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“What can I get you?” The bartender smiles.
“A French 75, please.” I’m craving something fizzy.
My eyes stray to the door, where a couple walks in. They’re arm in arm and so into one another that the room shoots up a hundred degrees. Is it pathetic that all I want is for someone to look at me like that? I’m an independent, intelligent woman but...
Just once I want to bethatgirl. The girl who gets the guy, the girl who stops traffic. Is it so bad to want to feel desirable? To feel sexy and coveted and beloved?
The bartender places my drink on a coaster and I pay. Bubbles race to the top of the champagne flute, where a delicate curl of lemon peel sits, curving over the edge of the glass. I stare at it for a moment, hanging in a delicious limbo between fear of rejection and the possibility that I may have something exciting in front of me.
The cocktail is tasty, dry champagne with a hint of sour lemon. As I watch the door, I twist Owen’s mother’s ring. I still haven’t gotten used to wearing it. But for tonight it’s on the wrong finger. I slip it off and transfer it to my other hand.
I turn back to my drink and run my finger over the rim, trying to make it sing like I used to when I was a little kid. I count my breaths in and out, clinging to hope.
Please come to me.
I remember how mortified I was when I found out my diary had been read aloud. I knew Owen had done his best to conceal my identity. But people talked and theorised—we all wanted to be investigators, after all.
Rumours spread. I’d denied it, of course. And then the diary had turned up back in my room seemingly of its own accord. I knew he’d put it there. And part of me had been excited that he knew how I felt. Unfortunately, nothing had come of it.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
I turn toward the deep voice and swallow back the excitement surging through my veins. Owen has a dangerous edge to him. His usually playful smile is nowhere to be found, and his vibrant blue eyes hold me captive. Will he play my game?
“No, please.” I gesture toward the empty seat next to me. “It’s all yours.”
He eases himself onto the bar stool and signals to the bartender. 18-year-old Talisker, neat. I’ve never seen him drink anything but beer. He looks at me while the bartender pours, his expression smouldering and unreadable. The corner of my lips lifts into a smile, inviting him closer. He knows what I want, so now the ball is in his court.
I hold my breath...waiting.
“I’m James,” he says.
My thundering heart almost trips over itself with joy. It’s happening. “Annabel.”
“Are you from around here, Annabel?” An American accent has crept into his voice that’s doing funny things to my insides. Is he drawing on his time in New York?
My mind spins. I don’t have a backstory planned—I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. Hell, I have no idea how this role-play thing is supposed to work. Perhaps part of me never thought he’d say yes...
“I’m in town on business.” I sip my drink. “For one night.”
“Just one?” There’s that cheeky twinkle.
“Yes. I’m...” Think, dammit. “A researcher.”
“And what do you research, Annabel?” The way he says my fake name sounds like sex itself.
His drink arrives and he brings the heavy glass up to his mouth, tipping his head back. As he swallows, I watch the muscles working in his throat and I find my own totally devoid of moisture.
“I research the five senses and their effect on the human body.” My creative mind kicks into gear and it’s like slipping a costume over my head. “Such as how the other senses increase in strength to compensate when one is no longer accessible.”
“That’s an interesting field of research.”
“It’s very hands on.”
Our bodies are turned toward one another, my legs crossed so that my knees sit between his open legs. Owen leans one arm on the bar and watches me closely. It’s different to every other time he’s looked at me.
“How do you test those things?” he asks.
“It’s pretty simple. I can show you right now, if you like?”
