He was younger than I’d figured, certainly more handsome. He had defined cheekbones and jaw, wavy chestnut hair, the chain of a pocket watch against his chest. From the inside of his coat, he pulled a tin lighter and lit a cigarette between his lips. “Hello, Miss Clarke,” he said in that same drawl, as though every word dragged from his lips was one too many. He studied me openly, his eyes gliding over my feet, legs, waist, chest, neck, and then, finally, his eyes found mine.
