It wasn't his striking looks that drew her eye. In this den of indulgence, every man had a woman draped over his arm—except Miles. He sat alone, a cigarette between his fingers, watching the room through a veil of smoke with detached indifference.
As a wife, she supposed she should feel some satisfaction that her husband kept himself so... pristine.
But when that same husband wouldn't lay a finger on his own wife? That was infuriating.
In this moment, Molly truly envied Sibyl.
Miles had noticed her the instant she walked in—specifically, her waist. A gray blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, the cut accentuating how slender she was, how easily his hands could span her.
"Ms. Harding, I could wrap one hand around that waist and lift you right up," someone called out, punctuating the comment with a whistle.
Molly glanced at him. "Why don't you try later? Let's see if you actually can."
As she spoke, Miles rose from the sofa.
When he reached her side, she caught his scent—sandalwood and tobacco, faint but unmistakable. She followed him out.