I don’t even know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
All I do know is that for a few seconds, I thought I was looking into her eyes.
They may have been the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.
I wonder what she saw in mine.
CHAPTER FIVE
Brigs
Edinburgh
Four Years Ago
A knock at my office door. I grin to myself because I know that knock. Silly, rapid, nonsensical.
She came after all.
“Come in,” I say, peering at the door.
It opens and Natasha pokes her head in, smiling broadly.
That smile is better than any bloody drug. I immediately feel the weight on my shoulders lift.
“I have a surprise for you¸” she says in that adorable, husky voice of hers.
“Well, the fact that you’re here when you didn’t think you’d make it is enough of a surprise for me,” I tell her, though honestly I’m intrigued by what she has to say.
“It turns out Freddie’s party was a colossal bore,” she says, exaggerating her voice to sound like a high society charmer. “So I thought I’d bring the party here,” she says, stepping in the rest of the way and raising her arms. She has a case of brown ale in one hand and Chinese take-out boxes in the other. She raises her chin proudly. “Do I get the award for the best research assistant already or what?”
“You win all the awards,” I tell her, grinning as she comes on in and plunks the items on the desk. “I really thought I was in for the long haul here tonight,” I tell her. “Though I can’t promise you this won’t be anything less than boring. Freddie’s may have been the better option.”
She pulls a chair up to the desk from the other side and sits down, reaching for chopsticks. “Well, you, Professor Blue Eyes, are anything but boring.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry, what did you just call me?”
She shoots me a sly grin. “Professor Blue Eyes. Didn’t you know it’s what everyone calls you here?”
“Oh, that’s rubbish,” I say dismissively.
“It’s true,” she protests, grabbing a take-out box and flipping it open. “Whenever someone here asks me what I’m doing, I tell them I’m your research assistant, and they always go, oh Professor Blue Eyes, what a dreamboat.”
I narrow my supposedly famous eyes at her. “Bloody hell, stop pulling my leg.”
She laughs. “Okay, well maybe I just call you Professor Blue Eyes. In my head. But I promise you, if it’s in my head, it’s in everyone’s head. Girls and guys.”
I try to keep smiling but it’s hard because, shit, this is flattering. And not in a good way flattering. I’m flattered in a way I shouldn’t be. Then again, I’ve been working with Natasha nearly every day now for a month, and I’m becoming increasingly aware that I’m feeling a lot of things that I shouldn’t.
“Sorry, did I embarrass you?” she asks as she shoves noodles into her mouth. She eats with gusto, no restraint, just eating for the pure pleasure of it and enjoying every bite. That gorgeous mouth…
Stop it.
“No, no,” I tell her, attempting to snap out of it. I reach for a beer then eye the door. It’s open, as it usually is when we’re working together. But even though I’m sure what I do in my office is my own business—every professor here seems to have a bottle of Scotch in their desk—I don’t want to rock the boat. I’ve only been here for two years, and people talk.
I get up and close the door. The click of the latch seems awfully loud in the room. I turn around, and she’s watching me curiously.
“You want some privacy?” she jokes, but there’s something in her voice, a warble that tells me she might be nervous.
I sit back down and raise my beer at her. “I don’t want anyone to get on my back about drinking in my office, let alone with my research assistant.”
“Why not?” she asks saucily. “Too scandalous?”
I give her a tight smile, ever conscious of my wedding ring. “Something like that.” I point my beer at her, and even though I’m starting to question if drinking with Natasha is a good idea, I say, “Now, let’s say cheers to a productive Friday night.”
She quickly wipes her hands on her jeans, swallows her bite of food, and clinks her beer against mine. “To a wild and crazy night.”
But of course things don’t get wild and crazy, not with us. We do work, at least for the first two hours—her on her laptop, flipping through books, and me on my computer, typing like a madman as I usually do around her. Having her in my office is the greatest motivator to getting my book done. She’s practically a muse.
But eventually, when the both of us have noodles and three beers in our bellies, and I’ve brought out the bottle of Scotch from the secret stash in my own desk, the work slows to a crawl.
“So,” I say, leaning back in my chair and kicking my feet up on the desk. “You never told me what you were like when you were growing up. High school. That whole thing. Tell me about Natasha.”
She takes a sip of Scotch from the bottle and puts it back on the desk. Then she leans back in her chair and puts her feet up on the desk, mirroring me. I can’t help but smile.
“I’ll tell you my past if you tell me yours,” she says, eyeing me slyly.
“Deal.”
“Okay,” she says, clearing her throat. “I grew up in Los Feliz. That’s in Los Angeles. My dad is French, and he married my mother, an American, after I was born. I was actually born in France though, Marseilles, which I got to visit a few years ago. Pretty cool place. But anyway, I know for sure it was a marriage out of necessity cuz my mom got knocked up. I’m pretty sure I’m the last thing she wanted, but anyway. I promise this isn’t a sob story. I don’t care if I was wanted or not. But I know my dad loved me. He was a cinematographer.”