“James what?”
Mr. Livingston was still holding his hand. Dear God.
“James Thomas Morrow.”
“Hm.” Mr. Livingston nodded once and squeezed. “Strongname.”
Finally, the man let go. James stared at his empty palm for a couple of seconds, opening and closing it a few times, and then, once he realized how strange he must have looked, he swiftly tucked it under his thigh and had another sip of brandy, though he now felt too nervous to register its taste. Because this man—Mr. Cassian Penn Livingston—was unbelievable. Haughty and pretentious and impossibly attractive and, oh,God, the man could ruin James’s life.
And James almost wanted to let him.
There was just something socaptivatingabout Cassian Penn Livingston. His eyes had such an intensity to them. And the commanding tone in the man’s voice... it made James want to please him. And to be pleasedbyhim. Never before had James felt this kind of lust—one so intense and so raw that it stirred something in his very soul.
One minute passed, or perhaps two, while James continued to ponder his own undoing.
“Are you married, James?” Mr. Livingston suddenly asked, pulling James out of his fantasies.
He let out a small “uhm” and fumbled for a response, his stomach churning as he wondered why Mr. Livingston was asking such a thing.
“No,” James finally managed, but his voice was small and weak and barely audible, even to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried once more. “No, I’m not.”
“Ah.” Mr. Livingston steepled his hands. “I’m not either. Only engaged.” The man’s eyes flickered to the ceiling, and he heaved a sigh before muttering something to himself that James couldn’t quite hear.
“Pardon?” James asked.
Mr. Livingston heaved a second sigh. “I said that my engagement... it isn’t... exactly going well.”
“Wh-why not?” James asked, hating the little flicker of hope that was now fluttering in his chest.
Dammit, he shouldn’t be letting himselfwantlike this.
“Oh, where t’ start?” Mr. Livingston asked wearily, his words coming out with a bit of a slur. “For one, my fiancée seems unhappy. And I can’t figure outwhy.” James threw him a pitying look, and the man scrunched up his nose while shaking his head. “I feel like something is missing.”
Sympathy pulled at James’s heart, the heaviness in Mr. Livingston’s confession settling in his chest. James could see honest-to-God sorrow shining in the man’s eyes, too.
Beyond that sorrow, though, James thought he saw something else there as well—a bit of kindness, maybe, hidden beneath the veil of pomposity and conceit.
And James found himself hoping that it was real.
“Have you tried... talking with her?” James asked.
Crooking an eyebrow, Mr. Livingston smiled a small, bemused-looking smile. “No, James, I have not. And for what I hope are obvious reasons.”
James could only shake his head in bewilderment. And so, Mr. Livingston chuckle-sighed again.
“Ethel is my fiancée, not my wife,” he explained in a somewhat arrogant tone. “And, as such, it wouldn’t be right for me to have such a frank conversation with her about these kinds of things. In truth, I shouldn’t even be talking toyouabout this.” Mr. Livingston paused and pursed his lips. Then he hummed like he was thinking it over. “You seem like a relatively safe person, though, at least in my currently inebriated state, considering the fact that you’re merely an employee of the White Star Line, rather than someone important. Someone with whom I have some sort of personal or business relationship back home.” Closing his eyes, he began massaging his left temple with his free hand. “Oh, God,what am I even saying? It seems I’ve had too much of this second-rate brandy.”
James’s chest tightened as the swell of sympathy in it ballooned.
Despite Mr. Livingston’s slightly insulting statement, James couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. He knew how people as a whole, especially those belonging to what some might call “high society,” felt about men sharing their most intimate feelings. Or, hell, even howmostpeople often felt about men sharing their feelings at all. But James knew, too, and from personal experience, that honesty and vulnerability were critical to fostering meaningful relationships. Had James not let himself become close with Maggie, he never would have met George. And had he not let himself become close with George, he never would have fallen in love. And, later, had he not let himself be vulnerable, he wouldn’t have had Maggie’s shoulder to cry on when George had passed.
For most of James’s life, he had felt so alone. Allowing himself to become close with people had saved him. Befriending George had saved him from thinking that he was broken for experiencing attraction to other men. Befriending Maggie had saved him twice, first from loneliness and then from grief. Consequently, James might not have become the man he was had he not fostered closeness with both of those wonderful people.
And, for some reason, he wanted this handsome (if not somewhat insufferable) man to have the same chance to foster such closeness with the people inhislife.
“I still think that you should talk to her,” James encouraged softly.
Mr. Livingston immediately rolled his eyes, and James’s stomach seized.
