"Ah. Hence the whole mysterious, brooding thing."
I raise an eyebrow. "Mysterious and brooding?"
"Lucy's words, not mine." He smiles. "Though I have to say, you do pull it off remarkably well."
I take another sip. Bigger this time.
He leans forward slightly. "I read one of your books. Through the Veil. Brilliant. Dark. Utterly devastating."
"You read it?"
"Last week. Couldn't put it down." His eyes hold mine. Green. Intense. "The way you write loss… it felt visceral. Like you'd carved it out of your own chest and put it on the page."
My chest tightens. "It's fiction."
"The best fiction always has truth in it." He pauses. "You have a gift, Alena. A rare one."
I look away. "You're very flattering."
"I'm very honest." He leans closer. "And I'm very interested."
The waiter arrives. Takes our order. Disappears.
Oliver doesn't lean back. Stays close. "Tell me something true about yourself. Something Lucy didn't mention."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Favorite color. Worst fear. Secret talent."
I consider. "I hate red."
He glances at my dress. Grins. "And yet here you are, wearing it beautifully."
"Lucy's idea."
"Lucy has excellent taste." His eyes trace the neckline. Not leering. Appreciative. "Though I suspect you'd look stunning in anything. Or nothing."
My eyebrow arches. "Bold."
"Honest," he corrects. "There's a difference."
I take another drink. The wine is making everything softer. Easier.
"Your turn," I say. "Something true."
He leans back finally. Considers. "I'm terrible at relationships. Work too much. Travel constantly. Most women find me boring after three months."
"That's depressing."
"That's reality." He smiles. "But I'm hoping you're not most women."
"I'm not."
"No. You're far more interesting." He reaches across the table. Touches my hand. Just fingertips. Light. Testing. "You're the kind of woman men write novels about. The kind who ruins them for everyone else."
I pull my hand back. Not aggressively. Just… away.
He notices. Doesn't push.
