Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,67

wasn’t entitled to a second of my time—I had a thousand other things going on in my mind and in my life. But something stopped me. The David connection. The fact that this man was at my son’s christening. Had been to dinner at my house more times than I could count.

He was a sleazebag, but he was a constant presence in my life. In David’s life. Would he have had Martin around if he had any inkling that he would be dangerous toward me?

“Come on, Bridget,” he said, eyes pleading. He was going out of his way to appear non-threatening. “I was out of line at the parent-teacher conference. I...” He trailed his hand through his hair. The gesture seemed practiced. False. “I haven’t been handling David’s death well. And I know that’s an asshole thing to say considering you’ve been kicked in the teeth with all of this, but I can be an asshole sometimes. I’ve proven that. I’m a spoiled piece of shit. I haven’t had to deal with anything truly hard until David. I’ve gone about this all wrong. But fuck, Bridget, I miss him.” His eyes clouded over with real emotion.

That’s what hit me. Whatever was fake about the man, his grief over David’s loss was real.

So, against my better instincts, I moved aside and let him into my home.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” I asked, more out of obligation than anything else. I made sure to make that known in my tone.

“Whisky, if you have it,” he replied, either ignoring my tone or actually being dense enough not to notice it. Martin may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. “I seem to remember David having a great bottle that we shared on occasion.”

I gritted my teeth and made my way over to the bar cart. David had liked whisky. Liked the old, expensive bottles and had a long habit of pouring one as soon as he got home from work. I didn’t pour, didn’t have it waiting for him, that wasn’t who I was. For his part, David wasn’t bothered by that. He seemed to like the ritual of it all.

I liked to watch him do it. It brought me a comfort I couldn’t articulate, and certainly couldn’t understand how much I missed it until it was gone.

It felt wrong, violating, to touch the bottle that David had last touched, to pour it for another man. To pour it for this man.

I could’ve said no. Should’ve said no. I didn’t even know why I was doing it. But I was.

“You’re not going to drink with me?” he asked as I handed him the tumbler.

My body tensed as our hands brushed. A sudden cold dread crept from my fingers to my spine. “No, I’m not a whisky fan.”

“Come on,” he probed. “Don’t make my drink alone.”

“Why are you here, Martin?” I asked, rounding the kitchen island to put space between us.

His gaze flickered, darkness clouding over his eyes for a moment. “I told you I came to apologize.”

“You’ve apologized,” I said.

“You really don’t like me, do you?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

I didn’t like the way he watched me. At all.

“I don’t know you enough not to like you,” I replied. “But the parts I do know, I’m not exactly impressed by.”

He chuckled. The sound was false but practiced. It probably worked on less cynical, younger women at bars who were distracted by his nice suit, strong jawline, and fifty thousand dollar watch.

“I deserve that.” He drained the rest of his drink, placing it on the breakfast bar, but not before reaching for a coaster to put it on. The man had manners. Some, at least. “I didn’t want it to be the way it was at parent-teacher night. It was shitty of me. But then you didn’t return my calls, messages.”

He rounded the kitchen island, and every part of my body tensed. “I’m not obligated to return your calls or messages,” I said coldly. “You’re not entitled to my time.”

My phone was on the other side of the island, Martin was moving, boxing me in. Panic started to unfold at the bottom of my stomach, that familiar panic some guy at a party had awoken inside me many years ago.

But no. Martin was a sleazeball, to be sure. Creepy. But not violent.

“You’ve written me off before you got to know me,” he said, getting closer.

“I don’t want to get to know you,” I bit out.