Fuck.
I’m starting to think I’m in way over my head here.
I swallow uneasily, my throat feeling thick. “Well, I’m glad you’re so prepared.” I head over to the door and open it for her. “After you.”
She sashays out into the hall, flicking her scarf over her shoulder like a bona fide movie star. I can see why her mother might be jealous of her. I can see why anyone would be. How could anyone not be absolutely enamored with her?
I follow her, locking the door behind me, and we head down the halls and out into the Edinburgh night, a light wind making the trees bow. We head to Middle Meadow Walk and stroll down toward the Meadows, pausing underneath a streetlamp as I try to light the cigar without the breeze blowing it away.
Natasha acts as a shield, stepping in as close as she can, and we end up huddling together, trying to get the thing lit.
Her proximity to me is unnerving. I can smell her beyond the tobacco. Coconut shampoo. Sweet. Intoxicating. It makes my heart clench.
I meet her eyes as she looks up through long lashes.
I can feel my pulse in my throat, her gaze completely bewitching me.
We hold each other’s eyes and the air between us swirls and spins, a slow tornado changing the pressure until it’s hard to ignore. It pulls and pulls, and the magnetism sets my skin on fire.
I don’t know what’s happening.
But it’s never happened to me before.
And it’s absolutely terrifying.
The cigar finally lights.
“You’re supposed to smoke that thing,” she whispers to me, with languid, liquid eyes.
I take a draw, the embers glowing, and she steps back. The smoke billows out, taken by the wind into the dark sky. The thread between us though, that doesn’t dissipate. Not with distance. It crackles like a live wire, heavy and taut and so very dangerous.
Miranda’s face flashes in my mind. Her laugh, running along the beach in Ibiza with thin, gazelle-like legs.
A warning.
It must show on my face because Natasha asks, “Is it a bad cigar?”
I shake my head and exhale slowly, letting the smoke curl out of my mouth. “Not at all.”
I hand it to her, and our fingers brush against each other.
It’s electric in a way that can’t be ignored.
She holds the cigar like she’s been holding one her whole life. Her posture is relaxed, confident, and doesn’t at all look like how I feel inside. Frazzled, heart caught in the washing cycle.
But why should she? I know the way she looks at me sometimes, flirtatious and coy with eyes full of secrets, but in the next she’s belly-laughing over some crude joke she heard. I’m just a professor, even if I happen to have blue eyes. A man giving her a job.
And I’m married.
I have a son.
I have so much.
So why do I want her to look at me differently?
She passes the cigar back and blows the smoke out the side of her mouth, like a forties film star.
“Very Lauren Bacall,” I tell her as we start walking slowly down the pedestrian path, a few people heading the opposite way into town to the bars and nightlife. But we, we’re heading to the darkness.
“Bogie and Bacall, they had it all,” she says dreamily. “You know, you never talk about your wife.”
I cough, the smoke getting momentarily stuck in my throat. “I don’t?” I manage to say.
“No,” she says. “You don’t talk about yourself very often, you know. You’ll go on and on about film but nothing about yourself. You’re very mysterious, Brigs McGregor.”
I roll my eyes. “Frankly I’m the opposite. I guess I don’t talk about my life because, well, it’s boring.”
“What did I tell you earlier?” she says, smacking me on the arm. “You are the opposite of boring. So tell me then. Tell me about your wife. Your parents. Your brother.” She pauses. “You talk about your son a lot though, so at least I know that about you. You’re a good father.”
I give her the same smile she gave me when I told her she was perfect. It’s nice of her to say, but I don’t believe it.
I inhale deeply and think.
“All right,” I say carefully. “I married Miranda when I was twenty-one.”
“Wow, that’s young. Shotgun wedding like my mom’s?”
I shake my head as memories creep on past, most of them unhappy. “No, we only had Hamish three years ago. We met when I was in college. Edinburg University, right here.” I gesture back to the school. “Even though we didn’t have any classes together, I knew of her. Everyone knew of her. She was the kind of girl that would never give any guy the time of day. She was a socialite, really. Bred differently. Her parents, the Hardings, they’re kind of a big deal around the city. And at the time, my uncle and aunt were here, and they’re also part of that scene. We met at one of their parties and somehow I managed to charm her. Still not sure how, really.”
“Oh, I can see why,” Natasha says, grinning at me. “You have no idea how charming you really are. Which makes you even more charming.”
Suddenly, it seems far too hot to be wearing a jacket.
I clear my throat. “Well, I suppose she thought the same. The rest is history.”
She stops and studies me. “That’s it?”
I stop and stare, passing her the cigar.
This time my finger lingers on hers for maybe a second too long.
God, I wish I had the rest of that Scotch at my disposal. These feelings need to drown.