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.”
“Ah,” I say. It makes sense now.
“Yeah, and he would make me watch so many films when I was younger. Like, so many. All the classics. All Hitchcock, all Preminger. Lots of foreign films, too. He was obsessed with Ingrid Bergman.” Her smile fades a bit and her voice drops. “Anyway, he left when I was ten years old. Fell in love with a younger woman. Maybe he was trying to emulate Roberto Rossellini, I don’t know. He moved back to France. And my mother became a single mom. She did not like that. Her self-esteem problems multiplied, and they were already pretty bad.” She shakes her head to herself, her eyes taking on a faraway look. She sighs and grabs the bottle of Scotch. “My mother is quite the character. You’d hate her. Sometimes I think I hate her too, but mainly I feel sorry for her. Which is kind of worse.”
“I think I understand that.” My relationship with my brother Lachlan has sometimes taken that route.
“You know what my mother used to say to me when I was younger?” she says, leaning in. “She used to say I better not be prettier than her when I’m her age.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, talk about giving me a fucking complex. At the same time, all she would do is praise my looks, along with the daily bomb about how I need to lose weight.”
“You don’t need to lose weight,” I can’t help but say. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
She gives me one of those wry, embarrassed smiles that tells me she doesn’t believe it. “Then, at the end of high school I joined the track team and I did start to lose weight. She pushed me into doing modeling, then some acting. The acting was fine, the modeling was a bore, and when track was done and I graduated, the weight started creeping back. I mean, I was never fat. I was pretty much what I am now. But boobs and ass and thunder thighs do not a model make. Nor an actress for that matter, unless you can score a gig on Mad Men. No matter what I did, I couldn’t please her. When I was thinner, she got jealous, and when I was back to normal, she’d find some way to insinuate that I was fat.”
What a witch, I think to myself, feeling protective over her. What I told her was true. I do find her perfect, at least in my eyes. She does have curves and she’s not skinny, but her waist is small and her arse is unreal, and her eyes threaten to take me away somewhere. Somewhere new and very beautiful.
Flashes of heat and guilt compete with each other. I take in a deep breath and force my thoughts to behave.
“Did your mother ever remarry?” I ask her.
She starts twirling the Scotch bottle on the desk. “No. But she’s tried. She can’t be alone, ever, that’s her other thing. She always has a man in her life, usually some idiot. When they cheat on her or break up with her, as they invariably do since what man wants to feel second to her narcissism and ego, she moves on to someone else right away. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her single for more than a few weeks.” She sighs, blowing a strand of dark auburn hair out of her face, and stares up at the ceiling. “Man, I wish I smoked.”
I tap the desk. “I have a cigar.”
She perks up. “Really? Care to split it with me?”
I grin at her. Lachlan gave me a box of cigars on my last birthday, and I usually only smoke them with him or my father on special occasions, though I have a few of them in my desk. It would be nice to share one with her. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I used to have a few with my dad in Marseilles.”
“You sound so cultured,” I tell her, opening my drawer. “A woman of the world.”
I bring out the box and pick up a couple of them, smelling them and checking for dryness. When I’ve selected one, I start rummaging for a lighter.
“I got one,” she says, reaching into her jeans and pulling out a Zippo. I give her a questioning look and she shrugs, giving me a lazy smile. “A woman of the world should always be prepared.”
She tosses it to me, and I catch it with one hand. I smirk proudly at my achievement, glad I didn’t fall out of my chair trying to impress her.
“And what else does a woman of the world carry?” I ask her, smoothly flicking on the Zippo and watching the flame dance.
“A notepad and pen, for writing love letters. Or hate mail. Or grocery lists. A mirror because I always have stuff in my teeth.” At that she rubs her fingers along her teeth and bares them at me.
“You’re good,” I tell her.
She continues. “Also floss. For the same reason. And you can use it tie shit together. Gum, because fresh breath, and in case you need to MacGyver yourself out of a situation. Hand cream that smells pretty. A passport in case you fall in love with a foreign man who sweeps you off your feet.” She pauses. “And condoms.”
I raise my brows. Jesus. I’m both strangely jealous of the idea of her using condoms because it means she’s not using them with me, and turned on because…well, now I’m imagining the two of us in a situation that would require one.
“Now, are we going to smoke this thing or not?” she says, straightening up.
I nod, clearing my throat. My cheeks feel hot. “We’ll have to take a stroll somewhere. I can get away with some Scotch in my office, but smoking a cigar is something else.” I get out of my chair and grab my leather moto jacket. It’s late June, but the evenings have been chilly lately. As I put the jacket on, I ask her, “So, what is the Zippo for?”
