What could I say to steer him back to the table he’d first intended to occupy? What could I say to make it evident that I don’t want him to join me? I’m in no mood for conversation.
My hesitation and that one word are enough for him to think it’s okay to sit opposite me in the booth and rest his glass on the table. A presumptuous move, but one I don’t immediately object to. As Brits, we’re not taught how to deal with situations like this. Politeness comes above everything else. I guess if he’s a weirdo, I can finish my drink and leave — no big deal.
“I hate drinking alone,” he says, without the warming smile I expect from a stranger in this kind of situation. The smile that says, “Hey, I’m a nice friendly person, and you’re safe having a conversation with me.” Instead, he leans back, and I feel one of his ankles press against mine as he stretches his legs beneath the table. My first instinct is to move, but his action seems so deliberate, and his eyes burn with an intent that makes me feel embarrassed to pull away. The stranger tips his head to the side, still holding me with his serious green gaze.
In the seven years that I’ve been dating, I’ve never felt the kind of instant attraction that drives women to drop their underwear. I mean, I’ve never understood how people can skip the “getting to know you” phase that progresses neatly through the bases over an acceptable length of time. I’m not sure what it is about him that makes heat spread across my chest and up my neck. Maybe it’s his seriousness or the languid way he moves. Perhaps it’s his confidence or the lack of mine at that moment, but under his scrutiny, I feel my mouth go dry, and my thighs press together involuntarily. He must feel it because his eyes widen just a little.
The stranger’s hair is sandy brown, styled with a looseness that makes it seem as though red-fingernailed women have caressed it into perfection. His skin is lightly tanned across his straight nose and cheekbones. In a sharp gray suit that clings to his broad shoulders and biceps, he is the archetypal hot executive, but my eyes are drawn to his mouth, which is full and still pressed into a serious line.
If someone asked me to describe my perfect man, I would say dark hair, dark eyes, and a friendly smile. But somehow, this stranger with his cat-like gaze and raw magnetism is everything that makes my heart flutter and my palms sweat.
“You’re English,” he says – a statement rather than a question – and I nod, still unable to construct a coherent sentence. “Here on business?” He raises his glass to his lips and swallows half the drink. Those lips, the flash of the inside of his mouth, the swipe of his tongue, make me woozy.
“Yes.” The whispery sound of my voice surprises me, but I carry on. “Just for two days.” He nods and leans forward, pressing his leg against the inside of mine more firmly.
“I was at the conference,” he says, nodding to where it must have taken place in the hotel. “You’re not married?” he asks, reaching for my left hand and running his thumb along my ring finger. I flinch slightly, more at the intrusive question than his assumption that caressing me is fine after we have exchanged such limited conversation.
He doesn’t let my hand go, though, and I don’t make him.
“No.” I watch him as he looks at my hand, still stroking my fingers.
What the hell is happening? Who is this man, and more to the point, who the hell am I?
The way I’m behaving is so unlike me. I don’t like talking to strangers, and I certainly don’t appreciate them taking the liberty of touching me. But I find that I don’t want to move away from his gentle caress. The stranger looks up at me again, and I swallow involuntarily. Is this what it feels like to be prey? Does a rabbit look into the pretty but menacing eyes of a fox with anything other than surrender? My heart skitters, and my breathing speeds. I have to do something to break the intensity between us. When I reach for my drink and knock it back in one gulp, he smiles.
“What was it?” He nods at the empty glass.
“Gin and tonic.” The stranger nods again and slips out of the booth to the bar. I slump back into my chair, exhaling long and slow. What the hell?
Whoever he is, he walks with purpose. He carries himself as though he owns this room and everything in it, including me. He’s different from any man I’ve ever met – a king amongst princes and paupers. I don’t really understand any of it.