This was the first time she'd ever seen this man smoke.
Adam Sinclair rarely smoked.
Or rather, he rarely smoked in front of her.
He was usually all easy smiles and unhurried, aristocratic composure. As he aged, he gradually shifted from devil-may-care to slowly becoming more mature; most of the time he came across as steady and enigmatic, the kind of person whose thoughts you could never quite read.
But because they'd already been together for more than four years, other people might feel they couldn't see through the true nature hidden beneath his elegant, noble exterior, yet she knew him very well.
This man wasn't someone you could afford to mess with, but he also wasn't overwhelmingly domineering.
He was more like a composite.
Good upbringing, a considerate personality, and keen powers of observation—and of course, that possessiveness every man has toward his own girlfriend.
He had everything, except he almost never lost control.
