Page 5 of Darling

“Well that’s disappointing.”

“Is it?”

I shrug. “A little, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

He raises an eyebrow, goading, playful.

“Do you have a wife or a husband?” I glance down at the thick gold band on his ring finger. He visibly startles. There’s no shame in his eyes, though, none whatsoever. And then, his faceturns a little sad. “I had a wife. I’m widowed.”

“Recently or…”

“She died…” He has to think about this, which, given how cut up he still seems to be about it (and given he’s still wearing her ring) is a little surprising. “Six years ago in October.”

“Shit, sorry.” I want to hit myself because I’ve never once said sorry in relation to someone being dead. I happen to think ‘sorry’ is the most pointless word in the English language. Overused to the point where it no longer has any real meaning whatsoever. There are almost always better words to use; people are just too lazy to think of them. Christian nods. Then he blinks and shakes his head, clearing the sadness.

“Anyway, tell me something about yourself. I already know you go thrifting and antiquing on Sundays. I know you like tea shops. I know you like sad old widowers who still wear their wedding rings.”

“Sad old widowers who still wear their wedding rings are literally my ideal type. So fucking hot.” I pretend to swoon, and he laughs again. He really does have a nice laugh. His voice is sort of deep, but with that polish of British politeness around it, so that when he laughs, it’s just this rich, delicious thing I want poured into my ears. But I didn’t miss the message he’d just beamed across the table. The message that sounded like a warning. A bright flashing neon sign that read:emotionally unavailable.Well, that isn’t a problem for me. I’m pretty emotionally unavailable myself, thanks to a choice of vocation that makes healthy intimate relationships a little complicated. Which is just fine. I’m not looking to fucking marry this guy. Just have him fuck me six ways from Sunday.

“I’m twenty-four, originally from Ohio. I moved east like three years ago. Needed my independence, you know. It was a small community back there. I originally moved to New York,stayed with a friend a while until I got on my feet, before heading out here to DC. I really wanted to be closer to the seat of power. I’m a real big… government fan… huge on democracy and the constitution. When I’m not thrifting or antiquing, you can find me in the halls of the Capitol building just congratulating our lawmakers on doing a fucking A+ job of running the country.” It’s hard to keep a straight face, and I break into laughter almost a second later while he watches, looking charmed.

“I’m sensing a vein of mistruth in there,” he says, smiling at me fondly.

“Sensing it are you?” I grin and gulp some tea.

“I have a good read for people.”

“That would be helpful in the spy world.”

“I’m really not a spy.”

“That’s exactly what a spy would say.”

“You’re right, they would.”

“So are you here for work or pleasure, or do you like, live here?” He shifts slightly on his chair as though the question is a little uncomfortable for him. Maybe it’s just the chair.

“I work and live here. For now. It’s a new job, I’m unsure if it’s working out.”

“Gotcha. You not feeling the job or the city? Or both?”

“The city is fine. I mean, it’s the same as most others. I actually studied in Connecticut for a year—Yale. I was a lawyer before I got into what I’m doing now.”

“A lawyer, he says, without a shred of shame. Criminal or?”

“Human rights.”

My cock stirs. “Explains the lack of shame, I guess.”

Christian smiles. “I feel very ashamed about the job I’ve been doing for the last five years, honestly.”

“Listen, being a spy isn’t anything to be ashamed of.”

“Ha, you’re not going to let this go, are you?”