Page 122 of Lured By Shadows

The air smelled rich and expensive, layered with butter, garlic, smoked herbs, and something sweet I couldn’t quite place, while smooth jazz drifted quietly through hidden speakers as though it belonged there as much as the marble floors and gleaming chandeliers overhead. Even the chairs looked soft enough to sink into for hours.

I inhaled in awe, completely forgetting the conversation Culver and I had been having.

“Mr. Scarbrough,” the host greeted warmly.

Culver took my hand and kissed the back of it.

“Please, this way.”

My heart pounded hard in my chest, another rush sliding through me over why so many women chased after men with money. The way he didn’t even need a reservation because his name alone opened every door. And it was turning me on, that kind of power drawing eyes and respect without him saying a word, filling me with a twisted thrill as we walked side by side while his gaze stayed fixed on me the entire time.

I hadn’t planned for any of this today, but it wasn’t as though I didn’t want it.

I liked surprises. And I really liked being treated like a princess.

It was cliché of me, but I couldn’t help what I liked.

We were seated in a private room where a large ebony table waited beneath the warm glow of a crystal chandelier, its golden light reflecting across polished black wood and deep burgundy walls. The room smelled faintly of butter, herbs, expensive wine, and something smoky drifting in from the kitchen, rich enough to make my stomach tighten with hunger.

I sat across from Culver already knowing I was finally going to pry some real information out of him.It was the perfect opportunity to get to know Culver Scarbrough.

As the waiter closed the door behind us, the soft click sealed us into a cocoon of low jazz, distant clinking glasses, and muted conversations too far away to make out clearly.

“How long have y’all been in England?” I started with a basic question.

Culver remained perfectly poised, the question not seeming to bother him in the slightest.

“Ten years, give or take.”

“Where did you live before England?”

The waiter returned, slowly pouring water into our glasses, the stream catching the chandelier light like liquid crystal before he popped open a bottle of expensive champagne with a crisp hiss. Tiny bubbles fizzed at the rim as he poured.

I glanced at the label.

Dom Pérignon.

I didn’t know much about wine, but it screamed more money than my entire family lineage could probably afford.

My eyes drifted back to Culver, who waited patiently for the waiter to leave.

“We lived in Vienna before England, but our traveling takes us everywhere. Being in one place is so stifling.” His fingers brushed the stem of his glass as he spoke with effortless ease. “It makes me curious how you have never really traveled much, Ira.”

Culver’s steady eyes rested on me with a fondness that made warmth creep into my cheeks, and I puffed them out slightly in embarrassment.

I wasn’t about to let myself get distracted because I knew exactly what he was doing, trying to steer me away from questioning him.

“Is that where you were born?” I doubled down, completely bypassing his teasing.

He smirked at once, noticing I wasn’t falling for it. “No. I was born in Armenia.”

Armenia? I didn’t know much about it.

“I was actually born on January sixth, which is the Armenian Christmas holiday,” Culver continued, somehow keeping me completely enraptured by the calm way he gestured with his hands, graceful and measured as though every movement had been perfected over centuries.

“What year?” I asked, lifting my gaze back to him once his hands settled.

His mouth tipped upward with amusement. “How old do you think I am, Ira?”