The Lie(18)

“Did your mother ever remarry?” I ask her.

She starts twirling the Scotch bottle on the desk. “No. But she’s tried. She can’t be alone, ever, that’s her other thing. She always has a man in her life, usually some idiot. When they cheat on her or break up with her, as they invariably do since what man wants to feel second to her narcissism and ego, she moves on to someone else right away. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her single for more than a few weeks.” She sighs, blowing a strand of dark auburn hair out of her face, and stares up at the ceiling. “Man, I wish I smoked.”

I tap the desk. “I have a cigar.”

She perks up. “Really? Care to split it with me?”

I grin at her. Lachlan gave me a box of cigars on my last birthday, and I usually only smoke them with him or my father on special occasions, though I have a few of them in my desk. It would be nice to share one with her. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I used to have a few with my dad in Marseilles.”

“You sound so cultured,” I tell her, opening my drawer. “A woman of the world.”

I bring out the box and pick up a couple of them, smelling them and checking for dryness. When I’ve selected one, I start rummaging for a lighter.

“I got one,” she says, reaching into her jeans and pulling out a Zippo. I give her a questioning look and she shrugs, giving me a lazy smile. “A woman of the world should always be prepared.”

She tosses it to me, and I catch it with one hand. I smirk proudly at my achievement, glad I didn’t fall out of my chair trying to impress her.

“And what else does a woman of the world carry?” I ask her, smoothly flicking on the Zippo and watching the flame dance.

“A notepad and pen, for writing love letters. Or hate mail. Or grocery lists. A mirror because I always have stuff in my teeth.” At that she rubs her fingers along her teeth and bares them at me.

“You’re good,” I tell her.

She continues. “Also floss. For the same reason. And you can use it tie shit together. Gum, because fresh breath, and in case you need to MacGyver yourself out of a situation. Hand cream that smells pretty. A passport in case you fall in love with a foreign man who sweeps you off your feet.” She pauses. “And condoms.”

I raise my brows. Jesus. I’m both strangely jealous of the idea of her using condoms because it means she’s not using them with me, and turned on because…well, now I’m imagining the two of us in a situation that would require one.

“Now, are we going to smoke this thing or not?” she says, straightening up.

I nod, clearing my throat. My cheeks feel hot. “We’ll have to take a stroll somewhere. I can get away with some Scotch in my office, but smoking a cigar is something else.” I get out of my chair and grab my leather moto jacket. It’s late June, but the evenings have been chilly lately. As I put the jacket on, I ask her, “So, what is the Zippo for?”

She wraps a burgundy scarf around her neck that matches her hair and smiles. “In case Professor Blue Eyes wants to smoke a cigar with you.”

Fuck.

I’m starting to think I’m in way over my head here.

I swallow uneasily, my throat feeling thick. “Well, I’m glad you’re so prepared.” I head over to the door and open it for her. “After you.”

She sashays out into the hall, flicking her scarf over her shoulder like a bona fide movie star. I can see why her mother might be jealous of her. I can see why anyone would be. How could anyone not be absolutely enamored with her?

I follow her, locking the door behind me, and we head down the halls and out into the Edinburgh night, a light wind making the trees bow. We head to Middle Meadow Walk and stroll down toward the Meadows, pausing underneath a streetlamp as I try to light the cigar without the breeze blowing it away.

Natasha acts as a shield, stepping in as close as she can, and we end up huddling together, trying to get the thing lit.

Her proximity to me is unnerving. I can smell her beyond the tobacco. Coconut shampoo. Sweet. Intoxicating. It makes my heart clench.

I meet her eyes as she looks up through long lashes.

I can feel my pulse in my throat, her gaze completely bewitching me.

We hold each other’s eyes and the air between us swirls and spins, a slow tornado changing the pressure until it’s hard to ignore. It pulls and pulls, and the magnetism sets my skin on fire.

I don’t know what’s happening.

But it’s never happened to me before.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

The cigar finally lights.

“You’re supposed to smoke that thing,” she whispers to me, with languid, liquid eyes.

I take a draw, the embers glowing, and she steps back. The smoke billows out, taken by the wind into the dark sky. The thread between us though, that doesn’t dissipate. Not with distance. It crackles like a live wire, heavy and taut and so very dangerous.

Miranda’s face flashes in my mind. Her laugh, running along the beach in Ibiza with thin, gazelle-like legs.

A warning.

It must show on my face because Natasha asks, “Is it a bad cigar?”

I shake my head and exhale slowly, letting the smoke curl out of my mouth. “Not at all.”

I hand it to her, and our fingers brush against each other.