She can tell how Tristanâs eyes track her movementsâ the smug smile pulling at the corner of his lips, how carefully he assesses her and the jacket. Thereâs a flush to her cheeks. The weather outside the car may be brisk and biting, but Camila has always run warm.
âIt looks fucking amazing on you.â
She canât help but preen. Characteristically shameless, she leans back in her seat to grin at him, tossing her hair behind her shoulder as if to pose for a photo, humming happily to herself. Camila folds her hands primly over her knee. Purses her lips.
She got a lot of attention at her jobâ sort of the entire point, really, meaning there was never a shortage of men willing to fawn and fuss and shove thick bands of cash towards her onstage when she wanted. But Camila found she liked this better. There was no confusing the signals he sent, and there was no confusing the way she leaned in towards him, the way her eyes sparked with interest the second he proposed to go do something. Maybe it was a little reckless, yes. But how was Camila supposed to deny what she wantedâ heâd opened the door for her and sheâd all but leapt in. Tristan was tall, and he was handsome, but it wasnât just that. There was something thereâ something charged, and playfulâ that simmered between them. She liked that. How effortless it had arisen.Â
She clicks her tongue. There was something relieving about his own answer; no need to pretend she hadnât been absolutely smashed on a weekday.
âOof. I was blackout drunk this Tuesday.â
Camila halves a breadstick and offers it to Tristan, taking a bite of her own half in the meantime. The music was nice. It floats around in the background as she chews, considers the questions between them. She likes the sound of thatâ being taken out in his car again. Tristan was curious. Camila was more than happy to oblige. Â
âOh, I can show you all my guilty pleasure musicâ if you ever take me out sometime. I like going out. I like dancing.â
She crosses a leg.
âWhat do you like doing, Tristan?â











