The Lie(42)

After that our conversation lapses into an easy rhythm. We order more drinks, talk, and laugh. I tease him, my favorite thing, and he responds in kind. The world around us seems to drop away, the pub noise diminishing until his voice, that smooth Scottish burr, is all I hear, reverberating in my ears, chest, and bones. Our own little world cocoons around us and it’s impossible to count the minutes or the hours.

Eventually though, Max taps the bar. “Closing up, mate,” he says.

I turn my head and slowly blink at him. The lights are brighter. My brain is liquid, my face flushed as I take in the rest of the pub. There’s no one left. It’s only us.

I flash Brigs a shy smile. “It seems we closed the place down.”

Brigs looks equally as surprised. He takes out his wallet and puts a few notes on the table. “It seems we did.”

“Let me pay for my own half,” I say, reaching for my purse on the back of the chair.

“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says dismissively. He slides the money to Max and then eyes the clock above the cash register. “Eleven thirty. You should have kicked us out a while ago, Max.”

“Nah,” Max says, taking the money. “It was more interesting to watch you two.”

Brigs’ gaze slides to me, his eyes warm from the effects of the alcohol. I feel a sudden urge to keep the night going, to see where it could go. I’m drunk and comfortable, and I’m not ready to say goodbye to this. It’s that kind of combination that makes you keep drinking long after you should have stopped, regardless of right or wrong, good or bad, early mornings or not. Consequences don’t matter at this point; they are something fuzzy in the future to worry about later.

I get off the stool, trying to keep my balance, but Brig’s hand shoots out and places a firm grip on my arm, steadying me.

“Thank you,” I tell him, clumsily grabbing my purse.

He lets go but takes a step forward until I can feel the heat of his body. He studies my mouth and then reaches forward, gently running his thumb underneath my lips.

My heart catches in my throat and I can’t breathe.

“Your lipstick is all smeared,” he says huskily.

And for none of the right reasons, I can’t help but think.

Oh, this is so dangerous.

He drops his hand. “Would I be a good host or a bad one if I invited you into my flat?” he asks.

Oh Jesus.

My cheeks are on fire. I have to be smart about this, but the more he stands there, staring at me, the stupider I get. “I’m not sure if I’m in the right frame of mind to make that decision,” I whisper.

He smiles kindly. “Let me walk you to the tube.”

I exhale in relief, even though my body is demanding a recount.

We step out into the night, the air cool and crisp, perhaps signaling an early fall, but I’m burning up inside. The station is right across the street, and as we go over, Brigs points up at his building, a stately beast made of brick and white trim.

“I’m just up there,” he says, pointing to the third floor. “If I ever get bored, I just stare out the window and wonder what Mr. Holmes is doing.”

I see a shadow pass across his nearest wall. “That one? Is there someone there?”

He laughs. “That’s just Winter. My dog.”

I give him an incredulous smile. “You have a dog?”

“I told you my brother rescues them, right? Well, he kind of rubbed off on me.”

Now I really want to go up into his flat. It would be the greatest excuse, too, to pet his dog and maybe, um, other things.

But somehow my willpower is still in control.

I do manage to say, “Maybe I can say hello next time.”

That was brave of me. Assuming that there would be a next time and all.

“That would be nice.”

We stop walking just outside the entrance to the station. He exhales heavily, brows pulled together, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger there a moment too long. “I still have to get used to the blonde. I still have to get used to this.”

I’m not sure if I’m breathing or not. I’m so singularly focused on him, his fingers in my hair, the way his troubled gaze rests on my mouth.

Kiss me, I think. Let’s see what else we can get used to.

“Goodnight Natasha,” he says, and there’s a beat of hesitation, like he’s about to lean closer and place his lips on mine. I’m acutely aware of how much I want him, how much I ache.

Then he turns and walks away to his flat.

I watch his tall, lean frame go, admiring his ass beneath that motorcycle jacket, before I head underground.

When I finally get back to my flat, I’m utterly exhausted and still a bit drunk. I open the door and am immediately bombarded by Melissa in her bathrobe and a zillion questions.