The blonde's eyes widened. Her friend's martini-loose gaze dragged shamelessly from his white sneakers up to his jawline, alcohol having long since dissolved any filter. The blonde elbowed her. The friend didn't flinch. She kept looking.
Phei didn't return the glance. Didn't acknowledge or play oblivious or interested. He simply stood—close to Patricia, hand still warm at the small of her back, eyes fixed on the glowing floor numbers above the doors—and projected a message so clear it needed no voice: Taken.
Patricia felt it. Felt the steady heat of his palm, the deliberate disinterest radiating toward every other woman in the elevator, the rare, intoxicating certainty of being the only person in his line of sight.
Her hand found his arm. Rested there. Stayed.
Fifteenth floor.
The doors parted.
The fifteenth floor of the Romano Café was another universe entirely.
