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Human behavior class is bearable due to Bryce’s witty comments and his delivery of my caramel frozen latte with fresh whipped cream. Although our banter turns raunchy about ninety percent of the time, it’s in good fun. He’s harmless.
“You’re sporting a different type of smile, Teach. You get laid?”
My cheeks light up with warmth as I’m sure the shade has turned an embarrassing crimson. My head tilt and raised eyebrow conveys the message of “hell no” efficiently.
“I should have guessed. You can still walk. If we were to f—”
“Bryce!” My squeal blends with the professor’s raspy greeting to the class.
“Do you think she would go for a guy like me?”
“Who?” I ask, taking a sip of my beverage. Wednesday will be my turn to pick up the drinks. Thankfully, frequent flier punch cards alleviate some of the expense for the weekly ritual.
“Miss Pencil Skirt.”
“You seriously have a thing for her, don’t you?”
“I have a running list of things I could do with that scarf around her neck.”
“Maybe she is hiding one of those old lady turkey necks.” I try my best to keep a straight face. “The ones that can only be fixed with plastic surgery.” I laugh at the horror displayed on Bryce’s face. He shakes his head “no” repeatedly. You would think I kicked his puppy.
“But do you think it’s even possible?” he asks again.
“If she starts wearing turtlenecks…ones with holiday-themed patterns…oh, and shoulder pads…I think you might actually have a chance with her.”
“Wow. Thanks. You are cruel, Teach.”
I giggle quietly and continue to write notes from the slideshow. My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and I check it when the professor is not looking in my direction. Despite everyone else having their phones in view on their desks, I keep mine concealed in my tote. The Entice date text flashes on my screen, and I open up my profile to see who reserved me. Apparently my profile got put back up on the server after being disabled. When I find the calendar button on the small screen of my phone, I search for the blinking numbers to indicate a date warning. I find nothing.
As Mark informed me yesterday, I am unable to see his name reserving the dates for the week. I send him a quick text asking him if he talked to the agency’s tech support. He responds quickly that he will fill me in over the early dinner.
* * *
Mark’s driver picks me up solo at twenty to four. He drops me off outside Parkhouse Plaza, informing me that Mark is up on the ninth floor at Chantilly’s. I make my way through the lobby and find the elevators—remembering the layout of the building from the trial date with Graham.
Emotions flood through me as I wait for the car to stop on the floor for the restaurant. Part of me feels like I am cheating on him by being in the same building where we shared such an intimate meal and conversation. But then again, maybe it is fitting since he had Sophia wrapped around him for a very public interview at a fundraiser I faithfully support.
I shake off the feeling of guilt, chalking it up to my fluctuating hormones—even though my period is over a week away. It must be a girl thing.
“Angie, I’m sorry that I didn’t pick you up myself,” Mark says, standing upon my arrival at the table to kiss my cheek.
“No problem. I got here just fine.” I smile. He looks great in a sharp black suit and bright red tie, contrasting against his pure white shirt.
The other businessmen have not arrived yet. Mark hands me a peachy cocktail that he already ordered.
“Your profile was tampered with,” he says, cutting to the chase.
“What? Really?” I ask stupidly. “How do you know?”
“It appears you are booked by someone else for the next five months.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” I shout, quickly softening my voice at the stares I receive from some of the workers. The venue is a bit more casual than El Pastel, but still posh and upscale. “Do you know who reserved me? I looked today and couldn’t tell.” Nor did I take notice on the calendar.
“Apparently, it is private, and the worker in the technology department is ‘not at liberty to say.’ He then proceeded to recite some doctrine on the protection of privacy yada yada.” The annoyance in Mark’s voice is evident by the way he quotes the worker with a mocking voice. “I have my theory though.”
“Graham Hoffman,” I whisper.
“Yes.”
