Page 65 of A Dark Fall

“You are a deviant.” I smile. In my head, I imagine his hands and his body and his smell on me. Robyn’s right: he has turned me into a harlot.

“You don’t even know the half of it,” he growls quietly. “See you tomorrow. I’m off to have a cold shower. Night, Alex,” he says before hanging up.

Before I get into bed, I pack my small overnight case so I don’t have to do it in the morning. I can still smell him on the pillows and the sheets from this afternoon when I climb under the covers, meaning I’ll have to change them. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m happy to go to sleep with the scent of him in my nose and the promise of him in my head. I take a deep breath in, and I’m asleep in seconds.

I make it to The Lancaster at 1:45 p.m. and sign in at the arrival desk. The badge reads “Dr. Marlow,’’ and so I write the “e” on with my black pen before making my way to the toilets to fix my hair. It’s flat, and my updo needs a brush through and redo. It’s also a good way of avoiding having to network in the lobby.

I’m a terrible networker. Always have been. Probably because I’m also a terrible small talker. I’m always one step away from oversharing or offending someone, so I tend to try and avoid it altogether.

As I’m coming back out of the ladies, because I’m not looking where I’m going, I run smack into a body coming from the opposite direction. I lift my head to apologize and stop dead.

Oh, god. Please. No.

Ben. Or “Mr. Ben Cooke,” as the badge reads. Spelled correctly, of course. No rubbish handwritten letter “e” for him.He forces his eyes wide before he smiles.

“Hey, you,” he says warmly. Completely at odds with my insides-full-of-eels sensation at staring my cheating ex-fiancé in the face after almost six months. He’s still handsome. In an older, snobbish, arrogant way, which, for some bizarre reason, I used to be attracted to.

“Ben. Hi. Um, how are you?” I ask tightly, glancing over his shoulder for some means of escape. Then I look down, smoothing my skirt as I inwardly curse myself for asking how he is. I couldn’t care less about how he is. I hate my inbred politeness and good manners sometimes.

“I’m good, Lex. You?” He nods.

I tense at the sound of the nickname. I hate that he still thinks he can shorten my name.

“Really good, actually.” I nod, and I mean it.I’ve been having the best sex of my life with a man younger and hotter than you, you arrogant, cheating prick.I don’t say any of this though—but, bloody hell, I want to.

Ben nods. “How’s Fred? Does he ask about me?” He smiles at his own joke.

“Actually, no. He’s good too though. Still bringing in the decapitated heads of small, winged creatures, but it’s what he enjoys, so ...” I shrug, and Ben chuckles lightly.

“Well, you will not believe this, but we are at the same table,” he tells me. “I had a quick look at the seating plan, as I always do, and Dr. Marlowe without an ‘e’ is at table four with me.” He smiles again.

Good god, seriously? Twice in one week, the laws of probability have entirely screwed me over. Yes, I should definitely put the lottery on.

“Um, great ...” I mutter as I walk away from him toward the conference room with about as much enthusiasm as someone going to their execution. I think about asking someone to switch tables with me. I also think about turning around and leaving this thing altogether, but of course, that would be immature. It’s three hours of my life. I can get through it like an adult.

As I walk into the room, I check the seating plan on the off chance he was mistaken. Unfortunately, he wasn’t. Ben and Iareat table four, which I see is near the center of the room. Without glancing back once, I weave through the other tables to get to my seat.

I sit, and Ben takes the seat directly to my left, as I knew he would, before introducing himself to everyone. He starts with the woman on his left and then stands to shake hands with the others at the table. He gives each of them a flash of his perfect (cheating prick) smile before sitting back down, his leg grazing mine under the table as he does. I look longingly at the spare seat across the table, but I think having to look at him all afternoon would be marginally worse than having to sit next to him.

After introducing myself to an older lady to my right, I get my phone out to send Rob a message telling her of my current predicament and asking her to pray for me.Then I message Jake to ask what he’s making for dinner, adding I wish this thing was over already.

My phone buzzes with his response almost instantly.

Jake: I wish it was over already too, ’cause then you’d be here. J x

Then:

Jake: I haven’t decided yet. Any preferences? Anything you don’t eat?

I ponder the question for a moment before responding:

Me: Not really. And I’m not allergic to anything except bad cooking! No pressure. A x

Jake: Oh, I’m not worried. Prepare to fall even more in love with me after you taste my cooking ...

He sends a winking emoji, and I’m powerless to stop the grin spreading over my face. From the corner of my eye, I sense Ben looking at me, and so I slide my phone into my bag and focus on the stage.

Throughout the first two speakers, Ben grazes my elbow and leg constantly—on purpose, I’m sure—until I physically have to move my chair a few inches away from him. At one point, he leans over and refills my water without being asked, and the lady’s next to me. His face is all butter wouldn’t melt, and the woman practically swoons. I feel like telling her butter would most definitely melt and that he’s a lying, cheating prick in fact, but that would be an overshare. So, she continues looking at him the way older women tend to look at Ben.

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