Page 18 of Laced in Longing

After fifteen minutes and half my drink, I feel eyes on me. I peer to the left, meeting the gaze of a man at one of the tables.

He’s objectively handsome—early thirties I’d guess, stubbled jaw, eyes that might be blue or green in this light. His hair falls in waves to his collar, and his button-down shirt hugs a frame that suggests regular but not obsessive exercise. When our eyes lock, he smiles with confidence. For a flickering second, I swear there’s a sheen of static around his edges.

The gin. It’s the gin playing tricks.

He stands, drink in hand, and approaches. My heart rate kicks up, palms suddenly damp against the cool glass in my hand. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Why the alarm bells?

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty stool beside me.

His voice is pleasant enough. Not deep, not like⁠—

No. Don’t think about him. Not now.

“It’s all yours,” I reply, sipping my drink to hide the catch in my voice.

He slides into the stool with fluid grace, extending a hand as his lips curl up. “I’m James.”

“Maven.” I hesitate before shaking, his palm warm and dry against mine.

“Unusual name.” That million-dollar smile widens. He has quite the perfect set of teeth. “I like it.”

“Thanks.” I withdraw my hand quickly, wiping the lingering sensation of his touch on my dress where his eyes cannot see.

James signals the bartender, ordering another of whatever he was drinking—whiskey, by the smell of it—and a refill for me. A kinder person would argue and insist on paying for their own drink. I don’t. Instead, choosing to finish what’s left in my glass, welcoming the dull buzz spreading through my limbs.

“New to Montréal?” he asks, tilting his head.

“Is it that obvious?”

“You have that just-arrived look. Like you’re still taking everything in.” Interesting. I trace a droplet of condensation down the side of my glass, considering. “What brought you here?”

Fresh drinks slide our way, saving me from answering immediately. I lift the gin and tonic to my lips to buy time. This is the part I hate—the questions and pretense of interest in my life story. Can’t we just skip to the physical part, where words aren’t necessary?

“Work,” I answer after a few moments. Not a complete lie. “Got offered a position I couldn’t refuse.”

He raises his glass in a mock toast, his eyes scanning my face. “Lucky for Montréal,” he replies. “And for me.”

Such direct conversation should be refreshing, but something about it sets my teeth on edge. I don’t want his compliments or lingering gaze, yet my body remains seated. I came here for a purpose, and James is objectively perfect for it; he’s attractive, interesting enough, and a complete stranger I’ll never have to see again.

“So, what do you do, James?” The question feels like wood scraping my tongue. A rogue line from a script of how normal people act.

It works, though. He launches into a description of his job in finance, something about market analysis and investment portfolios. I nod at appropriate intervals, noticing how he never quite looks me in the eye when he speaks, his gaze drifting to my lips and neck. Lower.

Two drinks become three. The bar grows louder, or maybe that’s the blood rushing in my ears. My companion scoots his stool closer, a knee brushing mine accidentally at first, then with more purpose. His hand grazes my back as he leans in to be heard over the music.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, hot breath coating my ear. Cringe.

At least the gin has fucked with my head enough that I don’t care. It’s that thought that pushes me forward, knowing I couldn’t give a fuck about politics or whatever mundane topic he might bring up next. I want to feel something—anything—other than the restless electricity that’s been building under my skin all day.

“My place is two blocks away.”

His eyes widen before that smile returns, wider and hungrier. “Lead the way.”

Most of my buzz clears when we step outside, and I silently beg it to come back as James drapes an arm around my shoulders, tugging me close. His cologne is too strong.

“Tell me more about yourself,” he prompts as we navigate the slushy sidewalk. “What do you like to do for fun?”

I roll my eyes under the cover of darkness. We’re already leaving together…why continue the charade? “Not much. Just read and collect things.”