Page 19 of Sinful Beauty

“Or something.”

So Graeme was right. It figures that he’d be the one to nail it. He’s a people reader.

“Do you like your job?” His question isn’t an odd one, but it’s probably the first time anyone at Lumina has asked it. “It’s not a complicated question. Quite simple, really.”

“I do,” I draw the words out as I consider my answer. I enjoy all the tasks, from the mundane to the challenging. But I’ve lost my reason for striving. Or, that’s not quite right either. I’m contemplating change, in the midst of a frustrating job search, and I’m living through an unsettling period.

“I won’t dig further,” he says. He doesn’t believe me, but I wasn’t lying. “Let’s not talk about work.”

I immediately clink my glass against his pint in response.

He asked me about my dating status, but what about his? But I can’t exactly ask him if a girlfriend is meeting him. The words are a touch too flirtatious. “Are you new to the area?”

“Yes and no,” he says. “I spent my childhood here. Have lived elsewhere since.”

His accent differs slightly from many of my colleagues.

“Where?” I prompt.

“Sherborne. It’s a boarding school. Then Cambridge. After university lived for a time in France before landing in London. And you?”

“Born in São Paulo. Spent a few years in Lisbon. Then London. After university, I gained this position as part of a work visa program.” Geraldo knew a man who helped me secure the work visa.

“Do you miss Brazil?”

“Not at all.” The answer comes out too quickly and I’m sure he has questions, but I toss back the rest of my wine and signal to William for the check.

“Any chance I can convince you to join me for dinner?”

The handsome gentleman seems like a nice person. Maybe he genuinely wants to know more. I’d like to know more about him. But this is one of those situations where he has nothing to lose, but I could lose everything.

“I need to get home,” I answer.

As I’m sliding my card out from the back of my phone, he passes a black card to William and says, “I’ve got hers.”

William, traitor that he is, ignores my card. William believes he’s doing me a favor, but I’m not certain the drink is free.

“Would you like a lift to your place?”

“It’ll be faster if I walk. I’m only two blocks away.”

“It’s dark out. I’ll walk you.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, as a gentleman, I insist.”

“It’s a good idea,” William interjects as his credit card machine spits out a receipt.

“It’s a safe neighborhood.”

“A mite dodgy,” William says.

No, dodgy is where I grew up in London, or where my family lived in São Paulo, but there’s no point in arguing. It’s kind of them to care.

I wrap the scarf around my neck and push off. “Ready?”

“No coat?”

---