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Michael narrowed his gaze. “Do you like him or something?”
Of course she liked him. Oliver was intelligent and caring, invested in the importance of learning and student success. There was also an honest gentleness about him and an awkward charm.
But something in her chest pinched, picturing the quiet PhD having a steamy tryst with the snooty executive. Georgie couldn’t shake it or the sickly sensation swirling in her stomach as Michael’s “They’re definitely fucking” careened through her head.
Then it all clicked.
Oh no. No, no, NO. She gulped and blinked at the bookmark in her hand. I ‘like him’ like him!
Talk about inconvenient. Talk about fucking awkward.
Damn feelings!
Georgie shook her head, hoping she could magic away the unwanted and potentially messy epiphany like a drawing on her childhood Etch A Sketch. She tucked the paper pharaoh into her notebook for safekeeping and banished it inside her bag, along with half of the truth. “I think he’s great, but not in that way. We’re both fully committed and want our arrangement to work. It’s just a shame his boss is”—Georgie curled her lip—“rude and unpleasant. I hope she doesn’t interfere or balk at giving me a reference.”
“Interfering or not, I hate to break it to you, Gi, but you’re wasting your time,” said Michael. “Oliver doesn’t need your help if he’s sleeping with the boss. His job couldn’t be more secure. I bet when you go home you’ll find a message cancelling your next session.”
Her stomach rolled. “Better not. I need this.”
“I know, but maybe there’s something else you could do to bolster your résumé.”
But I’m already invested. That weird gut twinge pinched again, and Georgie pouted. “No. I don’t believe it. You weren’t there, Michael. You didn’t see how flustered he—”
“Look, all I’m sayin’ is, if he seemed uncomfortable, it’s because he got caught with you. She’s probably jealous as fuck and he knows he won’t hear the end of it.” His gaze soft and empathetic, Michael returned to his burger.
Georgie opened her mouth to say something but closed it again. Michael couldn’t be right, could he? There had certainly been some major tension between Oliver and his boss. That Georgie couldn’t deny. Her own feelings, however…
This crush can’t happen. Not now. Not ever. With a huff, Georgie looked away, as annoyed by her deep-seated emotional reaction as she was by Michael’s unpleasant take on Oliver’s situation. Nope. Nothing would stand in the way of her completing this assignment and adding an impressive reference to her résumé, not a foolish attraction nor a resentful museum boss. She rubbed her brow, hiding the worry carved into her forehead. “Well, until I hear otherwise, I’m forging ahead. I’ll just…plan to meet Oliver somewhere else next Wednesday, so we don’t run into her again.”
Georgie welcomed the change of scenery, but where to go? “Can’t be school. We lock up at eight. The Toronto Reference Library is out, too, ’cause I might bump into my students.” She picked up a fry and dipped it into her milkshake as her gaze hopped from booth to booth.
“Oh, no. Don’t even think of bringing him here,” said Michael. “This is our place. It’s sacred.”
“Did I say I was?”
He shot her a look through narrowed eyes.
Georgie ate the milkshake-soaked fry as Dusty Springfield’s “I Only Want to Be With You” filled her pause. “A quiet corner at the Golden Griddle would work, but Knox practically lives there and Def Leppard are playing the Gardens that night.”
“So, back to the museum it is, then,” said Michael.
Georgie grimaced. Michael was right. Again.
* * *
Shouldering the door to her second-floor apartment closed, Georgie flipped the light switch and zeroed in on her answering machine. Just as she’d feared, its red light blinked expectantly from its living room perch atop her grandmother’s steamer trunk.
Her heart fell along with her tote and purse, the latter landing on the hardwood with a solid clunk. “Fuuuck,” she muttered, leaning over to unzip her boots.
She pulled them off then shrugged free of her coat and tartan scarf, draping them on her standing coat rack, which tilted precariously as she walked across her area rug (a $7 steal from Honest Ed’s). The answering machine continued its blinking taunt, but there was something she needed to do first.
Stopping in her kitchen for supplies, Georgie headed toward her balcony, which overlooked a small cul-de-sac of two-storey walk-ups. Through the glass, she spotted a nighttime visitor she’d inherited from the previous tenant. She pulled open the door and stepped outside, grinning.
“Hey, Ringo! How you doin’?”
The adorable raccoon twitched its nose and rose up on its hind legs, his masked brown eyes pleading for takeout.
“Yeah, you and me both.” Georgie knelt down. “A day like today calls for a treat, right?” She unzipped a resealable sandwich bag and shook out a mix of ground turkey, sugar snap peas, and carrots into a small Leafs dog bowl. “I know you’re craving Froot Loops, too, but they’re not meant for raccoons. Sorry, little guy.” She silently cursed her predecessor who regularly fed him sugary cereal, then topped up a matching bowl with bottled water. Ringo always washed his food before eating and his fingers were already in the dish, dunking carrots before she’d had the chance to cap the bottle.
