"You're bold," the man said, unbothered as she hugged him, drunk against the bar.
"Bold gets you what you want," Ginny slurred, one heel dangling over the rooftop ledge. "Tonight I want trouble."
He let the word sit between them and ordered another whiskey without looking at the menu. The skyline glowed, glittering like money. People around them laughed, recorded their drinks, posed for neon selfies. Ginny used the noise like armor.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Ginny," she said. "Guinevere, if I'm pretending to be someone with class." She leaned so close the heat of her breath hit his ear.
"Forrest," he answered, slow. "Forrest Lambert."
"Lambert." Ginny tasted the name as if testing it. "You look like you have a private jet."
He didn't smile. He put his glass down carefully, fingers flat on the wood, as if measuring how long the world would let him keep it. "I prefer planes that take off when I tell them to," he said.
Someone at the table behind them shouted a joke. Forrest turned his head, three precise degrees. He glanced, then didn't laugh. His attention snapped back as if a cord pulled him. That small motion made Ginny feel seen and invisible at the same time.
"Play a game with me?" she asked. "One kiss, then walk away. I need the story."
"What's the story?" he asked.
"My ex ruined my father's business," she said, fast. "Kenneth Vega. You know the name
