The man looked at her and smiled again. He was extremely handsome, at the peak of a man's most confident age, with a touch of youthful spirit in his maturity. When he smiled, the elegant arc of his brows and eyes could drown a person.
Charlotte Smith looked at this face that was both vague and profound in her memory, her heart racing.
The man turned around and went to the walk-in closet to change clothes.
After the faint sound of the door closing, she suddenly relaxed, lying back on the bed with a sense of weakness, her sore muscles reminding her of what happened last night.
She looked at the chandelier above her, the familiarity of the bedroom, and the white cashmere scarf on the coat rack.
She remembered it clearly; it was Robert Stephens' twenty-first birthday when she spent half a month knitting it for him by hand.
It wasn't very good-looking. She was left-handed, clumsy, with many places where the stitches were wrong.
