See Me After Class(5)

“It’s just a bra,” she whines.

“Still clothes,” Keiko replies.

Standing, I wobble on my feet for a few seconds, and then say, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“I believe they’re directing all faculty to use the bathroom to the right of the kitchen when you walk into the house.”

I pat Keiko on the shoulder. “Thanks, Keeks.”

Steadying myself, I take a deep breath and head toward the house, grateful I wore sandals to the event or else I’d be having quite the time traipsing across this lawn in heels. Trying not to look drunk, even though I am—thank you, Stella—I smile at a few people I haven’t met, nod toward Romeo and Gunner, who both have huge smiles on their faces, and head into the house where I stumble to a stop from the sight of the kitchen.

Lord Jesus, look at that island.

It’s the size of a swimming pool.

A marble-coated swimming pool.

Temptation knocks at my door; the urge to lie across the cool surface and get in a few backstrokes crosses my mind.

Imagine the calories I’d burn swimming on that island.

Maybe sober up a little.

Then backstroke heaven.

Moving toward the island, I consider the best way to hop up on it just as I feel a strong, tall presence walk up next to me.

“Can I help you with something?”

That devastating voice has just the right amount of posh attitude combined with mystery.

Turning around, I come face to face with Arlo Turner. I sway backward only for him to quickly grab my shoulders and right me.

I loll my head to the side and glance at his hands that are gripping my shoulders and then back to him. “You have a strong grip.” Oh boy . . . Keeks was right, the inhibitions are gone.

He slowly releases my arms, eyes trained on mine as he takes a step back. Chin high, jaw firmly clenched, he lowers his hands to his side and says, “Do you need something?”

“Yes.” I fold my arms over my chest and try not to get lost in the deceiving color of this eyes. What is that? Blue or green? Make up your mind, man!

“Well?” he asks with a snobbish lilt.

He’s impatient. Is he like this in the classroom?

“Why don’t you like me? Is it because of the interview?”

Face unwavering, he says, “I don’t partake in childish games.” He turns to walk away when I grab him by the arm. His eyes shoot to my hand, eyebrows narrowing, and I quickly let go. Sheesh.

“I’m not playing childish games,” I say, trying not to slur my words. “I’m trying to make sense of why you have a distaste for me when you’ve never officially met me. Oh.” I hiccup and hold out my hand. “Maybe that’s why you hate me, because you’ve never been introduced. Hi, I’m Greer Gibson and you have delightful champagne.”

He stares at my hand but doesn’t take it.

“Struggles with socialization, I see.” I reach over, pluck his hand from his side and slip it into mine. “My God, your hand is large. Look at it eclipse mine like it’s claiming dominance.” I give it a good shake and then let go, but not before one more quick examination. “See, was that so hard?” He doesn’t say anything, so I continue in a deep voice. “Hi, Greer. I’m Arlo Turner. Nice to meet you. I own this mansion of a house, and, from time to time, I conduct the very satisfying backstroke on my kitchen island.”

I press a shocked hand to my chest, enjoying this one-on-one conversation.

“Do you?” I say, answering myself. “I love the backstroke as well. When you perform it, would that be in a bathing suit or a birthday suit? You know what?” I wave my hand about. “Never mind, what’s between a man and his island, stays between a man and his island. Am I right?”

Turning to the side, really getting into character, I puff my chest, and in my best Arlo Turner voice, I answer, “Naked, I swim on my island naked. I enjoy the feel of the cold marble against my most heated of areas—”

“Are you done?” he snaps at me, his jaw clenched even tighter, and I truly feel nervous that he might crack a tooth.

“Uh, do you want me to be done?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then I’m done.” I smile and rock on my heels, which is an incredibly bad idea. Equilibrium completely off—thank you, champagne—I tumble backward into the island. “Oye.” I clutch my back and then pat the top of the island. “Sturdy, very sturdy.” I run my hand over the smooth surface. “Fine craftmanship. Not that I’d know what a good kitchen island is made out of, but, boy, this one sure is nice. Did it come with the house?”

He mutters something under his breath while looking away. Finally, he says, “If you don’t need anything, I prefer all guests to linger in the backyard, not inside my private dwellings.”

“Oh, dwellings, nice word. Very Mr. Darcy-like.” I wink at him. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t lingering. Just trying to find the bathroom. Bladder is full,” I say, pointing to where I hope my bladder is. “Needs relief.”

“I see.” He steps aside. “First door on the left.”

Tapping my chin, I ask, “And do tell, how many doors do you have in this grand household?”

“Enough.”

“Vague answer. What’s that about? Is it because you don’t like me?”