80
He’s in a perfectly-cut black Armani suit—what else?—and beautiful black leather shoes. His back is to me. His shoulders are wide and strong. He holds a book in his hands, and his dark head is bent toward the pages. Without turning around, he muses, “He always did love Proust. I’ll never understand it. If you ask me, it’s a bunch of namby-pamby shite. Then again, he’s always been the sensitive one.” Rich and throaty, with a rumble to it like a purr, his Irish brogue is exactly the same as Liam’s. So is his face when he turns around and I can finally see it. So are his eyes, that same fine dark color, that same piercing intelligence. Everything about him, in fact, is exactly the same. Even the tattoos on the knuckles of his left hand and the one peeking above the collar of his white dr
- Writer
