Hanging out late

The conversation flowed effortlessly as the river darkened and the string lights grew brighter against the night sky. Emily leaned forward slightly, her chin resting on her hand, those large expressive blue eyes fixed on John with genuine interest. The rosé had brought a soft flush to her porcelain cheeks, making her look even more radiant.

“You know, I still can’t believe you grew up riding horses in Texas,” John said with a grin, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You walk into the trading floor every day looking like you stepped out of a magazine, yet you talk about branding calves like it’s no big deal.”

Emily laughed, that light, infectious sound that always seemed to cut through the city noise. She tucked her slim legs to the side, her knee once again brushing against his under the table and lingering just a second longer than necessary. “Oh please, I was never that good on a horse. I mostly just fell off them. And you—you’re this calm, collected pro who everyone respects, but I’ve seen you get genuinely excited about a good earnings beat. It’s cute.”

John felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the whiskey. He pulled out his phone under the table, quickly typing a message to his wife: Dinner with client running late—good progress though. Might be another hour or so. Love you. He hit send and slipped the phone back into his pocket, ignoring the faint pang of guilt as he looked back at Emily.

“Careful,” he teased, his voice dropping a notch as he met her gaze. “If you keep complimenting me like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to butter me up for the next tough trade.”

She tilted her head, her blonde hair catching the light as she smiled playfully. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just like working with someone who actually listens when I ramble about charts.” Her foot shifted again, lightly grazing his ankle in the confined space. It could have been accidental—except for the way her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Besides, it’s nice having an excuse to sit here by the river instead of staring at Bloomberg screens till midnight.”

They dove deeper into stories—Emily recounting a disastrous first date in New York where the guy spent the whole night checking stock tickers on his phone, John sharing how he’d once accidentally pitched the wrong stock to a billionaire because of a swapped ticker symbol. Laughter came easily, their voices growing softer and more familiar as the terrace around them emptied out. John found himself noticing every detail: the delicate way she traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip, the subtle sway of her elegant figure when she shifted in her seat, the way her perfect skin seemed to glow warmer in the low light.

The terrace had thinned to just a handful of tables by the time another drink arrived. The string lights overhead cast a soft golden halo over everything, and the river below had turned into a dark mirror reflecting the city’s scattered jewels. Emily’s rosé caught the light as she lifted the glass, her fingers slender and graceful around the stem. John watched the way the breeze teased a loose strand of her blonde hair across her cheek again; she didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she simply didn’t care. That was part of what undid him—the way she moved through the world completely unaware of the effect she had.

“You’re staring,” she said lightly, tilting her head with that shy little smile that always hit him low in the stomach. Her big blue eyes met his over the rim of her glass, warm and a little mischievous from the wine. “Is there something on my face, or are you just trying to figure out how I managed to close Marcus without you doing all the heavy lifting?”