Elle's Pov
We're seated outside the café, the air smells of burnt beans and steamed milk, a stark contrast to the New York wind cutting through the streets. Camila sits across from me, poking at a sad, lonely bit of foam at the bottom of her cup. She leans back, her lips curling into that sly smile, the one that says we're about to do or talk about something crazy.
"He's persistent, Elle. I'll give him that," she says, her finger tracing the rim of her cup. "Adrian asked me to dinner again. Third time this week."
I reach across the table, and tap her saucer. "And you saying no again, right?" I arch a brow. "Cam, the man's a work of art. Like a masterpiece with a bad boy twist. What's holding you back?"
She laughs, but the sound dies a bit too quickly. A flicker of caution sparks in her eyes. "He's too perfect. Nobody's that put-together without a catch, in this 2026! I'm good with my coffee and my peace of mind, thanks."
