BEWITCHED & BOTHERED

22 ✰ Night, October 11th

"I can't believe you said yes," Simon uttered with a smirk, hinting the opposite was true.

Generally, I liked confident men, just not over-confident ones, and Simon was skating on the very thin line that separated the two.

I gave a noncommittal hum and sipped on my freezing glass of vodka tonic.

Focus on his eyes. Behind his metal-rimmed glasses, they were simmering dark blue, like a shallow lake on a summer's day. Safe and unthreatening—with no hint of grey in them.

"I'm flattered you asked," I said politely, to break the awkwardness that descended upon me like a dark cloud.

His eyes roamed the low neckline of my cocktail dress, so heavy and intense I could feel them like hands groping the curve of my décolletage. "Can you blame a guy?" He asked with his signature husky laziness, the one I didn't know whether I liked or disliked. I dragged my drink closer to my chest, obstructing his view.

"So, tell me more about yourself, other than the fact that you love putting your interviewees on the spot," I said after another sip.

Wrong move—because the memory of Magnus' lips of my neck, hot and heavy, barged into my mind like a freight train.

Sip.

Simon didn't notice my change in demeanour, and let out a controlled laugh, his hand reaching up to the crooked knot of his skinny tie and loosening it. He was handsome in his Oxford beige button up, tucked into his dark slacks (navy? I couldn't tell with the low lighting) and battered Converse on his feet. The skinny tie stood out like a sore thumb, like he'd haphazardly put it on to draw attention away from his casual footwear. Although, I'd rather he dispensed of the tie altogether—the ensemble reminded me too much of a teen Jonas brother.

Simon must've thought I was checking him out, because he was absolutely preening when he asked, "What's the verdict? Do I look fetching in oatmeal?"

A smile tugged at my lips, although I didn't feel it in my eyes.

"Better than burgundy." Nobody could wear that better than Damiano De Angelis.

The answer satisfied him at least, and he leaned forward on the bar stool, close enough that I could count the freckles dusting his nose.

"You, on the other hand, would look good in anything," he said, his breath laced with brandy.

That wasn't true. I avoided fuchsia and orange like a plague.

I shot him a genuine grin in return for the compliment. "Thanks. But don't change the subject. Tell me, who is Simon Novak?"

"Who is Simon Novak?" He faltered momentarily, looking troubled. "I grew up in San Francisco, graduated top of my class in NYU, scored an internship at The Times which led to a full-time position, before I got sacked and now I'm working for a magazine I personally wouldn't even use for bathroom reading."

I sipped on my vodka tonic again, taking it all in. Simon's cheeks had begun to colour, and underneath his lake blue eyes, discontent brewed.

"I take it you hate your job?"

"Don't we all?" he sneered.

"I happen to like mine," I offered with mock offence.

"Oh right, you get to play with pretty clothes and shoes—dressing people up like your personal barbies."

Simon had meant to be humorous, but it was lost on me. I narrowed my eyes at him, this time actually offended, and he leaned backwards by a careful inch.