“Thank you very kindly, Mr. Bishop.”
For the next hour, Emma grilled him on his background: stuff she already knew, but it was important she hear it from him—in case she slipped with some tidbit she shouldn’t know. He was suspicious as it was. She didn’t need to add fuel to the fire. He refused the three phone calls his assistant dared to bother him with, one of which may or may not have been the Secretary of Defense. He took one call from a phone that sat behind his desk in a charger on the credenza. Her eavesdropping yielded nothing as Nathan gave a series of yes/no responses and signed off without comment. He ordered lunch—cheeseburgers and fries—and they moved from their formal position at his desk to the cozy sitting area in the corner. Nathan sprawled on the couch, jacket off, tie loose, sleeves up. Emma sat at the opposite end with her bare feet tucked under her. He was telling some story about Dartmouth lacrosse and gesturing with a fry, but Emma couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. His beautiful, perfect, sexy mouth with a small but distinct scar splitting his upper lip on the right-hand side.
“What did I just say, Emma?”
“Hmm?” Her eyes shot up to his, and he looked frustrated, and maybe a tad amused.
“What did I just say?”
She hadn’t paid attention to the story, so she changed tacks.
“How did you get that scar?”
“I’m sorry?”
She tapped her lip. “That scar. How did you get it?”
“I was thrown from a motorcycle.”
She almost coughed up a fry. What a liar. When she was six, Nathan was eleven, and they were at his family’s home in Nantucket for a Fourth of July cookout. She was floating in the pool on an inflatable raft, and Nathan was standing on the top of the pool slide with a spatula in his hand singing an ‘NSYNC song. When he went to punctuate “Bye Bye Bye” with a hip thrust, he slipped and tumbled down, splitting open his lip at the bottom. The grown-ups all laughed until they saw Emily. She was weeping inconsolably as blood poured from Nathan’s lip. She thought he was going to die. He came and got her, and when he placed her on the side of the pool, he was sucking on an ice cube. The bleeding had stopped. She touched the cold end of the cube with her small index finger. He smiled, hiding a wince, and rubbed her head. “It’ll leave a scar. It’s gonna look cool, Em-em.” She remembered looking fascinated at the wound. “Okay.”
“Really? A motorcycle?” She was clarifying, not questioning. He was unflappable.
“Yes, freshman year in college.”
“Okay.”
“Are you doubting the origins of my fascinating scar?”
“I wouldn’t dare. And it’s not fascinating. It’s cool.” She was playing with fire, but what the hell.
“Yes. Cool.” He rolled the word around. She watched him and knew she wanted him to remember her.
“Your eyes,” he said.
“What about them?” She looked down reflexively.
“They’re … an unusual shade.”
The contact lenses hiding the distinctive violet color turned her eyes a gray blue. If he looked long enough, he would notice the colored contacts. Or maybe he already had.
“Let’s talk about your personal life,” Emma changed the subject quickly.
“Let’s not.”
“You could give the pat response and say you’re married to your work.”
“I could, but I’m not.”
“So, no commitments?”
“No romantic commitments.”
“Ever?”
“Two girlfriends in college. One in business school. I can’t speak for them, but I had no... intentions.”
“Ever been in love?”