I breathe in, and my eyelids flutter and I am shaken out of my paralysis. Cinnamon and cigarettes. His jaw moves, rolling, lifting, compressing; gum, the source of the cinnamon.
“Logan. I—what are you doing here?” I sound suspicious, worried, upset even. “How did you find me?”
“Once I had your name, it wasn’t that hard. Getting an appointment this soon was, though. You are in high demand, it seems.”
“Why are you here?” I have to remember to breathe, force each breath in, each breath out.
“I’m your six forty-five.” He moves nearer. “I’m here to learn, Madame X.”
Every lungful is full of his scent, spicy cinnamon, faint acrid cigarette smoke clinging to cotton. Other scents, too faint to identify. The smells of a man who’s gone through the day after a shower, life smell, city smell.
“So. How’s this work, Cinderella?” He pinches the handle of my teacup in a big thumb and forefinger, lifts the cup, and examines the contents. “Tea, huh? Got any more? I could use a cup of tea. Or something stronger, if you’ve got it.”
I take the welcome excuse to move away, to find somewhere I might find my breath, my equilibrium. “I have tea, or scotch.”
“What kind of scotch?”
“Laphroaig. Single malt, eighteenth year.”
“Ah. The good shit.” He moves to take my spot on the couch, my teacup still in hand. “I wouldn’t mind a tipple, then,” he says with a lilting fake accent, eyes twinkling.
“How would you like it?” I ask this faced away now, decanter in hand, tumbler turned upright.
“Neat, please.”
I pour a single finger, and then some instinct has me add a second. Replace the crystal stopper. Turn, and watch as Logan puts his lips to my teacup, his lips matched to the pale red imprints of my lips left by my lipstick. Tips back the teacup, drinks my tea, replaces the cup in the saucer. Why does that cause me to shiver, from bones to flesh, scalp to toes?
I hand him his scotch, and his fingers brush mine. My skin burns where his touched me. Tingles. I withdraw my hand, curl in into a fist. Still it shakes, scorched by a momentary glancing touch.
I cannot turn away, cannot look away as he now lifts the tumbler to his lips, and I cannot help but watch as he tilts the glass, the thick amber liquid slipping between his lips, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
I feel a jealousy for the scotch, touching those lips.
And then I feel stupid for thinking such a ridiculous thing.
I blush.
Me.Blushing.
I duck my head to cover my embarrassment, but then he’s laughing as he swallows and sets the tumbler down. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I’m standing in front of the couch, to the side of the coffee table. Close, but a polite, appropriate distance away. Yet he is able to reach up, brush my cheek with his thumb. “You’re blushing.”
“No.”
He laughs again. Stands up, crowds me. “You are. I can tell. Why are you blushing, Cinderella?”
“I’m not blushing. And my name isn’t Cinderella.”
“You are, and I’ve decided it fits. I like it.”
“You’ve decided.” There’s a sharpness to my tone.
So close. Too close. A foot remains between our bodies, but it’s too close. The air fairly crackles between us.
He grins, a cocky tilt of his lips. “I’m just teasing, X.”
