Allowing a stranger to strap you to any surface might be a very bad idea, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t be tempted by the experience with her. Almost as though I’d said that aloud, her breath hitches as her eyes take on the appearance of midnight. Dark, seductive, and full of promise.
I’d watched her covertly in the hotel earlier, stealing glances over the top of my newspaper after Matteo and Van had left. It was hard not to watch. She was so effusive and clearly enjoying both her company and the conversation, so much so that her face seemed almost lit from within. Until she wasn’t enjoying it anymore, and I sought to intervene. Strange. It had been a long while since I’d cared enough to study the nuances of an expression, never mind offer assistance to a stranger.
We’d spent an hour in a coffee shop, which was only strange and stilting for the first fifteen minutes. I’d begun to think I could excuse myself when my phone began to blow up with a series of demanding texts, and I’d suddenly realised I was having too much fun to attend to them. Coffee cups drained, she’d suggested a drink, reasoning the longer she stayed out of the hotel, the less chance there’d be of being accosted by the predatory couple. It had nothing to do with enjoying my company, she’d assured me. Nothing to do with wanting to get me into bed.
Ah, the lies we tell ourselves.
She’d been so delightfully flustered at the offer of an afternoon threesome, I’d almost considered watching how the scene would play out. But when I had, and she’d gripped my arm outside of the hotel, the contact had been . . . affecting. The sight of her slender fingers pale against the dark cloth of my jacket, the thin strand of silver circling her delicate wrist. Something almost primeval had stirred inside me, drawing the very fibres of my being taut.
She’d be so tiny under me. So malleable. So sweet. Yet spirited.
Thankfully, by the time I’d raised my gaze, I’d managed to master my expression, if not my thoughts. Instinct had won over intellect, and here we are, ensconced at the end of a shared table in a less than salubrious bar off Friday Street. Latin music, garish deco, and crowded banquet tables set out like a school dining hall.
“You know, I’m sensing you agreed to come along not because of your sense of civic duty but because you think I’m cute.”
The way her gaze dips belies her feisty tone. While cute isn’t a word I’d ordinarily reach for, lovely had sprung to mind. Fuck it, if a man can’t take a pretty girl for a drink on his birthday, when the hell can he? And if we happen to find ourselves in the vicinity of a bed sometime following? Happy birthday to me.
It’s not like I’m chasing her. Yet.
“Maybe that’s the reason you came along with me. Because you think I’m cute. How did you end up sitting with that couple, anyway?”
“Who? The threesome people? I thought they seemed nice. And I like old people.”
“So, there’s hope for me yet,” I murmur as I catch the attention of the server with a beckoning nod and order a couple of single malts.
A tiny smile catches at the corner of her mouth, though she turns her head to conceal it. “I don’t like whisky.”
“That’s only because you don’t know better.”
“Oh, and you think you know what’s good for me, do you?”
“I’m certain there are a great number of things I could introduce you to. Things you might assume you won’t enjoy at first.”
“Because that wasn’t brimming with innuendo, was it?” The colour in her cheeks deepens.
“I can’t be held responsible for the murk of your mind.”
“The murk of my mind knows I don’t like whisky.”
“Trust me. You’ll like this kind.”
“Lyle, you’re not that cute.”
Squirrels are cute. Kittens, even. My sister’s Labrador, even. Cute isn’t a word a man aspires to, though I find I don’t mind. Because she isn’t wrong. I am cute. The canny kind. The cunning kind.
“You know, now that you mention it,” I answer almost airily, “you do remind me of a Yorkshire terrier.”
“Because I’m small and adorable?”
“I was thinking more . . . unrelenting.” I do hope she bites.
In answer, she narrows her eyes playfully as she gives my shoulder a gentle push.
“Violence, Olive, as well as threats of tying me to your bed?” As I make my reply, the server reappears with the whiskies I’d ordered. It’s obvious by the way he’s trying not to smile that he heard what I’d said. Brightly tattooed arms reach out, placing a couple of amber-filled glasses on the table and one more with half a dozen chunks of ice.
“We don’t get many people ordering the good stuff.” He places a small jug of water and another of ice down next. “Sounds like you’re in for a good night. On more than one count.” With a wink, he leaves.
“You totally did that on purpose,” she says, watching him go.
She’s right. I do like to see the colour in her cheeks.
“For the record,” I reply instead, “if there are any knots to be tied, I used to be a Boy Scout.”
My God, her expression. I begin to laugh, the deep sound almost a shock to my own ears. And this is the moment I decide, truly decide, that I must have this woman. It isn’t her adorable expressions or because I’d like to know how deep her blushes run. Something tells me a woman like this, a woman with an appreciation for the absurd would be a joy to bed. A sheet-ripping, limbs-thrashing, loud enough to wake the dead kind of delight.
“Drink your whisky, Olive. Behave yourself.” To my delight, she does. “Go on, you can admit it. I was right about the whisky, wasn’t I?”
“It’s not bad,” she concedes with a careless flick of her shoulder. “It’s kind of smoky, not sharp. I like the way it warms as it travels.”
She moves her hand down her neck, her fingers trailing just a little farther south. My own gaze follows as though invited, my head filling with all the ways I’m going to warm her. Make her hot. Heat her blood like a shot of good whisky cannot.
“But I am so not an Olive.” She folds her arms against the table, leaning down onto them.
“Shows what you know. Olive suits you perfectly.”
“Don’t you want to know my real name?” She slides her glass to the side, her eyes following the motion rather than meeting mine. “Or is it that you don’t want to tell me yours?”
Despite her playful delivery, I consider her words as I also consider the lush valley of her cleavage again. It’s an unconscious motion on her part, I think. Not a ploy or a play for me. As for her question, I reach a decision. No harm can come from her knowing my Christian name, and given that she’s leaving tomorrow, I’m not likely to see our names linked in the tabloids. Reaching out, I wrap my fingers around her wrist and encourage her closer with a gentle tug. She slides herself from the other side of the table and along the end until our shoulders are almost touching.
“I already know your name.” Despite the dissonant noise in the place: the music, the hum of voices, the rattle of glasses, and the jarring cackle of laughter from table mates nearer her age than mine, I keep my voice low. Like I’ve a secret to impart or some intrigue that requires her to lean closer. “Holland.” I draw out her name as though it’s a sentence all of its own. I’d thought it an odd name at first. Why would any parent name their child after a region of Europe? Now I’m wondering if it was excellent foresight on their part because she is truly as unique as her name.