Page 13 of Every Silent Lie
“Have you signed your divorce papers yet?”
I shake my head.
“Do you still want to be married to him?”
I pause, my drink on its way back down to the bar, and the welcome sense of lightness vanishes. I look away from him, feeling him assessing me. Trying to figure me out.
And I can’t let him. I’ve said too much, told him too much. I place my drink down and slip off my stool. “It was nice to see you again,” I say, edging out, brushing past him as I do.
His hand shoots out and grabs my arm, and the feel of his touch, even over the arm of my long-sleeved dress, makes me freeze. I look at his big fingers wrapped around me. “Don’t go,” he says quietly.
“And why do you want me to stay?”
“Because I like you.”
I brave facing him. He likes me. I like him too. But I don’t say so, my head telling me to get the hell out of here before I get myself into something I’m not ready for.
Or want.
And yet I take my stool anyway, and Dec nods to Julio for two more martinis. “I have one more question,” he says, turning on his stool to face me. He reaches for my bare knees and lays his hands on them, and my heart beats its way up to my throat, making breathing hard. “Why did you come here tonight?” he asks softly, holding my eyes.
“Because I was hoping to see you.” It comes out without thought, and I close my eyes on a swallow, immediately regretting it.
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He releases me, prompting me to open my eyes. “So why try and leave?”
“Because you ask too many questions.”
“You don’t want me to know you.”
“You don’t want to know me.”
“Wrong.”
“Why?”
“That I haven’t figured out yet.” Facing the bar, he taps the base of the glass. “So let’s set some boundaries.”
“Okay.”
“No personal questions.”
My lips purse. If he can’t ask me, I can’t ask him. “I’ve just sat through a quickfire round with you,” I point out.
“You really didn’t reveal much, Camryn. You’re thirty-seven, a CFO, you apparently don’t have any favourites, you’re divorced but not, and deeply unhappy.”
I recoil. Deeply unhappy. “It’s more than I know about you,” I say quietly, not refuting his analysis.
“Maybe that’s best for both of us.”
“Maybe,” I agree. But I don’t agree. Surprisingly, I want to know every tiny detail there is to know about Dec. And now I can’t ask.
“Drink,” he whispers, pushing my glass toward me. I blindly reach for it, lost in his silver gaze as he watches me take a sip. “Let me tell you what I know about you.”
“You just did.”
“Things you haven’t told me.” He leans in closer, and I get a stronger hit of his heady scent. “Your dark hair reflects golden strands when the light catches it,” he says quietly, his eyes flicking to my hair. “You have a layer here that’s a fraction too short to stay comfortably behind your ear when you tuck it there, which is usually when you’re uncomfortable.”
I feel my hand twitch to do exactly that—pointlessly tuck that shorter layer behind my ear. Dec’s lips twitch, and he reaches for it. “Let me do that for you,” he says, pushing it back. My heart booms as I study his face, unable to take my eyes off him. “You don’t wear lipstick, but you don’t need to.” The pad of his index finger meets my cupid’s bow. “Because your lips are naturally rosy.” The feeling of his finger dragging across my top lip to the corner heats me between my legs. “This mole,” he murmurs, moving his light touch to the top of my cheek, “I love it.”
