Page 91 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
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"...there’s only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy.”
—Scent of a Woman. Director: Martin Brest
Sin
"Is it too warm in here?" I run my finger around the collar of my shirt. I opted for a straightforward long-sleeved shirt, tapered pants and a jacket. No tie for this occasion. My way of showing it doesn’t mean anything. A pointless gesture. Who am I trying to convince? My stomach rolls and I tug at the sleeves of my shirt. My fingers tremble. The fuck?
"You nervous, ol’ chap?"
"The fuck you dithering on about?" I pull out my handkerchief, rub at the bed of sweat that trickles down my temple.
"Should I turn up the air-conditioning?"
"Fucking hate that artificial atmosphere." Truth is, being stuck in any enclosed space makes my head spin. Unless I have something to distract me. I play with the clasp of my watch. Some of the nervous tension drains from my shoulders.
"Yeah." He sobers. All seven of us have that specific phobia in common. All of us have different ways of coping with it.
"Here." He snaps open a wooden box.
"If you were thinking of proposing, it’s little too late. Besides, I am not into you that way."
"Har, har." He smirks politely. "Knowing how much you abhor jewelry, I figured I’d get you the next best thing."
He holds out the box. Rolled tobacco leaf columns nestle in the humidor. "Aww, you remembered. I am so touched."
He chuckles.
I gently pull out one of the cigars. It is one of my bloody weaknesses, along with rare whiskeys. Turns out money grows on you, sensitizes your tastes so you began to appreciate the finer things in life.
He takes one for himself, then places the box on the table. Producing a cigar cutter, he snaps off the ends, then holds a lighter to my smoke, then his.
The pungent scent of crushed leather and toasted almonds, woven with something sweet—cherries?— almost as fine as the taste of her, fills my senses.
I tilt my head back, puff out a smoke circle. My muscles unwind a little.
"I hate to tell you, this was a good idea."
"Feel that?" He tilts his head.
"What?"
I raise the cigar to my mouth, take in a puff.
"That stillness inside, that calm before the storm, that sense of everything about to hit a shitstorm, your last few minutes as a single man, when the fragrance of a 100-year-old cigar loosens your tensed-up tissues?"
I cough, "Only 100 years? You disappoint me."
His eyes glint, "You’re welcome."
I draw in another reverential puff, "I’m touched you remembered my weakness for these."
"At half a million dollars per smoke stick, well, you’d better be."
"Now who’s counting their pennies, huh?" I grin.
He smirks, takes a puff of his own. "I see what you did there, by the way."
