For a moment, I’m tempted to correct her. Clive isn’t kind. Not really. However, he is extremely self-aware, which means he’s great atseeminglike he’s kind around anyone who might someday help his career. To everyone else, to anyone he thinks is beneath him, he is usually condescending and patronizing. His cheating may have ended our marriage, but learning how he treated people had ended my love long before that.
I don’t say any of that out loud to Liz though. Even though they worked in different colleges and their paths almost never crossed, it wasn’t in anyone’s best interest for me to still be complaining about Clive’s failings all these years later. So instead, I deflect.
“So you’re saying that I have horrible taste in men. Is that the point you’re trying to make? Because I’m not loving this point.”
I’ve almost reached my car when she puts a hand on my arm.
I turn, still feeling a little stung.
She gives me a smile that’s a little sad and a little wistful. “Look, you know I mean well, right?”
“Of course.” She means well. She’s my best friend. Has my back. Best buds. Heart of gold. All that jazz.
“You had the guy you just described. He didn’t make you happy.”
“Yeah.” I pull my arm away to fidget in my purse, ostensibly to dig out my keys, but also to avoid her gaze.
“All I’m saying is, I had a guy who was none of those things. And he made me very happy.”
I look up at her then, just in time to catch the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
She never talks about the husband she lost too young. Six years of friendship and he’s only come up once before now. I know more about him from her faculty bio and from Google than from conversations.
“Liz—”
She cuts me off. “All I’m saying is that whatever your type is, it should be more about how he makes you feel. It shouldn’t be about some set of qualities you can tick off a list.”
I nod, wordlessly. Because what can I say?
She cracks a grin, suddenly back to her normal self. “And I still think you should give some thought into how that hot baseball player might make you feel.” She holds her hands up, palms out in a sign of surrender. “Not now. Not while he’s your student. But May is right around the corner. And I’m pretty sure he’d at least stay for a long weekend if you asked.”
I pop the lock on my car. “Okay, I’ll consider it,” I say, climbing into the driver seat.
“That’s all I ask,” she says, heading for her own car a few spots over. “That and six uninterrupted hours of Mr. Knightly.”
“Wait. Six hours? I only agreed to oneEmma!” I call out. But she’s already in her car and waving like she can’t hear me.
The sneak.
As I start the car and head for home, I know I will not consider sleeping with the too-young, too-student Colton Solimar. Not in a million years.
I’m not lying when I say he’s not my type.
But I’m also not being entirely truthful when I say my type is well-spoken and kind.
The truth is as soon as I listed off smart as the defining quality of “my type,” one man came to mind. And it certainly isn’t Colton.
It’s Dr. Max Ramsey.
I added well-spoken and kind to the list precisely because they are qualities Max does not possess.
Which is just silly. Because it’s not like Liz can read my mind. It’s not like she would know how my body responds to Max’s presence. The way he makes my pulse hammer and my breath quicken. The way I’d wanted to lean into him today, when I’d been standing on the dais in front of him.
The man is ridiculously big.
Even though I was standing there in heels, he was still taller than me. How is that even possible?
Is the man part giant?
