Robert's POV
Mondays in New York were good for one thing disappearing.
Everyone else was chained to their desks or hurrying down sidewalks with coffee like it was oxygen, which meant I could vanish into places nobody thought to look. In this case, a cinema. Not one of those blockbuster multiplexes in Times Square, but a quiet, slightly worn theater on the Lower East Side that smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and carpets from the eighties.
The Monday morning showing was nearly empty, which was exactly the point. My mother had arranged yet another "casual" brunch with the daughter of one of her charity board friends, which meant a table for four, champagne, and an entire conversation engineered to make me consider my "future." I'd been here before. The future they imagined always included a strategic marriage, a picture-perfect wedding, and me smiling stiffly beside someone I barely knew while the New York Society Pages documented it like a coronation.
So I texted my mother that I was "in meetings all day," then walked straight to this theater.
There were maybe six other people scattered in the red velvet seats, all of them strangers. Or so I thought, until I saw her.
She was four rows ahead, sitting dead center with her legs crossed, one foot swinging absently. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, catching the dim pre-movie light. She had a soda cup the size of a small fire hydrant balanced in the crook of her arm and a tub of popcorn that looked untouched.
Something about her posture caught my attention upright, like she was bracing herself. Most people slouched into cinema seats like they were surrendering to gravity. Not her.
The seat beside her was empty. So were the two on the other side.
I hesitated for exactly three seconds before walking down and sliding into the seat next to hers.
Her head turned sharply. "Seriously?"
I glanced around, deliberately slow. "It's either this or the front row, and I didn't feel like craning my neck."
"There are at least ten other seats in here."
"None with this view."
Her eyes narrowed, assessing. Then, to my surprise, the corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile. "You know this isn't a good pick-up strategy, right?"
"I wasn't aware I was trying to pick you up."
"You sat in the only seat next to me in an empty theater. You're either terrible at reading social cues, or…"
"Or I'm avoiding someone," I said, cutting in.
That made her pause. "And hiding next to me is part of the plan?"
"It was either that or the lobby, and there's too much natural light out there."
She studied me for another beat, then shook her head slightly and turned back toward the screen. "Whatever. Just don't talk during the movie."
"Scout's honor," I said, even though I'd never been a scout.
The lights dimmed and the previews started.
Halfway through the film, I noticed she hadn't touched her popcorn. Her soda was half gone, but the popcorn sat there like a prop. At one point, when something on-screen made the audience laugh, I caught her smiling faintly but it didn't reach her eyes.
When the credits rolled, she stood quickly, like she couldn't get out fast enough.
I followed, keeping a few steps behind. Outside the theater doors, she pulled out her phone, thumb flying over the screen, and I caught a glimpse of her lock screen a blurry shot of her and another woman laughing, champagne glasses mid-clink.
"Didn't peg you as the Monday morning movie type," I said as we stepped into the street.
"Didn't peg you as the follow-me-outside type," she replied without looking up from her phone.
"I'm not following you. I'm walking in the same direction."
She glanced up then, eyes catching mine with dry amusement. "Sure, you are."
Before I could answer, her phone buzzed. She stepped aside to take the call, and I heard her laugh…the first real one since I'd seen her before her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm not doing that. Stop it. No, you're insane. Goodbye."
She hung up, shaking her head, and started walking again.
"Friend of yours?" I asked.
"Yes. She thinks she's funny."
"She might be right."
That earned me a small sideways glance, but no reply.
We reached the corner where our paths naturally split. She hesitated, as if debating whether to say something else, then gave a polite nod. "Enjoy your meetings."
I blinked. "Meetings?"
She smirked. "You don't hide in a cinema at eleven in the morning unless you're avoiding something. My guess? Meetings."
Then she turned and walked away, leaving me standing there like an idiot.
By the time I got back to my apartment, Callum was sprawled across my couch like he owned it. He had a beer in one hand, his feet on my coffee table, and my television tuned to a soccer match I didn't care about.
"You stood up the brunch date," he said without looking away from the screen.
"Good afternoon to you too."
"Your mother called me."
I groaned. "Why would she call you?"
"Because she thinks I can talk sense into you. Which, for the record, I can. I just choose not to."
I dropped into the armchair opposite him. "I wasn't in the mood."
"You're never in the mood. What you need is a distraction."
"I'm not looking for one."
"Not even if she's beautiful, clearly out of your league, and just slightly irritated by your existence?" Callum finally glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. "Because that's what you look like right now. Like you've met someone who won't let you get away with your usual charm-and-run routine."
I didn't answer, which was apparently enough for him to grin.
"Tell me you at least got her name."
"No."
"Good," he said, leaning back. "That makes it more fun."
I shook my head, but the truth was, she had gotten under my skin. And Callum, damn him, could see it.