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First encounters are everything, and I’m not about to let this moment pass again. I left the palace in such a rush; I’ve kept myself awake at night wanting to rectify it. Upon approach, I let my ankle twist, deliberately falling hard against his seat, and he jolts in shock. A curse word hisses from his lips, and he’s immediately on the attack.
“Oh, God!” I round his body so I can face him to apologise. “Shit! I am so sorry!”
My hand grazes his forearm, skin on skin, intimate and foreign all at once.
He looks at me, honey-swirled brown eyes wide, pale lips parting with an oncoming snarl.
“Damn heels,” I grouse, glancing down as I roll my ankle for good measure. “On a good day, I can run in them. On a bad day… well… now you know.”
Slowly, an eyebrow raises, showing every ounce of his disbelief at that statement, and I laugh reflexively. On a very, very good day, I can pretty much get away with murder in these heels. Removing my hand from his arm, I use the back of the seat for balance and test my ankle.
“You look intact,” I muse, surveying him, noting his drink isn’t even spilt. “No harm, no foul, right?”
He’s yet to speak, so I take this as my moment to leave.
“I’ll leave you be… in peace.”
“No, no.” Long, tanned, calloused fingers wrap around my wrist, shockingly delicate for the manner he has. “Sit. Have a drink. Take the weight off that ankle for a moment.”
Guess I’m tonight’s alibi.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” I respond. “I can wait at the other end of the bar.”
“Sit.”
While his demand is softly spoken, the undertone is enough to have me playing into his hands.
“Sit,” he orders again.
With an eye roll, I react, taking the stall beside him, and I place my purse on the bar before I take a seat.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
He fixes me with a look, perplexed and bemused all at once.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he starts, grinning wickedly. “Not a usual drink type for a woman of your class.”
“I’m not like usual women.” I flick a look his way, playing it coy and sexual all at once. “I don’t like to be obvious.”
“That I am very aware of already.”
His smirk glistens in his eyes as the bartender comes over, and I relax a little as I leave his scrutiny for a second.
“Hey, Connor. Make it two neat whiskeys,” he orders, holding up two fingers to emphasize the fact. “And can we get some wrapped ice for her ankle?”
“Oh, it’s fine!” I say, not wanting to be a bother. “I’ve walked off worse.”
“Please. While you’re here, let me help.”
The glance that comes my way has my heart shuddering in its bony confines. He drinks in the sight of the woman sitting in front of him, but he fails to see me, and part of me is disappointed.
For years, we used to lie awake at night, cloistered in a bed, shrouded by darkness and bedsheets, talking until our voices became weary and our eyes grew heavy. Now, he looks at me like I’m no one.
Yet I know the most intimate parts of him.
