Private Player

“You don’t like the wine?” Perhaps he wasn’t a spreadsheet-loving geek who lived with his mother. Maybe he was one of those algorithm people that worked for an investment bank who bought wine more expensive than my annual travel pass. I didn’t know much about menswear, but his suit looked cut to fit him exactly, and I was sure the fabric would be butter-soft under my fingers. There was no way a suit off the rack would be able to accommodate his broad shoulders or the hard, round muscles of his upper arms. A suit like this had to be as tailored and precise as the man who wore it.

“No, I most definitely do not like the wine,” he replied. “I don’t drink a lot but when I do, I have . . . particular tastes.” He drew out the last words as if he was talking about something other than alcohol.

“‘Particular tastes’? You drink the milk of llamas, or like Cherry Coke or something?”

He screwed up his nose. “Cherry Coke? Are you serious? Of course not.”

Apparently, llama milk was entirely acceptable. “So, what exactly are your particular tastes?” Don’t be afraid to ask the question outright, my mother always said. If you can’t tease it out of someone, straight-talking can sometimes beat it out of them.

“We’re small-talking.” He glanced down at my mouth and without thinking I reached up to feel if I had half a bread crumb stuck to my lip. All clear, thankfully.

He was avoiding my question and that made me want him to answer even more. “We’re at a wedding,” I replied. “That’s what people do. We’re strangers with no reason to talk at all apart from the fact that we’re plonked next to each other for a few hours. So, tell me about your particular tastes.” And then it struck me—was he talking about drugs? Perhaps I was sitting next to someone who might not like Cherry Coke but . . .

“Well, I don’t,” he replied. “Small-talk that is. I’ve never been good at it. And I only do it under duress.”

“Then consider yourself under duress.”

He chuckled and sat back in his chair. He towered above me even when we were seated.

“I like a good shot of tequila,” he said, his eyes flitting to me as if bracing himself for my reaction.

“Oh,” I said. “I thought it was going to be slightly more interesting than that. I thought you were going to tell me of some sordid addiction.”

He moved closer, whispering, “It’s far too early in the evening for you to hear all about my sordid addictions.” He pulled back and grinned, those eyelashes of his almost catching fire from the sparkle in his eyes. “You don’t like tequila?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m not sure I’ve tasted it since university.”

He laughed as if I’d just said something completely idiotic.

“What?” I asked. “I can not like tequila if it suits me.”

“You just haven’t drunk the right kind. Give me a minute.”

He was up in a flash and headed toward the corner bar. He was big but moved smoothly through the tables and chairs with a swagger that said he was trouble.

He came back with a fancy bottle and set it and a tray of shot glasses on the table. “Tequila,” he announced to the table. “Anyone want a shot?”

People muttered no thank yous and pointed to their wine glasses, so Nathan poured out two shots and handed one to me.

“I think I’ll stick with wine too,” I said.

“Oh no. If I have to small-talk, you have to drink this.”

“You’re not very charming,” I said. “I’m great company. I’m funny—sometimes—and I’m definitely a good listener. You don’t need to be drunk to speak to me.”

He chuckled. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said. It went ‘If I have to small-talk with you, then you have to drink this,’ if I remember correctly.” Which I did. Because remembering quotes was my job. Or part of it anyway.

He shrugged. “I’m not trying to get you drunk. I’m not that guy. I was just trying to open your world up to good tequila, that’s all.”

I was wrong. He was quite charming. Or maybe his eyelashes had hypnotized me.

I pointedly ignored the shot he’d poured and reached for my wine. “So, Nathan Cove, no relation to that guy I read about in the gossip columns who just sold his company and gets his penis out all over London?”

“Nope,” he answered.

“That’s a relief,” I replied. “I wouldn’t have wanted to show my knickers to that guy.”

“You should never hold back if you get a desire to flash your knickers. The pink suits your skin tone. Oh, and I’m not related to that Nathan Cove you mentioned, I am him. And while I did float my company on the Exchange recently, I’m not the playboy the press would have you believe.”