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“And what’s that?” I settled back in the chair and rubbed at where my neck and shoulder met. The tight muscle made me wish I’d gone for a massage instead of drinks and a smoke with Benoit.
“You seem tense.”
“That’s not a theory.”
“No, but it’s a symptom of my theory.”
“Do you plan on spitting it out, or do you want me to guess? I haven’t had a drink yet.”
“I’ll ignore the obvious pun, but only because I’m far too curious about what the pretty young thing from the other night has done to get under your skin. What was his name? Presley?”
How the hell did he do that? Know exactly what I was thinking?
The waiter returned, and as he went about setting up our drinks, I cleared my throat. “Preston.”
“Ah, yes, sweet, gorgeous trouble, that Preston.”
He had no fucking idea how right he was about that.
“Still not hearing a theory,” I said, taking the glass the waiter handed me. I lowered my nose to sniff the fruity aroma and then took a small sip, letting it swish around on my tongue. When I nodded, the waiter poured a couple more fingers into my glass before doing the same for Benoit.
Another man arrived with my cigar and went through the ritual of clipping and lighting the end, getting it nice and even before presenting it to me.
The first drag was like heaven. It was almost enough to make me forget that Benoit had somehow nailed the reason my mind had been elsewhere.
Once we were alone again, Benoit tapped his fingers along the arm of his chair. “You’ve done something you feel both excited and guilty about. That’s my theory.”
“And you think that has something to do with Preston?”
He raised a brow, challenging me to tell him otherwise.
But I couldn’t. He’d always been able to read me too well, a fact that pissed me off now, when I wanted more time to figure out what the hell I was going to do.
“Goddamn you.”
A chuckle escaped the far-too-perceptive man across from me as I puffed on the cigar.
“What can I say? It’s a gift.” Benoit tilted his head. “Or maybe it’s just that I could sense all that sexual tension between you two. Things were bound to combust. So…did they?”
Combust? Well,hedid. All over my hand.
Shifting in my chair as that sinful memory did things to my dick, I tried to give a nonchalant shrug. “Possibly.”
Benoit groaned. “I should’ve ordered something stronger than cognac to loosen those lips.”
“No,” I said, and shook my head. “Too much alcohol is what started things in the first place.”
“Oh, I see. So your head’s still a little sore from last night, then.”
That’s right—Benoit didn’t know about the charity event. He just assumed whatever my transgressions were began the night before, but I’d been keeping this little secret close to the vest for a few weeks now. Not allowing myself to think about the kiss that night with Preston. Forcing myself to deny the instant chemistry I’d had with the gorgeous young man who’d been coming and going from my house over the last few years as…Serena’s boyfriend.
I took a long sip of my drink, hoping the smooth liquid would help the feeling of unease that hit whenever I thought aboutthatparticular part of this insane situation.
“Archer?”
“Huh?”
“I asked about your head. Were you drinking last night?”
