Heart now hammering wildly, James left to help the other patrons.
And only barely escaped fainting right there in the middle ofTitanic’s First-Class Smoking Room.
***
Hours later, James returned to the Smoking Room after a short break only to be surprised to find it mostly empty. Except for one man.
Sitting in the same chair was the handsome first-class passenger who continued to make James feel weak in the knees. James lingered in the threshold while watching him. Yes, it was true that James had left London in order to feel things—even potentially romantic, very clearly sexual things—but it was becoming increasingly hard to be in that man’s presence. He was just so ludicrously flirtatious, constantly fucking James with those beautiful brown eyes of his and smirking at him.
James found himself wondering whetherTitanic’s Chief First-Class Steward, Mr. Latimer, might relieve him of his post for the remainder of the evening if he stalled long enough. Then he could have a brief reprieve from feeling as though his skin was on fire and his stomach was collapsing in on itself.
James began to chew on his fingernails. Jesus Christ, he’d never survive being this man’s steward. Not while liking him so much. He needed to leave. Or to be reassigned to another area. Did the second-class facilities need an extra steward? Maybe—
“Excuse me. James,” the man said. “Come.”
Come.
James swallowed thickly.
Oh, hell.
He started over, and the passenger smiled a too-charming smile, one that bordered on looking a bit condescending. His brown eyeswere bleary, probably from the effects of the brandy that he’d been enjoying.
“Sit with me,” the man said simply—a command, not a request.
Without hesitation, James sat in the empty chair beside him.
“It looks like there’s no one else here for you to wait on,” the excruciatingly handsome man said with a look of what had to have been mock sympathy. “I’d hate for you to be bored. And so, I was thinking that perhaps we could share some brandy.”
“I’m not exactly supposed to have—”
“Don’t worry. If someone should come by, I’ll take care of things. Besides, it’s nearly eleven thirty. Closing time, hm?”
James managed a nod.
“Here,” the man said, holding out his tumbler. “We can share mine. I should probably stop soon. I’m not even sure how I’ll make it to my cabin, to be honest. Most likely, I lost my sea legs around my second of these.”
Trembling slightly, James took the glass from him. All of the ice had melted, changing the color of the liquid into a slightly paler brown, though the shade was still fairly rich—light caramel instead of cinnamon. Slowly, James brought it to his lips. The oaky alcohol sloshed over his tongue, and he hummed. Despite the fact that it was less potent than it would have been without the ice, the brandy was still some of the finest he’d ever had. Immediately, he drank a bit more.
“Ice was a mistake, as you can probably taste for yourself,” the passenger said before shrugging. “But Mr. Calbot ordered one of his with ice, and I wanted to see why. Now I know.” He smiled wryly. “It’s because the man’s taste in liquor is as watered down as his personality.” He let out a haughty chuckle mixed with a sigh. “See, this is how I know I’m three sheets to the wind. I shouldn’t be saying such things. Jacob Calbot is a fine man. But, oh, on the whole, he can be so uninteresting sometimes.”
Nodding along, James took one more sip. Damn, that was tasty.
He tried to return the tumbler, but the man held up his hand and shook his head. Awkwardly adjusting his position, James shifted his weight on the bouncy cushion of the low-backed lounge chair and watched the liquid swirl in the glass. He still couldn’t bring himself to relax fully, and so, he continued to sit hunched forward.
After a moment, he looked up to see his companion still smiling at him, only the man’s expression had changed, his smile seeming more bemused than moderately menacing.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” the man asked. “You can relax.” James hesitated, and the man let out a fast breath through his nose, close to a laugh. “Go on.”
Cautiously, James reclined back. Even though his stomach was in knots from this whole interaction, he forced a tight-lipped smile and prayed that it was at least a little convincing. The man beside him laughed a bit.
“I’m only trying to be friendly,” he insisted. “Actually, I haven’t formally introduced myself yet, have I?” James only shook his head. “Ah, well, that’s probably part of the problem.” Leaning forward, the man held out his hand. “Cassian Penn Livingston.”
James took it. His stomach shot up into his throat, blocking his own name from escaping.
“James, yes?” Mr. Livingston said.
James pushed past the lump in his throat and croaked out, “Yes.”
