Page 20 of How to Bang a Billionaire

Honestly, I was far more interested in him. I had no idea what cologne he was wearing, but he smelled good enough to eat. All this cocoa-dark and honey-velvet, sandalwoody deliciousness that made me want to either bury my nose in his armpit or go raid his bathroom cabinet. Except whatever he idly spritzed himself with in the morning was probably worth more than I was.

He let out a soft sigh of peace and pleasure.

And I thought how marvelous it would be to give that to Caspian Hart. And how fucking tragic that he would only trust himself to a paper cylinder of nicotine and tar.

I wouldn’t have to be rationed. You could give in to me.

But all I said was, “I don’t know how you acquire acquired tastes.”

He glanced at me. “What?”

“Well, why bother acquire them when you could just, y’know, cut out the middle man and consume something nice?”

“You mean smoking?”

I nodded.

“I never had to acquire it. I’ve always liked it.”

“So you just woke up one morning and decided to take up an unhealthy habit?”

“I…ah.” His fingers tightened on the cigarette, creasing it.

“What’s the matter?”

He shook his head. “Arden, I prefer to avoid personal conversation.”

“That’s not personal; it’s just conversation. Personal would be: Have you ever been in love? or What’s the thing you’ll always regret?” Oh shit. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of champagne. “I just mean…I’m a stranger. I’m not going to tell anybody and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter because you’ll never see me again. I’m nobody. I’m safe.”

For what felt like forever, he didn’t answer. Then, very quickly, “I liked having something to do with my hands.” I couldn’t help looking at them: his pale, perfectly groomed, perfectly controlled hands. Hard to imagine them ever doing something inelegant or being restless. As if he read my thoughts, he went on. “I was…different when I was younger. And I’ve been smoking since I was fourteen.”

“You iconoclast you.”

He didn’t smile this time. Just crushed out his cigarette against the stone and then put his back to the battlements, the city, the deep, blue-black sky. “I like the way it makes me feel. It eases the tight spaces in my mind. And it’s private.” He cast me a glance from under the shadow of his lashes. “Usually.”

His voice was so soft that it felt more like a caress than a rebuke. I smiled up at him, treasuring these unexpected confidences. This odd moment of being together in some small sense before the world remembered to turn and draw us our separate ways.

“I tried to give up at university, but it didn’t happen. I had a philosophy tutor here. Hilary Rupert Baskerville he was called…” He made a sound of quiet amusement, surrendering momentarily to his memories and something that seemed close to affection. “I had the nine a.m. tutorial slot and we used to smoke a cigarette together, leaning out of his window, before he dismantled my essay.”

“Wow”—I tried not to sound wistful—“that sounds like proper Oxford Memoirs stuff. I never had any cool tutors. I mean, they’re nice, especially Professor Standish. She’s like this super-intelligent grandma person. But you get all keyed up to be taught about Life TM by an eccentric genius. And then that’s not what it’s like.”

“I’m not really sure Hilary taught me anything much about philosophy, let alone life. But I do remember the day I told him I had decided to give up smoking.” Caspian’s voice dropped into a plummy register: “‘Oh but whatever for?’ I told him it was for the sake of my health and he said it was the most appalling hubris he had heard in all his life. ‘Why, my dear boy, you could be squished by an automobile tomorrow.’”

I tried to imagine the scene, and this younger—apparently different—Caspian with his restless fingers. “And you’ve been smoking ever since?”

“When I choose to, yes.”

“Always at the same time every month?” I stepped away from the stone, tucking my hands in my pockets, trying to pretend it was a casual movement. And not a brazen desire to be able to look at him straight on. He was spectacular in profile—he would have been from any angle—but even harder to read.

“Whenever the occasion calls for it.”

I was pushing my luck as usual but it was my luck, so I pushed it. “What called for it tonight?”

“I’m sure many smokers reach for a cigarette after wine and a fine meal.”

He was giving me this I totally know what you’re doing look. I gave it right back to him—with extra eyebrow arch—because that was some pretty fucking blatant evasion right there. And I wasn’t going to let him think he’d got away with it.

What this meant, in practice, was that we were standing there, staring at each other in this almost-playful-almost-not way. Like eye duelists.

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