Chapter Three #2
He started over, and the passenger smiled a too-charming smile, one that bordered on looking a bit condescending. His brown eyes were bleary, probably from the effects of the brandy that he’d been enjoying.
“Sit with me,” the man said simply—a command, not a request.
Without hesitation, James sat in the empty chair beside him.
“It looks like there’s no one else here for you to wait on,” the excruciatingly handsome man said with a look of what had to have been mock sympathy. “I’d hate for you to be bored. And so, I was thinking that perhaps we could share some brandy.”
“I’m not exactly supposed to have—”
“Don’t worry. If someone should come by, I’ll take care of things. Besides, it’s nearly eleven thirty. Closing time, hm?”
James managed a nod.
“Here,” the man said, holding out his tumbler. “We can share mine. I should probably stop soon. I’m not even sure how I’ll make it to my cabin, to be honest. Most likely, I lost my sea legs around my second of these.”
Trembling slightly, James took the glass from him.
All of the ice had melted, changing the color of the liquid into a slightly paler brown, though the shade was still fairly rich—light caramel instead of cinnamon.
Slowly, James brought it to his lips. The oaky alcohol sloshed over his tongue, and he hummed.
Despite the fact that it was less potent than it would have been without the ice, the brandy was still some of the finest he’d ever had. Immediately, he drank a bit more.
“Ice was a mistake, as you can probably taste for yourself,” the passenger said before shrugging.
“But Mr. Calbot ordered one of his with ice, and I wanted to see why. Now I know.” He smiled wryly.
“It’s because the man’s taste in liquor is as watered down as his personality.
” He let out a haughty chuckle mixed with a sigh.
“See, this is how I know I’m three sheets to the wind.
I shouldn’t be saying such things. Jacob Calbot is a fine man.
But, oh, on the whole, he can be so uninteresting sometimes. ”
Nodding along, James took one more sip. Damn, that was tasty.
He tried to return the tumbler, but the man held up his hand and shook his head.
Awkwardly adjusting his position, James shifted his weight on the bouncy cushion of the low-backed lounge chair and watched the liquid swirl in the glass.
He still couldn’t bring himself to relax fully, and so, he continued to sit hunched forward.
After a moment, he looked up to see his companion still smiling at him, only the man’s expression had changed, his smile seeming more bemused than moderately menacing.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” the man asked. “You can relax.” James hesitated, and the man let out a fast breath through his nose, close to a laugh. “Go on.”
Cautiously, James reclined back. Even though his stomach was in knots from this whole interaction, he forced a tight-lipped smile and prayed that it was at least a little convincing. The man beside him laughed a bit.
“I’m only trying to be friendly,” he insisted. “Actually, I haven’t formally introduced myself yet, have I?” James only shook his head. “Ah, well, that’s probably part of the problem.” Leaning forward, the man held out his hand. “Cassian Penn Livingston.”
James took it. His stomach shot up into his throat, blocking his own name from escaping.
“James, yes?” Mr. Livingston said.
James pushed past the lump in his throat and croaked out, “Yes.”
“James what?”
Mr. Livingston was still holding his hand. Dear God.
“James Thomas Morrow.”
“Hm.” Mr. Livingston nodded once and squeezed. “Strong name.”
Finally, the man let go. James stared at his empty palm for a couple of seconds, opening and closing it a few times, and then, once he realized how strange he must have looked, he swiftly tucked it under his thigh and had another sip of brandy, though he now felt too nervous to register its taste.
Because this man—Mr. Cassian Penn Livingston—was unbelievable.
Haughty and pretentious and impossibly attractive and, oh, God, the man could ruin James’s life.
And James almost wanted to let him.
There was just something so captivating about Cassian Penn Livingston.
His eyes had such an intensity to them. And the commanding tone in the man’s voice .
. . it made James want to please him. And to be pleased by him.
Never before had James felt this kind of lust—one so intense and so raw that it stirred something in his very soul.
One minute passed, or perhaps two, while James continued to ponder his own undoing.
“Are you married, James?” Mr. Livingston suddenly asked, pulling James out of his fantasies.
He let out a small “uhm” and fumbled for a response, his stomach churning as he wondered why Mr. Livingston was asking such a thing.
“No,” James finally managed, but his voice was small and weak and barely audible, even to his own ears. He cleared his throat and tried once more. “No, I’m not.”
“Ah.” Mr. Livingston steepled his hands. “I’m not either. Only engaged.” The man’s eyes flickered to the ceiling, and he heaved a sigh before muttering something to himself that James couldn’t quite hear.
“Pardon?” James asked.
Mr. Livingston heaved a second sigh. “I said that my engagement . . . it isn’t . . . exactly going well.”
“Wh-why not?” James asked, hating the little flicker of hope that was now fluttering in his chest.
Dammit, he shouldn’t be letting himself want like this.
“Oh, where t’ start?” Mr. Livingston asked wearily, his words coming out with a bit of a slur. “For one, my fiancée seems unhappy. And I can’t figure out why.” James threw him a pitying look, and the man scrunched up his nose while shaking his head. “I feel like something is missing.”
