He arrived with orchids.
They met at a fundraiser in Charleston. Natalie had been consulting on a restoration project, and Adrian was on the donor board. He was handsome in that practiced, polished way some men are. Easy smile. Clean jawline. Eyes that held your face exactly as long as good manners required. Recently divorced, “amicably,” no children. He listened when Natalie spoke. Asked follow-up questions. Sent flowers after their second date and remembered that she hated cilantro.
By the third month, he knew how she took her coffee and which migraines sent her to bed in darkness.
By the sixth, he knew where to press.
At first, I thought he was simply one of those men who confuses efficiency with intimacy. He liked arranging things. Reservations. Drivers. Travel. He ordered for the table without asking. Chose the wine because he “knew what Natalie liked.”
The first time my instincts pulled tight was over something so small it embarrassed me.
They were at my house for Sunday supper. Roast chicken, potatoes, asparagus. Natalie reached for the salt, and Adrian said with a light laugh, “Easy there. You know what your blood pressure was last month.”
It sounded affectionate.
Protective, even.