Page 5 of The Invitation

“Charley,” I hiss.

“What? Lloyd’sgotto see this.”

I smile awkwardly to the tall, slim lad taking our bags. “She doesn’t get out much.”

“Happens all the time,” he says, going on his way after Abbie slips him the tenner and he nods his thanks. Oh God, something tells me tips around here stretch further than a tenner.

“Fuck me.” Abbie bumps into my side as we wander up the brick path to the door.

The first thing that hits me is the staircase that sweeps round to the left, the wood white, crisp, and spotless, the taupe carpet runner plush, despite the endless feet treading it. The clash of traditional and modern is quite breathtaking. We approach a huge double pedestal desk, where a perfectly turned-out lady waits to check guests in. And today, unbelievably, we’re guests. I leave Abbie to do the honours, still a little worried that we will be told at any moment there’s been a mistake.

Wandering to the left, I get drawn to an imposing, enormous portrait hanging on the wall halfway up the stairs, the white wooden frame carved beautifully. But the woman in the portrait? She’s truly something. Majestic. Classy and elegant. I gaze up at her, seeing her hardly visible smile perfectly. She could be French. She oozes that kind of sophistication. I drag my eyes from her precise French pleat down her cream pencil dress that falls just below her knee, to her slender legs and the beautiful sapphire-blue kitten heels gracing her small feet. I back up a little to get the whole of her in my sights.

Stunning,I think, also wondering who she is as I stroll on, taking in the luxury surrounding me, until I reach a doorway where a gold plaque tells me I’m entering the Library Bar. A rich, polished oak bar runs the length of one side with old beaten brown leather barstools lining it, built-in bookcases frame the brick-built fireplace, and high-backed blue velvet wing chairs are scattered around but seem precisely placed. Endless glass shelves loaded with various bottles line the raw brick wall behind the bar, and smoky-blue, ribbed glass pendant shades hang on gold chains spaced intermittently over the bar.

I pull a cocktail menu toward me, admiring an embossed crest in the corner. The lettersAHare framed with delicate wisps of golden ivyand apples. I browse the list, seeing modern takes on classics, and the Arlington Hall specials.

“Can I get you something?”

I look up to a waiter in a green waistcoat. “Maybe later,” I say on a smile, returning the menu. “I have a spa day to get through first.”

“Sounds awful,” he says, and I laugh.

“You’ve no idea.”

“You don’t look like you’re dressed for the spa.” He nods down at my cream dress as he polishes a glass, and I find myself smoothing back my already smooth hair.

I hold up my bag. “I’ll soon fix that.”

“Enjoy.”

“Thanks.” I back up but pause when I hear someone clear their throat, and I catch sight of a man sitting at the very end of the bar on the return section that meets the brick wall. His head is down, on his phone, and a stray lock of his thick, mousy hair falls onto his forehead. He moves it with a sweep of his hand, sitting up straight on his stool as he does. His shirt-covered chest expands. The material over his biceps pulls taut.

I swallow and step back as he looks up, catching me studying him.

My breath is shaky when I inhale, and his head tilts, his eyes lazy and intense, illuminated by the glow of the lamp nearby.

Jesus Lord above.

He’s flawless, despite his face being rugged and rough with stubble. He’s solid, despite not being overbuilt. He’s loud despite being silent. His thick hair is long enough to sweep behind his ears, and he does exactly that, leaning back on his stool, interested in the woman obviously ogling him. I bet he gets it all the time. My God, I can hand on heart say I’ve never seen such a stunning man.

I blink.

He latches on to the corner of his lip.

Something explodes in my tummy. Butterflies?

He folds one arm across his chest, relaxed, and brings his other hand to his face, tapping the side of his cheek with the tip of a finger. Thoughtful. My lips part.

Air.

Give me air.

Fucking hell.

I jerk and look away quickly, searching for that air, my body temperature on the uncomfortable side of really fucking hot. What the hell was that? There’s some strange energy bouncing around the bar.

Sparks?

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