Marco is different.
He doesn’t slide in. He walks up with his hands in his pockets and waits. Doesn’t sit until I look at him.
Dark eyes. Warm smile. That easy confidence of a man who gets paid to make women feel good and actually likes it — or has done it so long the liking reads real.
“I’m Marco. What do you do?”
“Robotics.”
He stops. Real surprise — eyebrows up, forehead moving, mouth opening half a second before the words.
“That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I laugh. A real one.
The champagne is cold and sharp and it hits the back of my throat like a spark. The first sip loosens something in my shoulders. The second one loosens something deeper.
“You need to get out more.”
“I’m serious. Tell me what you build.”
“Robots that help people move again. Brain-computer inte