Sympathy pulled at James’s heart, the heaviness in Mr. Livingston’s confession settling in his chest. James could see honest-to-God sorrow shining in the man’s eyes, too.
Beyond that sorrow, though, James thought he saw something else there as well—a bit of kindness, maybe, hidden beneath the veil of pomposity and conceit.
And James found himself hoping that it was real.
“Have you tried . . . talking with her?” James asked.
Crooking an eyebrow, Mr. Livingston smiled a small, bemused-looking smile. “No, James, I have not. And for what I hope are obvious reasons.”
James could only shake his head in bewilderment. And so, Mr. Livingston chuckle-sighed again.
“Ethel is my fiancée, not my wife,” he explained in a somewhat arrogant tone.
“And, as such, it wouldn’t be right for me to have such a frank conversation with her about these kinds of things.
In truth, I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.
” Mr. Livingston paused and pursed his lips.
Then he hummed like he was thinking it over.
“You seem like a relatively safe person, though, at least in my currently inebriated state, considering the fact that you’re merely an employee of the White Star Line, rather than someone important.
Someone with whom I have some sort of personal or business relationship back home.
” Closing his eyes, he began massaging his left temple with his free hand.
“Oh, God, what am I even saying? It seems I’ve had too much of this second-rate brandy. ”
James’s chest tightened as the swell of sympathy in it ballooned.
Despite Mr. Livingston’s slightly insulting statement, James couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man.
He knew how people as a whole, especially those belonging to what some might call “high society,” felt about men sharing their most intimate feelings.
Or, hell, even how most people often felt about men sharing their feelings at all.
But James knew, too, and from personal experience, that honesty and vulnerability were critical to fostering meaningful relationships.
Had James not let himself become close with Maggie, he never would have met George.
And had he not let himself become close with George, he never would have fallen in love.
And, later, had he not let himself be vulnerable, he wouldn’t have had Maggie’s shoulder to cry on when George had passed.
For most of James’s life, he had felt so alone.
Allowing himself to become close with people had saved him.
Befriending George had saved him from thinking that he was broken for experiencing attraction to other men.
Befriending Maggie had saved him twice, first from loneliness and then from grief.
Consequently, James might not have become the man he was had he not fostered closeness with both of those wonderful people.
And, for some reason, he wanted this handsome (if not somewhat insufferable) man to have the same chance to foster such closeness with the people in his life.
“I still think that you should talk to her,” James encouraged softly.
Mr. Livingston immediately rolled his eyes, and James’s stomach seized.
“Sorry.” James winced. “I shouldn’t have . . . I-I only wanted to help.”
After a pause, Mr. Livingston shrugged. “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have expected you to understand.”
James stared at the carpet for a while, silently berating himself for overstepping. Eventually, he began to chew on his fingernails.
Mr. Livingston laughed a little. James looked up.
“I have the same habit,” the man said.
Mr. Livingston held out his hand, showcasing his too-short fingernails.
Swallowing thickly, James lowered his own hand and hovered it right next to Mr. Livingston’s to compare them.
When James looked up through his lashes, Mr. Livingston smiled at him.
His intense brown eyes seemed to shine with that hint of kindness, of care, once more. James smiled back.
“Perhaps we’re not so unalike, then,” Mr. Livingston said in a warm, whispered tone. He turned and placed his nearly empty tumbler on a little end table. Afterward, he took James’s hand in his and subsequently ran his thumb over each of James’s fingernails. “I think mine are worse, though.”
James next breath shook as he mimicked Mr. Livingston’s gesture, taking the man’s hand and running his slightly calloused thumb over each of his stubby nails.
“Only a little,” he whispered back.
Commotion in the hallway—footsteps passing by the Smoking Room—caused both men to retract their hands in one fast motion. And then they sat in silence for a few ticks of the clock.
Finally, Mr. Livingston hummed and said, “Have you tried the swimming bath?”
“We aren’t allowed to,” James admitted. “When I say ‘we,’ I mean the stewards. Or other crew members.”
“Hm.” Mr. Livingston pursed his lips a bit and furrowed his brow. “I think I’d like to try it tomorrow morning. Men can swim from six to ten without paying an extra fee, yes?”
“I believe so. But I’m not sure.”
“Are you not one of the bath stewards, then?”
“No,” James said with a brief shake of his head. “I, uhm, I work in the First-Class Dining Saloon, mostly. And then either on the promenade or in the café in between meals. And in the Smoking Room, too, obviously, but only in the evenings.”
“Mmm . . . that’s a shame.”
“Sorry,” James nearly said, but he held back, literally biting his tongue to keep himself from spluttering the word.
Why did he want to please this man so Goddamned badly?
Mr. Livingston clapped his hands on his knees and stood.
“I better head back to my room.”
He took one wobbly step forward, followed by a second, equally uneven one, and then stilled.
Exhaling a long breath, he shook his head once—violently—as though he was shaking off some of his intoxication, and then buttoned his jacket.
He looked back at James and smiled a little—a melancholic smile that pulled at James’s heart once more.
“Have a nice evening, James.”
“You too, Mr. Livingston.”
And then, Mr. Livingston walked out of the First-Class Smoking Room.