“White or red?” she asked.
“Red, please.”
She liked that he let her pour for him instead of taking the decanter from her. When he stuck the flowers in the ice bucket with the bottle of white, she laughed, but didn’t stop what she was doing to go find a vase. She poured them each a glass, choosing white for herself before handing him the red.
Gus brought his glass toward her, as if for a toast, then stopped. “No clinking glasses, right?”
“That’s only with beer. You don’t clink glasses of beer when you toast, because in 1848 the Austrian generals toasted their victory by clinking glasses and Hungarians vowed not to clink glasses of beer for a hundred and fifty years.”
As she spoke, Nikolett headed for the seating area, Gus keeping pace with her. She knew with a certainty that should have worried her that if she were to trip or tip, he’d catch her and keep her upright.
She sat in an elegant armchair, while Gus chose the couch. His big body would have been cramped in one of the delicate chairs.
“I’m pretty good at maths.” Gus sat forward. “I think it’s been a hundred and fifty years already.”
She smiled. “Hungarians are stubborn like that.”
The silence was heavy but not awkward. The moment was holding its breath, deciding how to exhale.
“Then how about this?” Gus shifted so he was at the end of the couch closest to her. He leaned forward, glass outstretched.
His gaze met and held hers.
She felt something more than just primal awareness. A small fluttering. The classic butterflies in her stomach. It was wholly unexpected, given how thoroughly her heart and soul had been wrung out by Eric.
Then again, most of her adult life had been lived anticipating two spouses. Maybe her heart had been reformed by hermembership so there was automatically space for two. Eric may have damaged one of those slots, but when Gus looked at her, she thought that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for her finding love with someone else.
There was something else too, not quite unease but a sense of disquiet. As if something wasn’t quite right.
Because this should be Eric.
“Sláinte,” Gus said.
Nikolett leaned forward, holding eye contact as she touched her glass to his. “Egészségedre.”
They each took a sip, all without breaking eye contact. Maybe it was because he knew it was bad luck to look away during a toast; maybe it was because he wanted the intimacy.
Gus set his glass down, finally looking away. “How much danger are you in?”
Nikolett scratched “just sex” off the short list of options for the night. He was clearly here for more than just sex if he was asking questions like that.
“I don’t have a definitive answer.” Nikolett winced. “I should have informed you that there was a risk in coming here to see me. So far, no one associated with me has been attacked, but?—”
Gus slid off the couch onto one knee in front of her. She went still, quickly assessing, calculating, but not coming up with an answer as to what he was doing.
His bent leg pressed against hers, the inside of his thigh against her knees. Between the chair and his big body, she was trapped. Restrained.
Nikolett swallowed.
“I’m not worried about myself, lass. I’m worried about you.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know you’re tough. Smart.” He touched her knee, just above the cast, then looked at her, waiting for permission.
Nikolett felt fluttery and light, like it had been champagne instead of white wine she’d sipped. She’d felt alone since that day in Dublin when Eric finally and fully killed the fragile hope she’d clung to. The idea of a connection, of being touched, was desperately appealing.
She nodded, a tiny motion, but it was the permission he needed.
