Page 13 of Seduction Under the Southern Stars

I open my eyes. “I’m okay now.” I walk past him into the apartment, and he closes the door behind him. “Can you lock it, please?” I ask.

“Of course.” He locks the door.

I check the lock. Then I walk in. “Wow, I think you can see the whole city from here.”

“Yeah, it’s a pretty good view.” He frowns at me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, don’t mind me.”

“All right. I’ll be back in a minute.” He walks toward what I presume is the bedroom.

“Do you drink coffee?” I ask. Neither of us did back then.

“By the gallon.”

“Shall I make us one?”

“I’d love one. Thank you.” He smiles, as if he’s not used to people doing things for him. Then he disappears into the bedroom.

I go into the kitchen, which is huge and gleaming and looks untouched. A coffee machine sits on the worktop, together with a box containing an array of pods, so I turn the machine on, choose two, and get to work preparing them.

While the coffee starts pouring into the cup, my phone buzzes in my trouser pocket, and I pull it out and read Zoe’s text. You go mop his brow, girl, she says.

Heat blooms in my cheeks as I open the small carton of milk from the fridge. I used to think you were cute, but you’re beautiful now. The words continue to spin around my brain like leaves whipped up by the wind. It was a nice thing to say, but I mustn’t let it go to my head. I’m just here to catch up with an old friend. There’s no other reason that I—

My brain screeches to a halt as he comes back out, dressed in a pair of old, faded jeans, barefoot and bare chested, carrying a tee and rubbing his hair with a towel.

I stare at the sight of his taut, muscular body. Jesus, the guy is ripped, and he’s absolutely covered with tattoos. I didn’t think I was into tatted dudes, but holy hot ink, Batman! I have to close my jaw to stop my tongue rolling on the floor like a cartoon character’s.

“Do you… um… take sugar?” I squeak.

“No thanks.” He comes over to collect a cup, leans a hip on the worktop, and tosses the towel aside. “Thought you might want to check out the tats,” he says, pointing at himself. “I’ll be interested to see how many places you can identify.”

Transfixed by the sight of all that ink, I put down my coffee cup and stand in front of him with wide eyes. I let my gaze roam over his muscular body and walk slowly around him as I study each tattoo.

“This looks like it’s from the mosaic of Noah’s Ark found in a synagogue in Israel,” I say, observing the scene from Genesis on the right side of his chest, showing a pair of bears constructed from tiny colored squares.

“Correct.”

I touch his right upper arm. “No prizes for guessing where this is.” It’s an Egyptian pyramid.

“Yeah, I helped excavate a Second Dynasty child burial at Saqqara.”

I draw my finger down to his forearm. It has an unusual drawing of a man’s profile. “This looks like the graffiti from the Written Rock of Gelt.”

“That’s exactly what it is. It’s a caricature of the commanding officer in charge of the quarrying found at Hadrian’s Wall.”

“Early third century?”

“Yeah, AD207.”

“You were at the dig?”

“Yeah.”

Somewhat envious of his experiences, I continue around to his back. One shoulder blade bears a strange pattern of misshapen squares and curved lines. “This looks like an aerial photograph.”

“It is! Well done. Do you know where it is?”

---