Page 17 of Every Silent Lie
“That’s right.”
“Where do you live?”
“Central.”
“That’s broad.” He doesn’t want me to know.
Knocking back his drink, Dec pushes his glass onto the bar, an instruction for another. “Have you signed your divorce papers yet?”
“Have you found your wife yet?”
His lips roll in, his smile suppressed, and for the first time I wonder where this is going. Whatever this is. This is taking a different direction to what I’m used to.
Small talk.
Bed.
Attempted release.
Forgotten.
And yet I’ve seen Dec three times now, we’ve not fallen into bed, and we’re talking but both clearly being cautious, getting to know each other but also not.
But I feel like I know him.
The sound of my mobile ringing from my bag on the floor pulls my attention there, and I stare, in no rush to answer.
“Do you need to get that?” he asks.
“No.” I redirect my attention to him. This suits me. This distraction suits me.
He suits me.
My stranger.
* * *
An hour later, we’ve talked more about nothing, shared many fleeting looks, and many long, lingering, heated gazes too. I know sexual chemistry when I feel it, it’s different to simply being horny. I’ve never looked at any of the endless men I’ve slept with and paused a beat to admire them. Never wondered what they do, who they are, where they’ve come from. I need to rein in this wondering. Keep this clean. Am I a complete idiot?
Dec looks down at his watch. “I have to go,” he says, sounding regretful. “I’ll walk you home.” He gets down from the stool and fetches our coats, while I check the time. It’s not even seven. Too early for me to go home, plus I left the office without any files so there’s nothing to keep me busy if I do go home now. I look around the bar instinctively, and when I realise what I’m doing, I pull myself up on it, finding Dec as he holds my coat up for me.
“You don’t have to walk me home.”
My coat drops a few inches, following his wide shoulders. “Yeah, I do, Camryn,” he says seriously, gazing around the bar to the few single businessmen. Just as I did. Leaning back on my stool, I suddenly understand what he’s saying but not saying as he keeps my coat up.
It’s beyond me why I do, but I stand and turn, feeding my arms through the sleeves, freezing when I feel his front meet my back, his arms reaching between mine for the belt of my coat. I look down at him tying it. Then he turns me and wraps my scarf around my neck, his face so close again as he concentrates on getting each end even. I stare at him. Just stare.
Mesmerised.
Confused by this. By him. By this whole thing that’s going on.
Dec slips some cash onto the bar and swings his coat on as I get my bag, then holds his hand out to me. I hesitate. “Take it,” he orders softly. I want to take it. I want to feel the warmth and strength of his hold around my hand. But, again, what is this?
Unable to answer, I tentatively accept and gulp down the endless, annoying questions. I don’t have a moment to admire the sight of my hand being held before he’s leading me out of the bar.
Dec doesn’t let go the entire way back to my apartment, and I’m in utter awe of the strength pouring into me through our held hands. As we round the corner onto my street, he looks up to the dark sky, breathing in deeply. “Okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He slows to a stop and directs me to in front of him, releasing my hand. I mourn the loss. Then we go through what’s becoming so familiar and comforting, a dance of gazes drifting back and forth between our eyes and mouths. Does he want to kiss me as desperately as I want to kiss him? And why hasn’t he? Why haven’t I?
