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I felt a flare of hope and hated myself for it. Why did I have to be so fucking soft?
“So maybe it’s not?” I said, my voice small and hesitant. I couldn’t look at him. I played with the bedcovers.
“Maybe it’s not,” he said.
I blushed, feeling more hope and trying not to get carried away. I grabbed a cookie. “Okay. I can handle that,” I said, taking a huge bite and chewing thoughtfully.
“I want to see you again. Maybe we should go on a date.”
I almost choked on the cookie. “You’re asking me out?”
He laughed harder. “Why is that so surprising? I literally had my tongue up your ass, and you’re shocked that I’m asking you out?”
He had a point.
“I just…I can’t wrap my head around it.”
“Well, we don’t have to go on a date, but I’d like to see you again. Maybe next week?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a date.”
“Great!” He seemed genuinely pleased.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I said, gazing around me at our sweet accommodations. “And the swank hotel room.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
I tilted my head. “It was…fun.”
“It was. And that outfit. Christ, I might come on the spot next time I see you dressed in it at the club, now that I know what you wear underneath.”
I grinned. “That would be pretty embarrassing for you.”
“Yes, it would.”
We touched our cardboard cups together and sipped hot coffee while we ate the rest of the cookies and discussed the finer points of Ottawa dining.
* * * *
I made my shift on time.
I had the pieces of my ‘uniform’ all folded up neatly in my backpack. I’d made sure there were no signs of any, uh, bodily fluids on them before I’d put them in there. I was almost disappointed not to find anything, but it made things easier.
I had claimed to have errands to run—a lie—and we had parted before lunch with no good-bye kiss or sentimentality. As much as Alastair had talked about seeing me again, I had my doubts.
I finally got to smoke a cigarette, doing my best Audrey Hepburn impression while posing enticingly in front of the ritzy hotel, after Alastair left. I watched him stride down toward Rideau Street in his fancy winter coat and leather gloves, no hat over his wayward curls, and wondered if I’d ever see him again.
When I had finally checked my phone, there’d been some anticipated texts from my mom.
Hey, could you pick up some cigarettes for me? I’ll pay you back,
Hey, where are you?
Did you come home last night?
Call me, Tobias
I only sent one text in reply:
