And I probably just imagined that pine scent anyway. Because he’s definitely not the kind of man who wears cologne. Maybe he just has pine-scented soap.
And now I’m imagining him in the shower. Great. Just frickin’ great.
I toss the damp cloth in the trash, dry off my fingers with a clean one, and get my phone out. I pull up Clive's number and shoot him a text.
Me: Talked to Ramsey. He wasn’t expecting me.
Me: He isn’t interested.
I delete that text before sending it and try again.
Me: He doesn’t want my help.
Me: I tried. Sorry.
I’m not really sorry.
I’m relieved—deeply relieved—that I won’t have to see Dr. Ramsey again.
Partly because of my reaction to him—okay, mostly because of my reaction to him—but also because this whole endeavor is a distraction I don’t need in my life right now.
I glance at the clock on my phone. I have just enough time to grab a latte before making it to my afternoon class. Given the state of my nerves, I better make it decaf.
I’m about to slide my phone back into my purse, when Clive replies.
Clive: Go talk to him again. Convince him.
I glare at my phone. I ought to block Clive’s texts. It would serve him right.
Before I can, another one rolls in.
Clive: The university needs this. You know you're the right person to do it.
Clive: Get it done.
Me: He doesn't want to do the speeches. There's nothing I can say to convince him.
Clive: Be persuasive. You're good at that.
Me: What does that mean?
Clive: You know what that means. I know how persuasive you can be.
Me: What does that mean???
Clive texts me an emoji of a winking smiley face.
God. Men over forty should not be allowed to send emoji texts.
Was he actually suggesting that I do what Ramsey had accused me of doing?
Dear God.
I break my no-cussing rule.
Me: Flock you.
I hit send before I notice the autocorrect.
