Lured into Love (Blossom in Winter #2) - Melanie Martins Page 0,69
his entire face and—
Jeez!
My heart tightens at the view. That’s Petra’s fiancé!
“I’ll be right back,” I say to my dad, leaving the table as fast as I can.
“Excuse me…” I call out. But only the host and the doorman look at me, while Petra’s fiancé and his friends cross the double doors into the lounge.
As the host accosts me, I say, “Hi, I’m Matthew Bradford and—”
“Sorry, son. They are not recruiting,” the host brushes me off.
“Oh, no. Um, is that man that just entered the lounge Petra Van Gatt’s fiancé?”
At that instant, the host narrows his eyes and takes one step closer to me. “And may I ask why are you asking?”
“Um, I’m a close friend of hers. We are in the same class at Columbia. I remember seeing him once. I need to talk to him. It’s really urgent.”
He seems to be considering me attentively, and I already feel stressed as I observe him doing so. “What’s your name again?”
“Oh, Matthew Bradford, sir.”
“Very well. I will call him.”
I think twice about trying to get into the cigar room too, but the tall, bulky doorman glares at me in refusal. I guess I’ll have to wait outside. After a few moments, though, the host comes out, inviting me in. To be honest, it’s my first time in a cigar lounge. I hate the smell of smoke. It reminds me of my Pops’s friends, and they are all boring and lame. As I step inside, I glance around out of curiosity. And it’s exactly what I thought it would be—a darker, cozier room, featuring leather Chesterfield sofas and armchairs, low marble tables, maple-veneered vitrines displaying different types of cigars, and an old-school vibe. Everyone here sports suits, some with ties, others without. I feel like an imposter in my jeans, white sneakers, and T-shirt. For some stupid reason, my right hand goes to my tousled hair, trying to make it more presentable among these middle-aged dudes. Then my eyes land on the man sitting in an armchair, talking to two other guys, one on each side. He seems to be the oldest, and from the way those dudes are looking at him as he speaks, he must be their boss or something. And as if he feels my eyes on him, his attention swings in my direction, his blue eyes landing on me.
“Mr. Bradford?” And here he is—the mystical fiancé of Petra Van Gatt. Just from his voice, he sounds like a criminal—a criminal of Wall Street.
Typical.
My dad has prosecuted many of his kind.
As he stands up to greet me, my eyes can’t help but dart down to the smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. He gives me a warm, welcoming smile and holds out his other hand. “Alexander Van Dieren.”
I usually never memorize names when people introduce themselves. But his… I’ll never forget it.
As I take his hand, I’m not expecting such a strong grip. Fuck! Did he do that on purpose or what? I try to appear unaffected, but damn it, it hurts like hell!
“Pleasure meeting you, sir.” What? Why on earth did I say “sir”? My tone is low and shaky. Not what I wanted. Clearing my throat, and aiming for a steadier one, I ask, “Um, may I speak to you alone?”
He looks behind him and beckons to the other two men to leave, then his gaze goes over my shoulder and I hear him say, “Roy, do you mind?” Wait! Roy? Isn’t that the name of Petra’s father? No, it can’t be. They wouldn’t be hanging out like besties. It must be someone else. I do my best to contain the urge to take out my iPhone and Google “Roy Van Gatt” and check out what her dad looks like.
As Roy and the other guys leave the room, the sound of the door closing behind me is enough to make me swallow dryly.
Before an odd silence settles between us, he takes a steady inhale of his cigar, then asks, “Do you smoke?”
“Smoking is not my thing,” I snap, trying to feign indifference. In reality, the smell of it is vomit-inducing! Jeez, how can anyone enjoy that shit?
He gives me a side smile. “That’s something Petra would say.”
And I smile, too, at the thought of it. “Yeah, she would.” Yeah, Petra would totally say that. She understands me like no one else.
He invites me to sit on the sofa beside him, and, taking his glass, he asks, “May I offer you a drink, at least?”