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“Is everything innuendo to you?”
She leans into the desk before she sits slowly. “Is there any other way?”
“Yes. Business first. Do you have a résumé you could send me?”
“Is that your way of asking me for my number?” She pulls her laptop from her bag.
“It isn’t, but if it’s on there, I may have to use it for more than just business. Have you applied for one of the internships at AnSa International?”
Her face looks up at me in the glow of her computer screen. She has always looked in total control of every emotion, even if it’s complete abandon. The moment I mention AnSa, it gives away a chink in her facade. “AnSa? No. I haven’t. Why do you ask?”
“I’d like to place you up against… a group of candidates for an interview.” She smirks at me again as I put up my hands. “All innuendo aside, I liked how you challenged both the ideas and me during today’s lecture. You have a way of looking at things that’s quite unique. I’d like to see what you could do in our setting.”
Her carefree nature suddenly becomes hidden under a button or two. She slides her finger delicately across the keypad on her laptop. “I didn’t know that’s who you were that night.”
“You sound like you’re trying to justify something.”
She pulls the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and balls the weave into her fists, pinning one under her chin. “No. I just want it known I’m not about screwing my way to get ahead. The night at the club was all about fun and living in the moment.”
I lean back to rest on the corner of the desk. “I’d like it known I didn’t ask you here for that reason either. But, yes, it was.” I give those three words their proper pause, as the air between us never loses its charge. “We only give four of these internships out each year. We vet our candidates carefully. The decisions are based on skill, hunger, academics, and drive. Two of those things I can see on a résumé. The other two, I need to hear from you.”
“You want to know about my hunger?”
“There are many things I’d like to know about you,” I tell her.
“Then ask.”
I lean forward. “I’d like to know if you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
“Back to hunger. Nice.”
“I’ll be coming from my office. Is there someplace we could meet?”
She packs away her laptop then stands up from her perch. I’ve held her body before as it swayed. Now, I’m holding her eyes as a wicked smile dances over her lips. “Of course there is. Your place at seven?”
I cross my arms across my chest as I swallow deep. I thought it would clear the lump in my throat, and if I dug the nails into my side from my hidden hand, it would have the potential to deflate my growing desire for her. “How will I find you?”
“Check your email, Professor,” she says after she brushes her hand over my knee before heading to the door.
“Dylan?”
She turns her head back toward me. The left side of her face glows in the amber cast light, while the rest of her remains partially hidden in the shadows. This is a theme and metaphor for us. “Yes?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see how it felt to say your name.”
“How did it feel?”
“Like I want to do it again.”
“Trust me, Mr. Sawyer. You will.”
Chapter Thirteen
Elijah
Italian is always a relatively safe choice for dinner, and I can’t fuck it up. My sauce has been at a low simmer for about thirty minutes. The faint hint of garlic weaves through the air of my apartment. I’ve opened all of my new curtains to catch the afternoon warmth of the sun and propped open my balcony door to let the still mild air along with the sounds of the city circulate.
Some would say classical music is the way to go for dinner. I’m more of a rat packer myself. Pops taught me about Sinatra, Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. very early on in life. Their catalog is massive, and it’s always given me a strong sense of confidence and connection to that swagger, even if I feel I’ve lost my game.
