Secrets on a Train Read online

  Secrets on a Train

  By Nell Iris

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2022 Nell Iris

  ISBN 9781685500542

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Thank you to J for feeding my fountain pen addiction. To Kris for helping with my name crisis. To Ofelia/Holly and Ally for being the best cheerleaders a writer could have. To Addison for always catching the things I never catch myself.

  This story is a product of spending many hours on a train, commuting to work, sitting in the silent car, wondering what if this guy…?

  * * * *

  Secrets on a Train

  By Nell Iris

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 1

  Monday, February 13

  When I board the train, the man sits in his usual spot. He always occupies the same seat in the back corner of the silent car, a four-seater with a table, always with a notebook open in front of him. This morning, his eyebrows are drawn together, creating two vertical lines above his nose, and he taps the pen against his chin, as though whatever it is he’s scribbling in his notebook is giving him trouble.

  The man is gorgeous, and I can’t stop looking at him. Not classically handsome—his nose is too big and a little crooked, his brow ridge on the heavy side with one eyebrow arched a little higher than the other as though he’s perpetually asking “what?” His face is narrow, austere, and I imagine he’s a perfect negotiator, giving nothing away. Everything about him appeals to me, he’s imperfectly perfect, and maybe the way he slicks his black, glossy, chin-length hair away from his face, displaying himself, his looks, and his expressions, means he likes the way he looks, too.

  He’s tall—his legs sprawling everywhere, barely fitting underneath the table—and sinewy, dressed in nice suits—no tie—the top two buttons of his shirt carelessly flipped open, revealing a couple strands of chest hair that makes me want to unbutton the garment completely and find out if his entire torso is hairy.

  Like a magnet, he attracted my gaze the first time I stepped on the train, or maybe like a giant planet catching me into its orbit. My feet carried me without conscious input through the car, and I chose the seat across from him, one of the few open spaces.

  It’s been the same every morning since; I look in his direction as the train rushes into the station, before I’ve even boarded, and as soon as I’m inside the doors, I find myself walking toward him, sitting across from him, the other three seats always empty, as though everyone but me keeps a wide berth of him and his harsh features.

  And just like the giant planet capturing space debris without making a fuss about it, he’s made no indication that he finds my presence weird; he just looks up from his notebook, gives me the tiniest nod of acknowledgment before tightening his grip on his fountain pen and returning his focus to his writing.

  His fountain pen. Another thing that fascinates me. Everyone else on the train, including me, uses phones or tablets or laptops on their morning commutes, but not my guy. He’s old-school and analog and the fountain pen fits with his overall style. His slicked-back hair and suave suits deserve nothing less; a regular boring plastic pen would ruin the appeal.

  And it’s not just one fountain pen. Every morning these last three weeks I’ve spent sitting across from him on my one-hour commutes to my new job, he’s used a different one, and it makes me breathless with curiosity. How many fountain pens does he own? Does he rotate them? Can I expect to see the pen from the first morning again soon?

  The need to find out is one of the things that make me sit in this spot. Not because I want to let my gaze wander from whatever’s unable to keep my attention on my phone to him. Not because I’ve grown addicted to the way he impatiently brushes an errant strand of hair away from his face, or the way his eyebrows express his progress on whatever he’s writing. It’s definitely not because I want to pluck the pen from his grip and tangle his long, long fingers with mine and find out if they’re as strong and nimble as they look.

  As I set my takeaway cup of coffee on the tiny table by his notebook, I sneak a look at today’s pen. It’s a deep forest green color, made in some kind of brushed metal, and it looks heavy. It’s a miracle his hand isn’t cramping, but I guess he’s used to it. His handwriting, slashes on the page, bold, broad-stroked, bristling, has just as much character as his face.

  He looks up at me as I unwind my scarf—the one I’ve made specifically for mornings like these, that won’t let blustery winds sneak underneath the yarn—and the corner of his mouth tugs up in what I’ve learned is his version of a smile. I smile back as I shrug out of my coat, making myself comfortable, preparing for the ride.

  After settling in, I reach into the pocket of my coat and grab the sugar packets I stashed there at the café; I was late and didn’t have time to doctor my coffee properly when I bought it. I take off the lid, dump in two packets of sugar, and when I tear the third one open, the man stares at me with eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

  He opens his mouth as if to speak, but I shake my head with a grin, mimic zipping my mouth shut, then point to the sign informing the passengers we’re in a silent car. He dips his chin once and turns his attention to his notebook, so I stir my sugared coffee with the wooden spoon and take a sip, hissing when the too-hot liquid scorches its way down my throat.

  As I put the lid back onto the cup, a tap on the table catches my attention. The man touches his pen to the paper, on something he’s written. He turns the notebook around, making it easier for me to read.

  THREE PACKETS OF SUGAR?!?!

