Not Your Type

The sun dipped behind the skyline, setting the high-rises ablaze with streaks of amber and rose. On the rooftop of Ashgrove Apartments, champagne fizzed in tall glasses, laughter spilled, and conversation buzzed under the soft hum of string instruments piping through hidden speakers. Linen shirts fluttered in the breeze, designer heels clicked against the tile, and money walked around dressed like it had nothing to prove.

Sam adjusted the collar of his button-down, tugging at it like it might suddenly loosen the grip this party had on his nerves. He leaned against the railing, surveying the crowd with the weariness of someone who’d been to one too many of these rooftop spectacles. They all bled together eventually. Full of the same faces, same flutes of overpriced bubbly, and same hollow small talk that circled the drain of pretentiousness.

He could already predict the conversations around him. Something about IPOs. A trip to Ibiza. Maybe a heated debate over which oat milk froths best.

Dante, on the other hand, moved through the crowd like he was born of it. His dark hair was just messy enough to look deliberate, and his navy suit was tailored to tempt and hung open. A cocktail dangled lazily from his fingers, and he wore his charm like cologne: confidently, and in copious amounts.

“So I told her, ‘That yacht isn’t even seaworthy without me,’” Dante said with a grin, lifting his glass like it was part of the punchline. The surrounding group of socialites let out a perfectly synchronized burst of laughter.

All except Sam, who deadpanned from the side. “You realize no one even asked about the yacht, right?”

Dante, ignoring Sam, was still grinning when his laughter died mid-breath. His body stilled, and his gaze sharpened. “Whoa,” he said under his breath, barely loud enough to hear over the clink of glass and jazz.

Sam turned to look. She had just stepped onto the rooftop.

Her dress was simple. It was a soft floral sundress that kissed her calves and fluttered in the warm breeze, but she wore it like it had been spun just for her. Sunlight from the last golden rays shimmered in her curls, casting halos in her hair. She wasn’t the loudest in the room. She didn’t need to be. Every step she took was magnetic and effortless, like the whole world had slowed to take notice.

Her sandals tapped gently against the tile as she walked, and her hazel-green eyes scanned the crowd with calm disinterest. It was as if she were already three conversations ahead of everyone, and none had earned her attention yet.

Dante stared, utterly disarmed. “Who is that?”

Sam’s face contorted with dread. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Dante didn’t look away. “She’s... stunning.”

“And you are a human tornado.”

Dante blinked, then smirked, swirling his drink. “Come on. You act like I ruin lives.”

“You ruin leases,” Sam said flatly. “And that’s worse in this building.”

Dante turned toward him, half-amused. “Seriously?”

Sam jabbed a finger at him. “We had great women living here. Intelligent, independent, emotionally stable women. But then you dated them. And suddenly, boom, moving trucks in the middle of the night, tears in the elevator, and awkward building meetings. Why? Because your ‘relationships,’ and I use that term loosely, always go nuclear.”

Dante laughed. “I didn’t know you were keeping statistics.”

“I’ve got data. I’ve got graphs.”

Dante gestured toward the far end of the patio, where a silver-haired woman in a lavender shawl was chatting animatedly with a waiter. “Clara’s still here.”

Sam followed his gaze. “Clara is seventy-two and teaches tai chi in the mornings. She’s immune to your nonsense. Also, not your type.”

“You’re making me sound like some kind of menace,” Dante said, feigning offense.

“You are. And I’m trying to protect the ecosystem,” Sam said, folding his arms. “We can’t afford another evacuation. This building’s turning into a bro cave with a cleaning staff.”

But Dante wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes had returned to the woman in the sundress. She’d stopped at the edge of the bar, glancing over the drink menu with a politely raised brow, clearly unimpressed.

“What’s her name?” Dante asked.

Sam shook his head. “Don’t know. Don’t want to.”

“She lives here?”

“I’m hoping she doesn’t. Maybe she’s just a visiting cousin. Or a party crasher. Or a vision sent from the heavens to test your self-control.”

“Whatever she is, I’m meeting her,” Dante said.

Sam grabbed his arm. “Dante, please. I’m begging you. Just this once… don’t.”

Dante chuckled, eyes already drifting back toward the bar like iron to a magnet. The woman in the sundress stood there, spine straight, posture composed like she’d been carved from serenity itself. Her hands were neatly folded in front of her, and her expression was... unreadable. Not icy, not warm. Just calm like someone who had mastered the art of being unbothered.

Dante downed the rest of his drink in a single, confident swallow. “Oh, would you look at that?” he said, setting the empty glass on the nearest tray. “I need a refill.”

Sam reached for him, a silent plea in his eyes. “Dante—don’t.”

But Dante had already slipped away, weaving through the crowd with the ease of someone who knew how to move through a room. He sidestepped a laughing couple, ducked beneath a waiter’s tray, and emerged at the bar like a man arriving at the finish line.

