The city had begun to cool as dusk roll in. Lana tugged her black blouse down, trying to smooth the wrinkles as she followed Carlyle out of the subway station and toward the mansion where they'd been assigned for the evening.
"So, this is your aunt's catering gig?" Lana asked, adjusting the strap on her serving bag.
"Technically, it's my aunt's company. She's not here tonight though too busy yelling at someone over caviar portions, probably," Carlyle smirked. "But yeah. It's easy money, especially for events like this."
Lana nodded. "I just… I didn't think living in New York would burn through my savings so fast."
Carlyle shot her a look. "New York chews you up and spits you out. We survive with side hustles and overpriced coffee."
They reached the entrance of the mansion, where staff were already rushing around the grand stone steps. Lana looked up, wide-eyed. The place was stunning high archways, golden light spilling through wide windows, a trickling fountain in the courtyard. Everything screamed old money.
The catering team gave them instructions: pass hors d'oeuvres, keep smiles polite, and don't talk to the guests unless spoken to.
Simple enough.
But nothing felt simple when Lana stepped into the marbled foyer and saw him.
Dylan Orwell.
He stood near the staircase in a crisp, midnight-black suit that made him look impossibly sharp under the chandelier light. His hair was neatly styled, his posture effortless, holding a glass of something golden as he spoke with a small group of sharply dressed guests.
Lana's breath hitched.
She quickly turned her face, hoping he hadn't noticed her. Of all places. Of all nights.
Carlyle leaned over, whispering, "You okay?"
"That's Mason's dad," Lana murmured. "He's here."
Carlyle blinked, then glanced discreetly. "You mean the one you… the poolside dinner guy?"
Lana nodded.
"Oh boy."
Lana busied herself with a silver tray of canapés, slipping into the motion of walking between groups of guests and offering soft-spoken pleasantries. She kept her head down, heart thumping in her chest. But she could feel him.
She could feel his gaze.
When she finally glanced up—just once—there he was. Standing alone now, watching her from across the room. Their eyes met.
And time didn't just slow. It paused.
Dylan's expression changed. Surprise first, then recognition. Then something deeper. His lips parted, just slightly, as if he might say something—but didn't.
Lana looked away first, heat rising to her cheeks.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
Then, as she rounded the corner into a quieter hallway to refill her tray, she heard the sound of footsteps behind her.
"Lana."
His voice sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned slowly. Dylan stood a few feet away from her now, framed by the soft wall lights, his suit collar open, his tie just slightly loosened like he'd been looking for a breath of air—and found her instead.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he said, his voice lower now. Almost intimate.
"I… didn't either," she replied, gripping the edge of her tray. "It's my first day."
"Catering?" he asked, eyes flicking down at her uniform, then slowly back to her face.
She nodded. "Carlyle helped me get the job."
He took a step closer, hands in his pockets. "You always surprise me."
She smiled nervously, unsure what to say. His gaze lingered—so direct, so warm. Her pulse danced.
"You shouldn't be back here alone," he said quietly, but with a touch of humor.
"I'm just refilling my tray," she replied, holding it up slightly.
"Then I'm glad I caught you before you did." He paused, then added, "You look beautiful, Lana."
Her breath caught. "I'm wearing a uniform."
"Still," he said with a slow, appreciative smile, "You manage to outshine the chandeliers."
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, heart fluttering wildly. "You're going to get me fired."
"I'll tip generously," he said, deadpan.
She laughed—soft, genuine, a little breathless. "You're impossible."
"Only when I'm trying not to kiss someone I shouldn't."
The words hit her like a wave, and her eyes met his again, wide with surprise.
But before either of them could say anything more, they heard voices echoing toward the hall. Footsteps. She stepped back quickly, and he did too—both of them snapping back to reality.
"You should go," she whispered.
He nodded once. "Later, maybe?"
She bit her lip, then turned and hurried back into the main hall.
Behind her, Dylan watched her go. And in his chest, that dangerous feeling sparked again.
He didn't want to stop.
Lana returned to the main ballroom with her tray of fresh hors d'oeuvres, heart still thudding in her chest. The soft piano music, the quiet chatter, the glimmer of crystal glasses—it all blurred around her. Her body was moving, smiling, offering shrimp tartlets to strangers, but her mind was somewhere else.
You always surprise me.
You look beautiful, Lana.
Only when I'm trying not to kiss someone I shouldn't.
Those words spun in her mind like a slow waltz, echoing between her ribs.
She didn't know how she was managing to breathe.
Every brush of memory from that brief hallway moment sent a heat rolling down her neck. The way his eyes looked at her—like she wasn't just a girl in a black button-up and a name tag. Like she was something more. And it terrified her how much she wanted to believe it.
Dylan Orwell.
Mason's father.
A man nearly twice her age.
And yet… her stomach fluttered with a giddy, dangerous thrill.
She stole a glance across the room. He was back with his group of guests, but his posture had shifted—more reserved now, hand half-heartedly swirling the drink in his glass, gaze flickering to the crowd every now and then. Looking for her?
She swallowed hard.
What was she doing? This was absurd. Messy. Wrong. She was supposed to be working tonight, not… flirting with Dylan Orwell in a hallway.
And yet, it hadn't felt wrong. It had felt like something pulled her toward him, like the universe kept tossing them together for a reason. First the rooftop. Then the breakfast. Now this.
How many times could a coincidence be just a coincidence?
She passed Carlyle near the bar and received a raised eyebrow. "You disappeared," her roommate mouthed over the noise.
Lana shook her head subtly, mouthing back: "Later."
The shift continued. Lana tried to focus, to be present, but her head was spinning with every look, every word, every unspoken thing in Dylan's eyes.
What if Mason finds out?
That sobered her. It hit like a splash of cold water.
Whatever had just passed between her and Dylan wasn't just forbidden—it could destroy things. Her friendship with Mason. Her sanity. Maybe even Dylan's relationship with his own son.
She inhaled sharply, steadying the tray in her hands.
This was dangerous territory. Lana Carter had come to New York to chase a future, not play with fire.
But God help her—every time Dylan looked at her like that, she wanted to burn.