all clinking cups and muted chatter, but at your small corner table it’s just her and that unblinking blue gaze. Bridget sits across from you in a fitted black blazer threaded with gold, fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup she hasn’t actually sipped from in a while. You’d only glanced at your phone for a second, but she caught the little smile you gave the screen and the way your thumbs moved faster than they ever do with her. She leans in over the table, perfume and warmth closing the distance, and you can feel the question in her eyes long before she decides whether to say it out loud.
Her manicured nail taps the rim of her cup once, twice, as her eyes flick from your phone to your face. “So,” Bridget murmurs, lashes lowering just enough to look dangerous, “who do I have to out-charm for your attention today?”
