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“It’s sunny here, warm. Everyone is walking around in light clothing and it’s hard not to smile when you’re breathing in fresh, clean air, with the sun shining on your face. It rains in Liverpool. A lot. It’s a cold, drizzly rain complete with dark skies, so everyone is huddled under jackets and hats and umbrellas. Faces down to the ground, rushing from one place to the next, simply to get inside and out of that miserable chill. I guess we’re less free to…wave.”
The waiter returned and poured each of them a glass of wine. Hugo lifted his and they followed suit. “Santé,” he said.
“What about London? Do people wave there?” she asked, fascinated by Lancelot’s observation. She wanted to reach for her notebook, to sketch the picture he’d just drawn for her. In her mind’s eye, she could see Lancelot huddled, leaning forward, his gaze down as rain pelted him, drops of water clinging to the ends of his auburn curls. Unfortunately, her mother had told her countless times it wasn’t polite to drop out of conversations at the dinner table to write or sketch, so she resisted the urge.
“Och. London’s just a big city, isn’t it? It’s either locals rushing to work or tourists meandering about with their mouths hanging open.”
“I would probably be one of those tourists. I’ve dreamed of going to London someday. And Paris,” she said to Hugo.
“You would love Paris. Actually, Charleston reminds me of home. Some of the architecture, the atmosphere. They’re both inviting places that inspire romance and mystery at the same time.”
Sylvia nodded. She’d always felt as if her professor was a kindred spirit. He was an academic who took an interest in her writing. The two of them had engaged in some lively debates back at Northwestern. It had been thrilling to debate with him, to be treated as an intellectual equal by someone so brilliant. Of course, now she could look back on some of her ideals and see how naïve she’d been.
His mention of romance, however, sent her mind to a much less-intellectual plane. Her thoughts turned to the purely physical as she studied them. While Lancelot’s looks made her think rugged Scottish warrior, Hugo still looked like the rake she’d once likened him to. Black hair, crystal-blue eyes, a strong jawline. There was intelligence in his gaze, but also a bit of humor.
They sure did make their men hot in Europe.
“One of the things I love most about Charleston, in addition to the shrimp and grits, is how charming it is. The history blended with the sea…there’s just so much to see and enjoy. I wish you had more time to visit and explore. I love playing tour guide.”
Hugo asked about her books and then—be still her heart—actually asked to see some of her sketches, which let her off the hook with her mom. Surely Mom wouldn’t think it rude to pull out her drawings if she was asked to see her work. She took her spiral-bound drawing pad out of her tote and flipped through the pages, both men complimenting her talent.
Their food arrived. Lancelot had opted for the fish tacos after Sylvia insisted he’d love them, Hugo ordered salmon, and she’d selected shrimp and grits after both men admitted they’d never had the dish. She made both of them try it, pleased when they admitted it was quite delicious.
“Didn’t know there was spicy sausage in it, too,” Lancelot said, as if that was all it took to make it an acceptable dish.
“It’s not always included, but I’m a sucker for Andouille.”
The dinner conversation flowed easily as Hugo kept their wineglasses filled and they shared bites of food from their plates. While she’d never lacked for friends, or even lovers, there was something quite heady about sitting at a table with two attractive men who were genuinely interested in everything she had to say.
Her family was large and outspoken. As such, it was rare for her to be able to express her thoughts on a subject in more than a sentence or two before someone else burst in with their opinion, advice, or witty commentary.
Hugo talked a bit about his last article, promising to email it to her, and Lancelot had them all in stitches as he shared stories about growing up in Liverpool. As they spoke, she started studying their body language, their mannerisms toward each other. Though Hugo proclaimed they were merely associates, working together to gather research for his book, she couldn’t help but feel there was something more there.
They sometimes looked at one another before speaking, as if checking what—perhaps how—they should answer. They shared meaningful glances that left her curious. At times, they acted like strangers toward each other, while at others, they seemed like close friends.
And those were the physical things. There was more—an energy that passed between them, an energy that made her want to lean in to feel that power and heat.
As they finished dessert, she thought perhaps she’d identified the solution to the puzzle. “Are the two of you lovers?” she asked.
Hugo, who’d been taking a sip of coffee, choked. Lancelot grinned, shaking his head as if her question was preposterous.
“’Course not.”
“But you’re attracted to each other,” she persisted, certain she wasn’t wrong in her assessment.
Hugo put his coffee cup down. “What makes you say that?”
She placed her hand over Hugo’s, then reached across the table to take Lancelot’s as well. “There’s something almost electric pulsing between the two of you. Surely you can feel that.”
Lancelot glanced at Hugo, his brows furrowed. Then Lancelot’s gaze returned to her. “Truth is, Sylvia…I have felt something most of today. But I think you’re misreading where my interest…” His words fell away when Hugo shook his head subtly.
Then Hugo’s hand twisted, his fingers tangling with hers, his brilliant blue gaze intense and focused. “Lancelot,” he said softly. “I don’t think Sylvia—”
“You want me,” she said, not bothering to question it. She’d noticed that as well over the course of the meal. The way both men found subtle, sweet ways to touch her or shift their seats closer.
“Sylvia,” Hugo said. “You were a student in my class. I can assure you I did not show up here today with any ulterior motives. I wanted to take this opportunity to reconnect with someone I remembered fondly. Regardless of what Lancelot says, I—”
“I want you, too.”
