So, it was no surprise that a sharp dagger of concern pierced his stomach as his gaze shifted from the desk to the chair behind it; in retrospect, the fact that the woman had put a record from his collection onto the turntable without asking was presumptuous enough. But now seeing her stretched out in his chair, his laptop computer open on the mahogany in front of her, a mug of coffee next to her fingers, which were caressing the curves of his computer’s mouse, Charles found himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Hope you don’t mind,” the woman said, sweetly. “I’m an early riser. I needed to check my email, and my phone is out of battery. But I made you coffee. Right there, next to the Declaration of Independence.”

Charles saw the mug on the table—thankfully on a coaster—by the glass case. He still didn’t know quite what to say, so instead he retrieved the coffee and took a little sip. It was the deep roast he’d gotten from Trader Joe’s in Central Square, with just the right amount of cream and sugar. There was also something spicy in the sip—maybe nutmeg? Cinnamon?

“Two sugars and a cream, and a little surprise I whipped up myself. Just how you like it.”

He flushed a bit, snippets of conversation from last night at the tavern echoing in his ears. Right after she’d come up to him by the bar, startling him, and told him he looked just her type, she’d asked how he liked his coffee in the morning. Such an aggressive approach; he’d surprised himself by not excusing himself and running for the door. But he’d already been many glasses of wine deep, not counting the champagne from earlier. And he had been celebrating.

Looking at her, even lounging at his own desk like she’d picked it out from the antique fair herself, he realized he’d never really had a chance. Five-nine at least, with legs that seemed almost too long for her body, bare all the way to the edge of the skirt that hugged her perfect thighs. Her hair was jet black and tied up in a ponytail, held together by a pair of ivory white chopsticks—though the night before he distinctly remembered it loose and wild, spread out across the pillows of his bed. Her cheeks were angled high and sharp, and her lips were full, still bloodred and turned up at the edges. But it was her eyes that were her most distinct feature; dark like her hair, but perfectly elliptical, like a hieroglyphic you’d expect to find on the cornerstone of an Egyptian pyramid.