Page 20 of Every Silent Lie
Thomas hasn’t seen me outside these offices, where plenty of alcohol passes my lips. “See you in an hour or so.” I walk with purpose to the elevator, disregarding the interested looks coming my way, and board, swinging on my coat, managing a quick check in the mirror. I pull my hair over one shoulder and lift the collar of my coat, and as soon as the doors open, I exit, walking with purpose.
Out my building.
Up Regent Street.
Across Piccadilly Circus.
Onto Leicester Square.
I’m very aware of Christmas on steroids around me, can smell the mulled wine and toasted chestnuts. But today, it’s okay. I dip and weave through the endless crowds, urgent for a different reason.
Him.
I’m halfway across the square when I spot him, just one man amid masses of people.
And my heart blasts, pounding so hard, I can feel it in my throat. “God, you beautiful, unexpected man.” I stop, a static form in the middle of the square, forced to take a moment and a breath at the sight of him. He stops too, seeming to take me in, his face endlessly expressionless. His suit’s back, his navy, double-breasted overcoat fastened, his scarf wrapped around his neck. The way he stands, his stance wide, his body lifted from the chest, his hands in his coat pockets. He’s . . .
Magnificent.
Strong.
I walk to him, our eyes glued, and slow to a stop a foot away. He says nothing, but he pulls a hand from one of his pockets and offers it to me.
Taking it is easy.
And without one word spoken but a million unspoken, he starts to walk us away from the chaos. Not that I’m registering the madness around me. The ball of anxiety isn’t following me. I feel nothing, only awe and, I fear . . .
Something deeper.
Dec seems to know exactly where he’s going. We arrive at a little deli on the corner of a back street, and he pushes his way in, making a bell above the door ding our arrival. There’s room for only a handful of tables and chairs, all taken bar one at the back by the stairs. He unravels his scarf and hangs it with his coat on the back of a chair, and I follow his lead.
“Let me,” he says, rounding me and easing my coat off my shoulders. I feel his breath at my ear, his front virtually pushed into my back.
“Do you need to be so close when you help me out of my coat?” I ask, my smile hidden.
“Absolutely.” His lips meet my jawbone, and the sensations are arresting. “Coffee?” he whispers.
“Please.” I can hardly talk.
“How do you take it?”
“Black.”
He breaks away, allowing me air, not that I want it, and hangs my coat on the back of my chair before he heads to the counter. Lowering to my seat, I watch him while he orders, the eternal impassive man not even cracking a smile for the server, just a stern nod when she says she’ll bring our drinks over. Joining me back at the table, he sits in the chair, looking big and uncomfortable. His phone rings, forcing him up again to dig it out of his pocket. He rejects the call, and it immediately rings again.
“Do you need to get that?”
“Probably, but I don’t want to.” A fleeting moment of exasperation passes across his face.
“Bad day?”
“Had better,” he replies sharply, rejecting the call again. “I had a last-minute unexpected rescue bid come in on a company I’m acquiring. I had to escape the circus for a while.”
“So you called me.”
One of his brows lifts, and he rests back in his seat as the server approaches, giving her room to slide the tray onto the tiny table. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head and thank the server for my coffee and water. “Don’t let me stop you.”
