Page 5 of Claiming Liberty
I look inside, wondering if Robert would do the same.
Of course not. He’d be pissed if he knew I was smoking right now. But still…
My mind wanders to a piece of advice I got as a child.
I wasn’t close to my mom growing up, but I was very close to my neighbor who babysat me while my parents had their date nights and whatnot. I was probably ten when she told me to only marry a man who lends you his jacket when it’s cold. Cliché, right? Stupid. Especially in this day in age when men’s body heat is supposed to equally matter to women’s, but I still purposefully wear sleeveless dresses when going out on dates.
Robert’s never offered me his jacket.
I blink away the thought and turn back to the man.
“Sorry if I offended you, by the way.”
His glazed eyes meet mine like he’s waking up from his own thoughts. “For?”
“I’m assuming you’re here by choice and don’t appreciate my ‘rich people suck’ babble. I’m really just nervous, and this is how I cope with that. Ignore me.”
His eyes lower, probably to silently critique my outfit again, but he quickly raises them back to my face. “No offense taken.”
“I’m Lib,” I say, holding out my free hand.
He takes it, the warmth of his firm grasp hitching my breath. “Angel.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He dips his chin and lets go, his fingertips brushing my palm as he pulls away. I drop my gaze to the delicious bit of friction on impulse. “You as well.”
His light accent makes everything he says sound serious. Important. Like no word is wasted. Or maybe it isn’t his accent, maybe it’s just him. But the accent helps. It’s kind of sexy too.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I take a final drag while I try to place the part of the world he’s from. The accent isn’t heavy enough for someone who lives outside the US, but he’s definitely not from here.
Spain, I think. Though it could be somewhere else. To be fair, Spain is the only foreign country I’ve ever been to. But I’m still pretty sure it’s Spain.
I put the cigarette out on the stone railing and leave the bud there.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
He blinks like he’s surprised to hear me speak, lost in thought again. “Pardon?”
“You have an accent.”
He leans against the railing. “Spain. Madrid, to be exact.”
“I thought so.” I smile. “I studied abroad for a semester a couple of years ago. Incredible place.”
He nods. “It is. I miss it.”
Miss it.
I was right. He lives here.
“So do I.” I give him a playful wink, feeling for the first time tonight that I have something in common with one of these people. “What made you move to New York?”
“I didn’t,” he says. “I’m only visiting.”
“Ah.” I nod.