Influenced by Eva Robinson (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

In all likelihood, that wasn’t true, because Irina seemed to lie constantly. He’d been on three proper dates with Irina, during which she’d told him the most fantastic stories about her life. And he’d lapped them up like a strong tea.

It seemed she’d dated a laird and lived in a Scottish castle back when she was studying Scottish shipwrecks. Her father was a Russian oligarch with deep ties to American politics, which was how she knew of two senators who were being blackmailed by Russian mobsters. Born in Siberia, she’d grown up on a yacht near Hamburg. She’d become a brilliant dancer by learning on a gently rocking boat, so her balance was impeccable. Coincidentally, she’d also dropped out of medical school—just like Michael. Then she’d become a DJ, then a bartender.

Given how mad her stories were, you’d think he would have realized she was dodgy before the third date. But she might be a habitual liar; in that case, lies wouldn’t make her nervous, which meant it would look like she was telling the truth. And what was more, on those first three dates, he had been nervous, which made him drink too fast and drift along with her tales like a boat in the Baltic Sea.

It wasn’t until their third date—a cocktail bar in Central Square called The Lab—that the reality of the situation became clear. The final lie that shattered his illusions was Irina’s claim that she was a direct descendant of Anastasia Romanov. That, and something about looking for her family’s treasure.

At this point, he wasn’t even sure if she actually was Russian. She could be a theater student from Kentucky for all he knew.

She stretched her arms over her head. “It was funny running into you last night. Wasn’t that strange? Fate, maybe.”

He poured the pancake batter into a pan, and it sizzled.

“I’m at Sligo a lot.” Not funny at all, because she knew he went there every week. And when she’d showed up wearing a little white sundress, he had planned to avoid her. But the dive bar was tiny. And he’d already had two whiskeys, and she really did have an innocent look…

As he stood over the hot pan, Irina crossed to him and slid her arm around his abs. Despite her beauty, he had an overwhelming urge to get out of here. His tidy Victorian apartment, with all the dark wood and small rooms, felt far too cramped with her in it.

“You making crepes?”

“Pancakes,” he said.

“That’s not pancake. Pancakes are fluffy.”

Not where he came from. And he was nearly positive they weren’t fluffy in Russia, either.

“Why do you like the Sligo bar? It’s revolting.” She rolled her Rs ever so slightly. “It is full of graffiti and old people. And the wine is not good.”

“I like American dive bars. And I like talking to the old people who sit at the counter. They’re chatty and fun.” He flipped the pancake. “I think the real question is why do you go there, if you hate it?” Because you know I’m there.

She sighed dramatically. “I’m going to write a book about dive bars. A novel.”

He suppressed a smile as he slid the pancake onto a plate. Now that he was sober and divested of the illusion that she ever told the truth, her responses were kind of funny. “I see.”

“But why do you like to hear about old people’s boring lives?”

He was going to have to find a new dive bar to avoid making the same mistake. Or maybe he’d have to hang out with the hipsters at the Rosebud Diner.

He scooped strawberries onto her pancake and handed it to her. “I just like the details. Like what they wanted to be when they were younger. What their weddings were like. What their parents used to cook them for dinner. What scares them. Why they got divorced. Real people’s lives are better than TV.”

He especially liked hearing about people who had grown up in places different to him, which was probably how he’d ended up leaving the U.K. to begin with. And it was definitely what had interested him about Irina, with her imaginary Hamburg yacht childhood.

He poured more batter into the pan, starting one for himself. He hungered for other people’s stories, the details of their lives. They fed his soul. That was why he wondered if he’d ever settle down for good with a girlfriend. Because how long would the feast last before he’d learned everything? At some point he would have consumed every last detail, and he’d have to move on to the next person before he starved.

But lies were no good.

Mentally, he tried to work out how to ask Irina to leave.

His phone vibrated, and a text popped up on his screen from Ciara.

You up? I’m outside your apartment. Got here early.

Ciara was strange and prickly, but he wanted to hug her right now, because she was saving him from Irina. They had an early-morning interview scheduled with Adam, Arabella’s husband. Ciara had arrived a full half-hour early to pick him up, which was ridiculous. And yet it seemed a perfect way to get out of here.

He snatched the punnet of strawberries off the counter, which would have to do for his breakfast, and turned off the burner. “Ugh, bloody hell. I hate to have to kick you out this early, but my partner showed up early.”

“Who is your partner?”

She had a strangely possessive tone that set his teeth on edge. He hurried back to his bedroom and grabbed Irina’s clothes. “Her name is Ciara.”

“You didn’t tell me she’s a woman. Is she outside?”

She sounded like she was ready for a fight. Perfectly sane and normal.

He dropped her white dress on the table. “Yes, she is.”

The coldness in her eyes could freeze the blood in his veins. “Is she pretty?”

Red flag. “Uhh… I guess?”

“Interesting.” She snatched her dress from the table, every taut movement communicating her anger.

He could feel the tension crackling around him. He knew he’d answered incorrectly,