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I lifted my gaze from my phone, the one thing that was supposed to prevent others from approaching, and laid my eyes on… Okay, so he would be an incredibly beautiful brainless young adult, then. Who may or may not be here on Daddy’s dime.
“Hello.” I could be polite, contrary to what my older brother believed.
In my defense, the students who had come up to talk to us thus far had made me want to kill myself, with their bad sense of humor and ass-kissing. They were barking up the wrong tree, regardless; Dean was here as a friend and colleague of the host. I was here because I could write off the evening as quality time with my brother.
The young man cleared his throat. “Since you obviously don’t appreciate crappy jokes from Georgetown students, can I interest you in judging the fuck out of people as we just stand here and get hammered on bad wine together?”
That came as a breath of fresh air, and I stifled a chuckle. I was entirely too old for him, but I could happily pocket my phone and use him as a distraction for the remainder of the afternoon instead. A little bit of eye candy was never bad for my diet.
“I’m Macklin.” He stuck out a hand, offering a cute grin. “Not a student here.”
Even better. “Walker.” I shook his hand firmly. “Not a student here either.”
Amusement lit up his warm brown eyes, and I almost stepped closer to count the little honeyed flecks at the center. Gorgeous, gorgeous boy. His eyes matched the color of his hair.
“How do you end up at a Georgetown wine mixer at a professor’s house if you’re not a student?” I asked.
He snagged two glasses of wine from a passing caterer—or poor TA. You never knew with prestigious schools. Dean had come home with countless stories of arrogant professors who used students as their personal assistants.
“I came with a friend,” Macklin replied. “He was nervous about discussing a grant proposal with his professor, so he asked me to tag along.”
Ah. Yes, I’d seen plenty of nervous students today. Everyone wanted to be seen and heard by the right professor.
“Wine?” He held up a glass for me.
I smiled. “You’re treating me to bad wine?”
“Yeah, but it’s free.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed and accepted the glass. “Fair enough.” I remembered my student days all too well. I’d lived on my mama’s care packages and ramen. And sometimes Dean had stopped by my dorm with money for pizza. “I take it you’re a student at another university?”
Macklin hesitated with his response. “Sort of? I’m taking a couple classes at GW, but mostly because I got wait-listed at a culinary institute I want to go to. Otherwise, I’m just bartending and waiting tables.”
“That’s good work.” I nodded. “I survived one week working in a restaurant when I was your age, and then I settled for graveyard shifts as campus security.”
He smirked a little. “You definitely have the body for security.”
Cute. And a little too appealing, but there would be no flirting between us. He couldn’t be much older than eighteen, making me nearly twice his age.
Besides, I’d never set foot inside a gym, so he was clearly full of it. I ran, swam, climbed, hiked, and occasionally trained in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Activities that kept me trim but certainly not bulky.
“Anyone has the body for escorting young drunks back to their dorm,” I answered, still highly entertained. “Tell me more about this culinary institute. Do you want to become a chef?”
“I am a chef,” he corrected. “But the world doesn’t believe you without a diploma.”
He was confident. I liked that.
“In ten years, I’m gonna have three restaurants in DC,” he claimed.
Perhaps a little too confident.
“Why three?” I wondered.
He cocked his head, looking like he’d never gotten that question before. “It feels like a good number. A good goal.”
He was fucking adorable. Dean used to point out that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing back in the day. My dream career had been summed up by “I’m gonna be filthy rich.” The hows and whens were just details.
“So, what do you do?” Macklin asked me. “Are you a professor?”
“No, I only came here with one.” I smiled. I could see Dean in the corner of my eye, talking to colleagues. “My big brother is the professor in the family. I’m a business consultant.”
He let out a whistle, seemingly impressed. “In what field?”
“Management and public relations,” I replied. “In short, companies contract me when their ship is sinking, and I make it float again.”
The boy grinned. “That’s hot.”
I shook my head in amusement. “Don’t flirt with me. I’m way too old for you.”
“But that’s the draw,” he laughed. With a pinch of frustration in his expression. It quickly turned into remorse. “I’m sorry—I’ll be a good boy. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”
