The perfect head of hair doesn’t look up.
I take a deep breath and go back to the story, but without the white noise of the train rushing along the tracks, I can’t do it. As if he could hear the filthy words I’m spinning on this side of my computer screen if it were too quiet in our little mini compartment.
Maybe I don’t need to write anything else tonight anyway. I’ve got enough for a Christmas gimme to my blog followers. I’ll polish this up when I get to the hotel, then post it before bed.
Then the train jerks backwards, and my computer skitters off the table between us, sliding precariously towards the aisle.
He catches it deftly, and I stand up, reaching for it. “Sorry.” My heart pounds in my chest, because oh God he’s holding porn about himself, but he doesn’t know that.
“It’s not your fault,” he says, handing it over.
And then the train jerks again, forwards this time, and I tumble back into the leather seat, clutching my laptop to my chest.
He swears under his breath and looks around, then back to me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I peer out the window again, but it’s pitch-black out there and bright in here. I can’t see anything. “That was…sudden. Twice.”
“Yeah.” He looks me over, like he’s sizing me up. Both for injuries—and I really am fine—and also for how to handle this new talking thing. I smile tightly and take off my headphones, which had fallen around my neck in the whole yanking forwards and back anyway. He taps on his phone screen, then rolls his neck with a groan. “There’s been a collision up ahead on the tracks.”
“How do you know?”
He turns the phone screen so I can see it. Twitter. “Hashtags.”
I’m not sure why the train staff haven’t said anything. “Maybe it’s just a short interruption to service.”
“Maybe.”
I clutch my computer tighter.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yep.”
“Good. I—” He’s interrupted by the intercom.
“Bon soir…” The announcement was read out in French first, which I don’t speak, so I listened patiently until it repeated in English. “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. We apologize for the sudden stop. We have a delay on the tracks ahead and have received instructions to hold position here for the moment.”
Damn it. He was right. “That’s too bad,” I say quietly, my heart sinking. Of course I hope whoever is in the collision is all right, and this could just be a short delay until they get the tracks cleared.
“I guess, uh…” He gives me a rueful smile, like he knows that I didn’t want to talk, but now we’re talking anyway, so the polite thing to do is do it right. “Can I introduce myself?”
My sinking heart jolts back into place. It’s an odd request, but I like it. I smile. “Sure.”
“I’m Sam. Sam Preston.”
I nod. Okay. Let’s do this. I hold out my hand. “I’m Aibhlin.”
That’s all he gets. My writing nom de plume, and only the first name at that. I don’t give him my last name. I don’t want him to google me with the same speed he found the news about the train stoppage.
“A pleasure, Aibhlin.” He repeats it exactly right, his pronunciation perfect. Aveline. No weird reaction, no questions. His gaze doesn’t leave my face, and his smile seems sincere.
I relax a bit. “Same to you, Sam.”
Then I put my computer in my bag, because who am I kidding? I’ll be too on edge to write more anyway.
And if we’re going to do this, I’m going to do it right.
He gives me another smile. This one is bolder. Inviting, seductive. Do you want to play a game? Flirt instead of work?
I don’t. Not really. I didn’t, anyway.
I glance at his hand. No ring. Means nothing, but I’m jaded now. I always check. “Heading to Ottawa for work?”
He nods.
I pick up the stemless wine glass that holds the remnants of my second drink. “And what do you do, Sam Preston?”
The corner of his mouth pulls up, forming an almost-dimple right at the point. “I’m an investment banker.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Of course.”
He gestures down at his suit. “Predictable?”
“Entirely.”
“And you?”
Before I can answer—and who am I kidding, I wasn’t going to anyway—the door between the train cars clatters open behind me.
I turn and look at the steward, who is pushing the drinks cart. Just in the nick of time.
“Sorry about that, folks. I was in the next car over and it took some time to get back. You heard the announcement? We’re going to be here for a bit.”
“What’s the problem?” Sam asks, as if he doesn’t already know from Twitter.
The attendant doesn’t give us a real answer. “A delay on the tracks is all I’ve been told so far.” He gestures to the cart. “Good thing we’re well stocked. Can I get you another drink, miss? And then I’ll be back with dinner service shortly.”
Miss. My lips twitch and I hold out my glass. “Top me up. And keep calling me miss, I like that.”
“Of course.” He gives me a generous pour, then turns to Sam, who so far into this trip has declined service. “And you, sir?”
Sam exhales roughly. “Well, if we’re going to be here for a while, I’ll take a rye on the rocks. Make it a double.”
That’s more like what I expected. Investment banker. Make it a double. There’s something reassuring there. I know what to do with a man like this. Play with him, have my fun. Under no circumstances will I trust him, but that’s all right.
Trust is overrated.
Once we’re alone again, Sam lifts his glass in a toast. “To comfort while we wait.”
I drink to that. “I hope nobody is hurt too badly.”
“Same.” He takes a big swallow, his throat working quickly to down the fiery alcohol. No hesitation. Then he gestures to the window, where it’s started snowing. Big, fat,
