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“It’s all right,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now.”
I bite my lip to try and stop crying, still shivering from the cold. Then I sit up in alarm as realization hits me. “Your jacket!” I spin around to look for it, but of course there’s no sign of it. “Oh no, it must have gone over the edge.”
“It did, I saw it.”
“I can look for it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’ll stay in the pool until the current picks it up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Was it from Italy?”
“Milan, yes.”
I wipe my eyes, which is useless because my hands are wet. “I’ll replace it, if I can take out a small mortgage to cover the cost.”
He laughs and kisses my forehead, then tightens his arms around me. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, because I don’t have the strength to break free.
“I thought I was a goner there for a minute,” I mumble.
“Nah. I wouldn’t have let you go over.”
I think about that, as he rubs my back and arms to warm me up.
“You smell nice,” I whisper.
“Thank you.”
“Is it a very expensive cologne?”
“Six hundred bucks a bottle.”
“Jesus. What is it?” I sniff his neck. I can smell vanilla and tobacco, spices, and something sweet—brandy, or rum.
“It’s a Penhaligon’s Picture scent.”
“A what?”
“It’s called The Tragedy Of Lord George. Very British. They say ‘it’s the perfect scent for a gentleman with something dark hidden away.’”
I close my eyes and inhale. “What secret are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything. I’m an open book.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I mumble.
We sit there for a minute or so, while my heartbeat gradually slows.
“You smell nice, too,” he says eventually.
“River water?”
“No. Something soft and flowery.”
“It’s rose water.”