“Oh.” See, now I feel stupid.
Yeah. Sure. I know men find me attractive. But the idea of a student finding me attractive? Eh.
“He’s a child,” I point out.
“He’s in his twenties,” she counters.
“I would absolutely get fired. Besides, he’s . . .” I picture Colton in my mind.
Yes, he’s handsome in a very GQ kind of way. All chiseled jaw and muscles.
Before I can finish my thought, Liz finishes her thought out loud. “He’s hot is what he is.” Then she gives a dramatic sigh. “But, yes, I suppose climbing that like a monkey would violate the university’s fraternization policy. More’s the pity.”
“How can you be both the woman who talks about climbing a man like a monkey and the woman who demands regular Jane Austen marathons?” I throw up my hands. “That makes no sense.”
“Oh, make no mistake. I would absolutely climb Mr. Darcy like a monkey. One hundred percent.”
I stand and pick up my bag and my purse. “Let’s get out of here. If we’re going to have a Jane Austen marathon, can we at least do it at my place?”
She stands too, grabbing her own bag off the floor. “Sure. But that means you’re buying the wine.”
“As long as you don’t mind boxed wine, we’re good.” I turn to lock my office door on the way out, then add, “You know what I think? I think you’re a big faker.” I point my finger at her. “I don’t think you would climb any of these men like a monkey if you had the chance.”
She shrugs as we walk towards the elevator. “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not like I have hot baseball players hanging out in my office. And since you do, I think it’s your moral obligation to indulge yourself and then report back so I can live vicariously.”
“First off, as I already pointed out, I would lose my job. Secondly—and I can’t say this often enough—he’s too young. And thirdly, he’s just not my type.”
Liz rolls her eyes. Again. “Like you have a type. You haven’t dated anyone since the divorce.”
That is—strictly speaking—not entirely true. I had a short bout with a dating app right after I signed the papers. That was back before Liz and I had become closer. Even then, I hadn’t wanted romance or love again. But Clive had been the only man I’d ever been with. I’d needed to know what I was missing. Now I knew. And it wasn’t much—at least, nothing I couldn’t live without.
I had never told Liz about my stint with the dating app, because . . . well, for all of Liz’s talk about climbing men like a monkey, she’d had real love. The kind of big, deep, real love I’d dreamed about growing up. My brief string of hookups seemed tawdry by comparison. Liz wouldn’t judge me for them; that’s not her style. But maybe I hadn’t told her because I judged myself. A little, at least. Not because there was anything wrong with a woman exploring her sexuality, but because even while I was doing it, I knew it wasn’t what I wanted. I think I did it as an “eff you” to Clive. And that just made me feel petty. I wanted more from my post-Clive life than that.
Instead of explaining any of that, I say glibly, “I don’t have to date to have a type.”
We reach the elevator and I push the button. The foyer is empty, since apparently everyone else has already cleared out.
“Okay, then,” Liz says as the elevator doors slide open. “Describe this mythical type of yours.”
“Smart,” I say automatically. Then quickly add, “Well-spoken. Kind.”
“We’re still talking about for sex, right? I mean, you’re not describing your perfect man to start a book club with?”
“Yes. I’m still talking about a man I would want to have sex with.” Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Thank God we’re in the elevator alone, because I’m not sure that would stop Liz. “And I don’t think intelligence is a bad trait to look for in a partner.”
“But well-spoken and kind? Come on!”
“Hey, Austen fan! Mr. Darcy is well-spoken.”
Liz busts out laughing. “No, he’s not! He’s rude and abrupt. He’s all growly and hot.”
“But, kind—”
The elevator door slides open, but Liz stops me from leaving the elevator by planting a hand on my chest. “No. Mr. Darcy is not kind. Don’t fall for that Women’s Home Journal bullshit. You don’t want a man who is kind. You don’t need a man who is kind. Clive was kind.”
I push past her and leave the elevator. “No. Clive was a jerk.”
She falls into step beside me as we leave the building through the door at the back that leads to faculty parking. “No. Clive was a jerk to you because he was a cheating bastard. But in normal life, Clive is kind and well-spoken. He is also very intelligent. Which only proves my point.”
