Page 21 of Mr. North
“Oliver called up to let me know you’d arrived,” he says. “And I didn’t want to keep you out here waiting. Shall we go inside? The food isn’t quite ready yet, but I have some wine breathing. Do you like red?”
“Yes. I love red.”
He nods a little, fiddling with his shirtsleeve. “Perfect. Follow me.”
I think he’s going to take me back to the lounge, but he doesn’t. Instead, he opens a door along the hallway, the third on the right, which leads to yet another hallway. A single door stands at the end of it, and it’s open. The room beyond is magnificent. Another glass ceiling, and another impressive panorama of the city. The room faces west, and the sun is finally going down over the skyline, oranges, yellows, and blazing reds. In the center of the room, a long, banquet style dining table sits, almost fifteen feet long. At one end, two places have been set, and a vase full of pure white calla lilies sits before them. A simple glass decanter of wine is also waiting by the place settings. Raphael makes his way over and pours two glasses, then returns to hand one to me. “Your dress is…” His eyes travel down my body, and I can’t deny how his attention makes me feel: flustered, a little anxious, vulnerable and on show. I should have worn something fancier. The shirt he’s wearing is a thing of beauty. It looks like it probably cost more than my monthly rent. I have an overwhelming urge to place my hand against his chest and feel the fabric. To feel the solid, sculpted flesh underneath. God, what the hell is wrong with me? I look up, blinking furiously.
“It’s simple,” I say, almost apologetically. “I didn’t realize this was going to be such a formal evening.”
Raphael smiles crookedly. “It’s not formal. And I was going to say your dress is beautiful. The color makes your eyes seem…alive .”
Funny how I was just thinking the exact same thing about him in the anteroom. “Do I normally have dead eyes, then?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Not at all. They just seem to be shining especially brightly this evening.”
I drink from my wine glass, not really sure how to respond to that. Is he flirting with me? It feels like he is, but then again I’m hardly an expert on the subject these days. It’s been a long time since someone tried hitting on me; I probably wouldn’t recognize if it were happening either way. The wine is incredible—rich and full-bodied, sweet, with just the right amount of tannin to give it a solid texture on my tongue.
“You like it?” Raphael asks.
“Yes, it’s lovely. What is it?”
He takes a sip himself. “A Syrah my mother bought me for my twenty-first birthday.”
“Sounds like something you should have saved for a special occasion.”
A strange, curious look settles over Raphael. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his body language is guarded. Eventually, he speaks. “Thalia told me she came clean with you last night. About our history. She also said you’ve decided you won’t allow me to pay you for your time anymore.”
“That’s correct. I also told her to ask you not to address me so formally.”
“Thalia said you didn’t want me to call you Ms. Dreymon. I haven’t.”
This, technically, is true. He’s being a smart ass, though, I can tell. “Just because you’re not calling Ms. Dreymon doesn’t mean you shouldn’t address me at all. You should…you should call me Beth .”
Raphael shifts, twisting his wine glass around in his hands. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him fidget. He’s always been so relaxed until now, so still, to the point where he’s almost seemed statuesque. He clears his throat. “Why? Why do you want me to call you that?”
“Because it’s my name. Because that’s what everyone else on the face of the planet calls me when they speak to me. Because that’s what my friends call me.”
His hands still. “Is that what I am? Your friend?”
“I—I hope so. I know you can’t just call someone a friend overnight, it takes time, but eventually…”
“Eventually, you and I will move from chess opponents, to acquaintances, to friends?”
“Yes. If that’s what you want?”
He turns to look to his left, away from me. It’s so hard to read him when he looks away like this. Perhaps that’s why he does it—so I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he…is he angry ?
“Would you prefer we remain chess opponents?” I ask.
“Ask me again at the end of our dinner…Beth .” He tacks my name on the end after a pause that feels like it might go on forever. I like the way he says my name. The way his full lips press together at the start of the word. The way the very tip of his tongue catches between his teeth at the end. It’s sexual, somehow. Laden with suggestion. There doesn’t seem to be any intent on his part to make it sexual. He just exudes this magnetism that drives me crazy, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore.
“Let’s sit down and play. Dinner will be ready soon,” he says.
I haven’t noticed the tablet sitting on the table until Raphael picks it up and hits the home button, lighting up the screen. He sits down at the head of the table, watching me, waiting for me to sit down too. I take up my place to his right, and he reaches into his pocket and takes out a coin. Not just any coin. A silver dollar.
“Call it,” he says. “For white.”
“Heads.”