She wraps a burgundy scarf around her neck that matches her hair and smiles. “In case Professor Blue Eyes wants to smoke a cigar with you.”
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 unne
rving. 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.
“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”
“You’re not going to go on about how wonderful she is, how she’s the love of your life? You talk about Hamish that way all the time.”
I shouldn’t be so floored by how blunt she is, but I am. Or maybe it’s not that she’s blunt. It’s because I don’t have the nerve to tell her the whole truth.
Because Miranda isn’t the love of my life.
She’s just the mother of my child.
And a roommate I’ve been living with for eleven long years.
“No,” I say simply. Even the partial truth is freeing. “I’m not.”
She cocks her head, taking a drag. Studying me still, like she’s trying to read words written on my face. I wonder what they say. Finally, she just nods and says, “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
Yes, you do, I think. And that’s what I…
Bloody hell. I can’t even finish my own thoughts without scaring myself.
“It’s not a problem,” I tell her and start walking again. “As for my parents, they’re lovely. Really. My brother and I have more of a strained relationship though. He’s adopted, came into my life just after I left high school and put our family through hell. He was a right bastard actually, and I hated him for a long time.”
“Why?”
“Well, it seems trite now, but I saw how my parents were with him, giving him the life he never had, and he didn’t react well to it. He was a teenager, which didn’t help, and eventually he was stealing from them, even me, doing everything he could to get money for crack, meth, whatever it was. Eventually my parents had to kick him out and he was living on the streets. I can’t tell you how hard it was to be walking through this city sometimes and see him panhandling. Skinny. On what always seemed to be his last legs. He may have been adopted, but he was still my brother.”
“That sounds horrible,” she says, shaking her head.
“It was horrible,” I say with a sigh, remembering the sorrow and pain Lachlan had caused me like it was yesterday. “But eventually he cleaned himself up, and now he’s a lot better. Still drinks too much, and sometimes I wonder if he’s abusing some other kinds of drugs. Doesn’t talk much.”
“Sounds familiar,” she says under her breath.
“I swear you’d think we were related in some ways. But now he’s starting up an animal rescue shelter and he’s a successful rugby player.”
“Oh, really?” Her eyes sparkle. “Rugby players are hot. You guys must make quite the sight together.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The tattooed beast of a rugby player and the nutty professor. No contest there.
“I’ve always like the nerds, anyway,” she says, passing the cigar back to me, and this time she stops and holds on to it. “There’s always more to them underneath.”
Shit.
My heart climbs into my throat.
I flash her an awkward smile, trying to play it off. “Are you calling me a nerd?”
She still won’t let go of the cigar. Her expression becomes completely serious.
“I’m saying there’s a lot more to you underneath.”
Her eyes are fixed on mine, and they pull at me, tease me, tempt me, transitioning from want to fear to adoration and back again in a cycle. I’m caught in it, completely mesmerized. Every part of me feels heavier, from my lungs to my legs, like
I’m staked to the ground.
This is going to ruin me, isn’t it?
The sudden ring of a bicycle bell shatters the heady air between us.
We both break apart in time to see a drunken bicyclist weaving toward us right down the middle, hollering, “Get off the bloody bike path, you wankers!”
I look down to see we were both indeed on the cyclist path.
And now I’m breathless, exhilarated, my pulse running wild at our exchange.
The cigar is in my hand.
I have to do the right thing.
“We should head back,” I tell her. “It’s getting late and the bicyclists are rampant tonight.”
She nods, drawing her lip between her teeth. I really wish she wouldn’t do that.
“Okay,” she says softly.
Together we turn and head back to the university, back to my office.
I start cleaning up the mess we left with our food and our beers while she slowly puts her laptop and books away.
We work in silence. The vibe of the room has completely changed. Before it was easy and free, and now it’s laced with things both said and unsaid, the mahogany bookshelves and dim lighting seeming to push us together.
I keep coming back to that look in her eyes.
The look that said she wanted me.
And whatever I am underneath.
She leaves my office with a small smile and a wave, and I know she feels it too.
The change.
She shuts the door behind her.
I sit back down at my desk.
Finish the Scotch.
And pretend for a moment that I’m not completely screwed.
CHAPTER SIX
Natasha
London
Present Day
I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t stand there and talk to him, look at him, breathe the same air as him.
The moment that Brigs turned around and headed back into the classroom, I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I ran.
I ran down the hall, feeling wild and breathless and aimless, like a trapped animal being set free. I didn’t know where to go, only that I couldn’t be there with him.