  He’s underlined his question three times, and it makes me snort. I nod and wiggle my fingers in a “gimme” motion. He hands over the pen, and I scribble my reply underneath his words.

  Coffee is disgusting and undrinkable without the right amount of sugar.

  The lines between his eyebrows deepen as he reads what I’ve written, and when I put down the pen, he snatches it. I ease open the lid—I don’t like drinking through the little hole because I can’t control when the liquid hits my mouth—and blow on the steaming coffee and read his reply as he writes it.

  Why drink it if you don’t like it?

  When he’s done, he hands me the pen so I can reply.

  Not a morning person. Can’t function without caffeine.

  He nods and points to himself as if to say “yeah, me too, man,” and I add another line.

  I bet you take it black. Black and bitter. In tiny
cups.

  I add a winky face to let him know I’m joking—mostly—and give him back his pen.

  Ofc. The only real way to drink coffee.

  When I look up at him, the curl of his lip is more pronounced and his eyes sparkle, making him even more irresistible. I take a sip of coffee to cover up the sudden dryness of my mouth. His gaze follows my movements, and when I can’t suppress a shudder caused by the bitterness cutting through all the sugar, his eyes crinkle and he presses his lips together as though he’s trying his hardest not to laugh at me.

  I pluck the pen from his grip, tempted to brush my fingertips against his hand, to feel his skin underneath my touch.

  Laugh all you want, but I stand by my choices.

  A small huff escapes him as he reads my words, as though he couldn’t contain his laughter.

  On an impulse, I add a question. What’s your name?

  Runar, he replies. You?

  Valentin.

  His gaze flicks from my name in his notebook to his watch—I assume to check the date since today is February thirteen—and then back again. Do you have special plans for tomorrow?

  I take the pen he offers me. Hiding from bad puns all day? Pretending to find jokes I’ve heard a million times funny? Calling in sick?

  Runar huffs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Is it that bad?

  I nod. Emphatically. You have NO IDEA!! And I’m not even named after THAT guy.

  We keep passing the pen back and forth as we converse in his notebook.

  If not him, then who?

  Who knew I could blurt things in writing, too? My gramma was a huge fan of Rudolph Valentino. She was very sick when I was born, so my parents named me Valentin to make her happy.

  A smile tugs on the corners of his lips, but he doesn’t let it loose. Did it work?

  I nod.

  Did she recover?

  I nod again.

  Good. That story’s too cute not to have a happy ending.

  Awww, crap. When I thought he couldn’t get more attractive and intriguing, he reveals a soft side that melts my inside. Ten points for liking my gramma story.

  I’ll let you get back to your “coffee.” It was nice talking to you.

  I nod and smile, scribble Nice to meet you, too, before handing back his pen, a little sad our short conversation is already over.

  Runar nods, flips a page in his notebook to a blank one, the two lines above his nose reappearing as he taps the nib of the fountain pen against the paper, making the ink bleed and spread out on the page until vaguely resembles an expanding dark blue nebula.

  I pick up my phone and pretend to read something, but I can’t stop sneaking glances at him as the train snakes its way through the barren winter landscape. I have no idea what I’m even looking at on my phone because he steals my entire focus. The way he starts writing something only to scratch it out again, the way his long fingers tap restlessly against the table until an elderly lady in the neighboring four-seater glares at him over her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. When he looks out the window as though searching for inspiration in the world whizzing by outside, running impatient fingers through his hair, I admire his bold profile, drinking in his prominent Adam’s apple, his resolute chin, the hook of his nose.

  I can almost see a lightbulb going off over his head when his face lightens, and he hurries to put pen to paper and starts writing, the words now flowing effortlessly.

  When my phone vibrates in my hand, I force myself to stop ogling him and concentrate on something else.

  But when I reach my stop, he tears his gaze away from his notebook, with his lip curled up in that half-smile that looks a little menacing but very hot, as his hand snaps to his brow in a cheeky salute.

  With a grin, I wave back before I make my way to the doors and alight the train.

  Chapter 2

  Tuesday, February 14

  The next morning, after placing my usual coffee order at the train station café, I also ask for a takeaway cup of espresso on a whim. But as I make my way to the platform, I question my impulsivity. What if Runar doesn’t find me buying him coffee adorable and quirky at all, but weird and creepy? What if he’s not on the train today? What if he doesn’t want it but is too polite to decline it, or unwilling to hurt my feelings? What if he laughs at my presumption? What if he just wants to be left alone, so tomorrow he’ll find himself a new spot on the train to sit where he can get away from me, and something that was supposed to be a cute and thoughtful gesture ends up scaring him away?

  Should I just toss it in the wastebasket?

