I N C O G N I T O (on hold)

• nicotine •

He stares at me with empty eyes. A cigarette dangled between his lips, the end of it lit. It brightened, signaling he'd inhaled. Smoke curls around him as he exhales. And then he pulls the cigarette from his mouth completely, running a tongue along his lips as his eyes follows me across the room to where I plan to sit.

Nobody else is occupying the table, which means nobody has to watch me as I try to recover from the harsh blows of Connor's words. I wipe my eyes and silently hope the tears that streaked my face hasn't dried.

It was embarrassing enough to have cried in front of him, it'd be worse if the evidence of my breakdown was there for everyone else to see. Between clearing my throat and straightening my last-minute-decision black dress, my eyes somehow drift back towards the mysterious stranger across the room.

Smoking in the hotel is strictly forbidden, but the rules seem to not apply to him. No one dared tell him to put it out or to please finish it outside. And why would they?

It gave him a bit more of an edge, made him that much more unapproachable.

He reminds me of the rugged, Adonis-like men you see in movies or read about in books. His jet black hair, which he'd tied back into the famous man-bun, stands out in the room full of blondes and brunettes. His eyes, almost the same color as steel, are still on me. Everything about him screams powerful, from his jawline to his muscular build to the way he leaned against the wall, unbothered and uncaring to anyone he may offend. He dressed up for the event, at least, in an expensive looking suit.

I know staring is rude, and I know my mother would scold me for being so blatant about it if she were nearby, but I can't help it. He draws attention without really trying. And it's not like he's being subtle either.

Then there is the fact that I can't help but feel like I recognize him from somewhere. He seems so familiar.

"Is someone sitting there, dear?"

I turn my head to see an old woman with greying hair smiling down at me. Immediately I lift my purse from the chair she intends to sit in and plop it on the table.

"I saw you eyeing that boy. Looker, isn't he?" She shoots a subtle glance his way before smiling coyly at me, sliding into the seat with ease.

I blush and look away. "Um, yeah."

She laughs lightheartedly and waves a hand. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to embarrass you."

"No, it's fine."

She pulls a pack of Marlboros from her clutch and then pulls a cigarette out with her teeth. At the look on my face, her lips lifted. "He can, why can't I?" She hesitates before offering it to me. "You're over 21, right? You look young."

I nod and pull out one for myself. "Thank you."

It was a lie. I turned nineteen only five months ago, and though I looked young, it wasn't hard for me to pass off as a freshly turned twenty-one year old.

She hands me a lighter and I take it, flicking off the cover and lighting the end of my cigarette. I don't smoke often, usually only when I'm stressed or in need of something to do. Like at charity events such as this. My mother likes dragging me to them—something about how nice it looked that we appeared to these so often. Made us look caring. Giving.

The first inhale made me cough, and she chuckled, amused by me.

"You're very pretty. Natural. My granddaughter would have a field day if she saw you. She's an aspiring makeup artist, and always looking for a fresh face to practice on. She's fourteen, but knows more about makeup than I do."