The woman didn’t turn. She stood poised, waiting as the bartender slid a glass across the counter. “One Coke,” the bartender said with a polite smile.

Dante’s brows lifted. “Coke?” he asked, appearing at her side like a surprise cameo. “Seriously?”

She turned, her hazel-green eyes locking onto him. “Yes,” she said, her voice cool and melodic. “Soda. At a party. Revolutionary, I know.”

Dante leaned a forearm on the bar, clearly intrigued. “Bold move. But come on, live a little.” He pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the polished wood. “Let me upgrade you. Something stronger. On me.”

The bartender glanced between them, then reached for the bill, but her voice cut in. “Actually,” she said, “my Coke was free. But he can keep it as a tip.”

The bartender grinned widely, pocketed the bill with a grateful nod, and turned away.

Dante blinked. That was not how this usually went. “You just tipped a hundred dollars for a free drink?”

She lifted her glass, nonchalantly. “He’s on his feet for hours surrounded by half-drunk strangers in shoes that cost more than his monthly rent. I figured he earned it.”

She turned and walked off, her steps as effortless as her dismissal. Her sundress floated behind her like a closing curtain.

Dante stared after her, momentarily speechless. Momentarily.

But then, he followed after her. “So, not a drinker, I assume?” he asked, keeping pace as they moved through a cluster of guests.

She stopped and turned, eyebrow lifted, Coke still in hand. Her gaze traveled over him—dark stubble, piercing blue eyes, tailored suit, and a posture that suggested both confidence and chaos. He looked like he was auditioning for the role of Alpha Werewolf #1. Handsome, sure. Dangerous? Absolutely.

She tilted her head slightly. “Let me guess. You’re used to women laughing at your jokes, sipping whatever you order, and waiting to be dazzled.”

Dante grinned. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“No,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “Just... predictable.”

He let that sit for a second, then laughed, “Okay, that’s fair. But you should know, I’m much more interesting than I look.”

She smirked, the corners of her lips curling just enough to suggest mischief. “That remains to be seen,” she said, her gaze drifting over the rooftop crowd as though bored already. Then, with a glance back at Dante, she added, “Go ahead.”

Dante arched a brow. “Go ahead?”

“Ask me,” she said, eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. “Whatever it is, you’ve been holding back. Might as well get it over with.”

He chuckled, leaning a little closer. “Alright, I’ll bite. What do you think I was going to ask?”

She raised one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. “Probably my name. Then some clever line about fate, or serendipity, or how we were obviously meant to share a drink stronger than soda.”

Dante blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Wow. Brutal. Accurate but brutal. Do you just walk around reading minds for sport, or is this a special occasion?”

“Only when someone makes it that easy,” she said, taking another sip from her Coke, cool as ever.

Before Dante could volley back with something clever, a slightly breathless Sam appeared, hands on his hips like he’d just jogged a few laps. “Thank you,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at Dante, “for not setting anything on fire while I was gone.”

Dante grinned and slung an arm around Sam’s shoulder like the old college buddies they were. “Sam, come on. Be friendly. I’m just getting to know our lovely new neighbor. Who, by the way, is still a mystery to me. Her name is…?”

She looked between the two men. Sam shot her a subtle look, half warning, half apology, the universal sign for I tried.

She sighed, lifting her Coke in mock toast. “Allison,” she said. “My friends call me Ali.”

Dante’s face lit up like she’d just handed him a prize. “Ali.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “I said my friends call me Ali.”

He winced, placing a hand over his heart. “Ouch. You wound me.”

Allison sipped her drink. “Good. Maybe you’ll remember it.”

Sam barely held back a laugh, covering it with a cough into his fist.

Dante watched her as she turned and walked off again, sundress catching the breeze like something out of a commercial for freedom and zero patience. She didn’t look back.

“She just moved in, you know,” Sam said, watching him with suspicion.

“Oh, I figured,” Dante murmured, his eyes still tracing her path. “Nobody carries that much peace and confidence unless they haven’t lived here long.”

Sam groaned. “She seems normal. Sweet, even. Let’s not ruin that.”

Dante took a slow breath, the ghost of a grin forming. “Relax. I’m not planning anything.”

“You never plan anything,” Sam shot back. “That’s the problem.”

But Dante wasn’t listening anymore. Not really. The rooftop was still buzzing with glasses clinking, laughter rising, and the DJ cueing up another perfectly curated track, but he wasn’t tuned in. His mind kept circling back to a woman with a soda, a quiet smile, and a gaze that sliced through his charm like it was a cheap ribbon.

She had told him, plain as day, that he wasn’t her friend nor interested. She hadn’t blinked when she said it. And he hadn’t stopped smiling since.

Challenge accepted.