And your body isn’t thanking you for it, Matthew muses, taking in Melvin’s bulging stomach pushing against the table. Matthew’s personal trainer, Felicity, keeps his body in perfect shape. She’s worth every penny—and never charges for those delightful extras.
“Is that a Welsh accent I detect?” dull Dr. Gordon pipes up. “There can’t be many like you in the Valleys.”
And the table goes quiet. Janet rolls her eyes at Matthew, Vivienne clears her throat, and Stella glares at the doctor. But Melvin just lets out a laugh straight from his sizable middle.
“No, Gordon, there aren’t many Black people in Wales, but that makes us all the more special,” he chuckles. And just like that, the tension is defused. Matthew imagines that Melvin is a good police officer, equally capable of taming flying fists and providing comfort when needed. It’s not the sort of life that would appeal toMatthew, though. His more subtle skills are better suited among the traders. In fact, when he thinks about it, he approaches his work life in much the same way as his personal life: He befriends new, inexperienced traders so that they confide in him when it all inevitably goes wrong. He offers to help and then swoops their clients away before the poor kids know what’s happening. The turnover is so high in his company that no one seems to notice Matthew’s predatory approach, except perhaps his boss, who simply gives him a look of admiration when he turns in impressive monthly figures.
“So who do you think the mystery host is?” Janet asks, directing her question straight at Matthew.
He decides to indulge her with his attention once again.
“Simon Cowell, Ryan Gosling, Prince Charles?” He grins, giving her a wink.
“Sounds more like that game, Snog, Marry, Kill,” guffaws Janet, not letting her gaze stray from Matthew’s. He notes with satisfaction that the other guests have fallen quiet as they listen in.
“Go on, then,” he dares, slowly passing the tip of his tongue across his upper lip.
Janet leans back in her chair, clearly loving the spotlight. Matthew’s eyes travel from her face to her neck. Her jugular vein is gently pulsating, sending lascivious blood from her brain to her heart.
“Marry Cowell: I’d never have to work again,” she squeals. “Kill Ryan: Nice guy, but not much fun. And snog Prince Charles: He might appear like Mr. Sensible with his gray suits and cuff links, but I bet he knows how to please a lady.”
“What would your husband say?” Melvin comments with alaugh, but Matthew hears an undercurrent of disapproval. He’s probably the type who doesn’t approve of women talking about sex, Matthew imagines.
“Who cares?” she snorts, turning back to Matthew. “Your go: Beyoncé, Hillary Clinton, and Nicole Kidman.”
He puts his finger to his lips as if considering her question carefully. He lets a few seconds pass, and the table falls silent waiting for his answer.
“Could I kill them all?” he asks, sending Janet into hysterics.
A door on the opposite side of the entrance swings open, and a clutch of bow-tied waiters file in, each holding a small gold tray bearing fresh jugs of red wine.
“Water for me, please,” Gordon pipes up, and Janet rolls her eyes at Matthew, who winks in response.
“Do you know if the host is on his way?” Melvin asks one of the waiters, receiving a small shrug in response before they all disappear back through the door—presumably leading to the kitchen.
“Looks like we’ll have to make our own entertainment,” Matthew says, glancing around the table. It’s time to sprinkle some of his magic around…
“What about you—Vivienne, was it?” He draws the old woman in, deliberately excluding Stella the YouTuber. “Does Prince Charles do it for you?”
“Oh God, no. Benedict Cumberbatch is more my type…” says Vivienne. She takes a sip of her wine, briefly closing her eyes as the rich taste hits her.
“Ew, he’s ancient,” Stella suddenly chimes in, her voice much more refined than Matthew had anticipated.
“Is Justin Bieber more your bag, then?” he asks, finally looking at her, dipping his chin and flashing a stern look.
“Hardly. I like Michael B. Jordan—great actor, and so stylish,” Stella says, and Matthew turns away as if she hadn’t spoken.
“I wonder if they’re bringing my water. It’s getting a little warm in here,” Dr. Gordon cuts in, dabbing at his forehead with a napkin.
“Who needs water when the wine tastes so good?” Matthew says, reaching for the carafe and turning back to Janet. As he does so, his place setting catches his eye. Underneath his name is a drawing of a sheep wearing a top hat and monocle, looking down at a ewe. Shrugging, he pushes it to one side and proffers the carafe to Janet.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She beams, and Matthew carefully pours the dark-red liquid into her glass.
Red wine has always reminded him of blood. Now, in the brooding light of Serendipity’s, even more so.
Stella
Stella looks from gorgeous Matthew to past-her-prime Janet and back again.WT-actual-F.Why is he bothering with her? Sure, she’s got huge boobs, but she’s big all over and old enough to be his mother—probably. Her eyes glide over Matthew’s sculpted cheekbones, his long eyelashes, and she realizes she’s seen him somewhere before. Then it comes to her: He was featured in an article she recently read—“London’s most eligible hotties” or somethingequally lame. But one bachelor, with impossibly dark eyes, stood out. The writer had clearly been taken with Matthew, too, describing him as “devastatingly dishy” (please!). The article featured the net worth of each “hottie,” and Matthew’s was nowhere near her father’s, from what she can recall, but he was definitely going in the right direction. She takes in his Savile Row suit, the gold signet glinting on his pinkie finger. She’d sworn off dating for a while, but perhaps she can make an exception for this Matthew. After all, her father was threatening to cut her off again, and she could really use a backup. He had definite potential. And yet, he hadn’t looked her way since she’d walked in…