  I shake my head and square my shoulders. I’m being stupid; anyone would appreciate a hot drink on a freezing morning like this. And it’s not like I plan on curling up on his lap as he drinks it, running my fingers through his hair while burying my nose in the crook of his neck to see if he smells as wonderful as I imagine he does. That would be weird. All I’m doing is being friendly. Giving a nod to yesterday’s conversation. The conversation he started.

  The conversation he also ended, my mind adds, but I ignore it. Traitor.

  When I board the silent car, my gaze is instantly drawn to Runar. A disobedient strand of his inky hair has fallen across his face and he’s wearing a pin-striped suit. My knees wobble at the sight; I’m a huge fan of pinstripes. Huge. Close to being obsessed. And the stripes fit his lean physique perfectly, lengthening already long limbs, making him seem significantly taller.

  My eyes follow the line of his arm, from his shoulder to his elbow, his wrist, his long-fingered hand holding today’s fountain pen. I take it in; it’s sleek and silvery with a golden nib, a writing instrument perfectly suited to an elegant, pin-striped man. The ink, on the other hand, catches me completely off guard. It’s a bright purple, almost neon, and it clashes violently with his polished and severe lines, dark colors, and sternness. The cheerful color of the ink is an anomaly, an unexpected piece to a puzzle, and it makes him even more interesting.

  I set the tiny takeaway cup next to his notebook. He looks up at me, his eyes full of questions. My only answer is a shrug. I hang my warm jacket on the hook, leaving on the scarf because it’s freezing today. As soon as my ass hits the chair, I take a sip, shuddering with happiness as the coffee warms me up from the inside.

  He taps his pen to my hand and points at his notebook.

  No sugar today?

  I open a notes app on my phone, type a reply to his question—I was on time, I fixed it at the café—and lay the phone on the table for him to read as I gulp another mouthful of scalding hot liquid.

  He taps the espresso cup with a quirked eyebrow, and I shake my head. No, I didn’t put sugar in his coffee. He tears off the lid and tosses back the coffee, as though it was a shot of whiskey, making me shudder.

  “Bleurgh!” My exclamation makes the old lady—who’s also traveling on this train every morning and has appointed herself the security guard of the silent car—shoots me a poisonous glare, and I mouth “I’m sorry” to her.

  Laughter dances in Runar’s features and I make an exaggerated wince, my silent way of saying either “ouch” or “oops” or a combination of both.

  Runar has written something in his notebook.

  Thanks for the coffee. It was great. But why?

  I point at the window and fake another shudder, and he nods as though he not only understood what I was trying to say, but agreed, too. He underlines the word “thanks” and I smile and give him a thumbs-up without taking my eyes off what he’s written.

  That purple ink. I can’t get over it. So far, he’s used only black or blue ink, serious colors to go with a serious-looking man, making his handwriting almost ominous. But the purple ink softens the sharp edges of his writing—turning the angry-looking slashes into swoops and swirls—and of the man himself.

  I grab my phone off the table and tap out a question. What’s up with the purple ink?

  He draws a big question mark on the paper, but his quirked eyebrow already asked the
question.

  It seems so…bubbly. You don’t give me a bubbly impression, so it surprised me.

  Bubbly?

  I nod.

  Ink can be bubbly? The corners of his mouth twitch, as though he’s holding back a smile.

  Today’s pen is as sleek as a samurai sword. Your usual black slashes would be more in style.

  His eyes crinkle. You’re keeping track of my pens?

  I nod. You haven’t used the same one twice since I started sitting across from you.

  My admission—revealing that I’ve watched him every day for weeks—could’ve, should’ve, made him wary of me. Scared him even. But nothing in his demeanor suggests that’s the case. Instead, he relaxes into his seat, crossing his legs over the knees, brushing out invisible wrinkles of his already immaculate suit, smirking as he catches my gaze following his every movement. He wiggles his foot, smirk widening as he gets the desired effect of my complete attention.

  I tear away my gaze to ask him another question. How many fountain pens do you own?

  He slides his calf down his shin, slowly. When his foot hits the floor, he lets his knees fall open and his hands land on his thighs. He might as well have drawn a huge arrow pointing at his dick and written LOOK THIS WAY! with his irresistible purple ink.

  So I oblige him. I look at his long legs, his powerful thighs that not even the fabric of his pants can hide. And I look at his bulge, embraced and emboldened by pinstripes. Tantalizing, promising hidden wonders, making me want to fall on my knees and bury my face in the V of his legs and inhale him. Ingest him.

  I run a trembling hand through my hair and let my eyes wander up his body and meet his gaze.

  He leans forward to pick up the pen, his eyes never leaving me. More than fifty, he writes without looking, his words veering off the lines. I have to read it three times before understanding.

  Oh, right. Fountain pens.

  Why that many?

  I inherited my grandfather’s collection. He always said that a true gentleman needs a pen for every occasion.