“Always the charmer,” Charles said. But then he leaned even closer over the table. “Tonight, I’ll let it slide. Because I’m not here to tell stories. I’m here to celebrate.”

Adrian rolled his eyes.

“Your lecture wasn’t that impressive.”

“Not my lecture. Tomorrow, I’m submitting a new paper for publication. And it’s going to change the world.”

Even for Charles, that seemed overly dramatic. Adrian scanned the man’s bulbous face, but saw no edge of sarcasm, nothing but that pure, unadulterated, annoying confidence.

“More wild theories,” Adrian said. “More science fiction.”

But Charles only winked, took another bite of the roll, then placed it back in the bread bowl. As he turned and headed back across the tavern, he threw a final look in Adrian’s direction.

“Even the flawed and foolish get struck by lightning now and then.”

Adrian watched the man as he was once again engulfed by the lanyards at the bar. Ridiculous. A paper that was going to change the world? Like Adrian, Charles was a professor of eighteenth-century American history. Harvard, not Tufts—but still, who did he think he was? Even the most revolutionary academic paper published by someone in their profession barely caused a ripple in the mainstream world; outside of academia, most people’s interest in eighteenth-century American history peaked somewhere between the seventh and eighth grades.

But watching Charles, once again surrounded by his doting peers, it was obvious the man was bursting at the seams. He was clearly celebrating something. And his happiness appeared to be infectious, not only among the gathered lanyards; farther down the bar, Adrian noticed a woman—tall, angled, dark hair held together by ivory chopsticks—clearly out of Charles’s league, and yet she seemed to be intrigued by the buffoon, even smiled at him.

Adrian shook his head. Again, after midnight—he only had himself to blame.

He turned away from the display at the bar. Then he grabbed the molested bowl of buttered rolls, leaned over to place it on the next table over—to the surprise of the couple sitting there—and went back to his barely passable white wine.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

It was the perfume that hit Charles Walker first, bringing him out of the deepest and most satisfying hours of sleep he’d experienced in the years since his divorce. A blend of grapefruit and vanilla that at once stung slightly as it hit the back of his nostrils and was also somehow instantly sensual, causing a dull throb to ignite in his boxer shorts. And even before he opened his eyes, he felt a smile crawling across his lips.