“I think we’re good—”
“I’d love to see that,” I say with a laugh.
“I shall put a note in my phone to remind myself.” Right then and there, she takes out her phone from one of the pockets in her dress and types away. I know already Keiko and I are going to be great friends.
“Lovely, thank you, Keeks.”
“Yes, of course,” she says so seriously it makes me giggle.
“Anyway.” Stella faces me again. “I was talking with Gunner and Brock—”
“The physical education teachers, right?”
Stella nods. “They used to be professional baseball players. Both went to Brentwood, both had short careers in the majors. Gunner suffered from Pitcher’s Elbow—”
“A commonality among professional pitchers,” Keiko interjects. “Formally known as valgus extension overload, it’s where the valgus force from snapping your hand and elbow to the lateral side of your trajectory wears out the cartilage in your olecranon bone. Such trauma to your appendage results in swelling and immense pain. The solution would be to change the motion of your pitching arm, though in Gunner’s case—one of not being able to ‘teach an old dog new tricks’—he failed at expanding his athletic prowess, thereby resulting in early retirement.”
“Annnnd Brock snapped his Achilles tendon sliding into home,” Stella finishes.
I turn to Keiko, who says, “That’s self-explanatory.”
Chuckling, I nod. “Okay, so what did they say?”
“They were two of three lucky ones to be chosen to go to the teachers’ conference in Denver last week, the third being Arlo. Apparently, he was annoyed that you were hired.”
“What? Why?” Was he the mystery voice in the back?
“No one really knows what Arlo is thinking at any given time.” Stella downs the rest of her champagne.
“Very elusive man,” Keiko says. “Brilliant educator, vastly recognized amongst peers, and has a scintillating way of throwing parties that lure the minds of those who are effortlessly commandeered by sumptuous chattel.” Keiko looks Stella up and down. “Like Stella.”
“Hey, I appreciate his artistic flair to a nighttime soiree. Nothing wrong with that.” Turning toward me, Stella continues, “Anyway, you’re standing in his lavish backyard, and he doesn’t like you.”
Just then, with a grand amount of flair, the French doors to the beautiful Tudor house open. It feels like a gust of wind blows by us as a man of stature steps onto the patio. Lifting the sleeves of his light brown cardigan, he pushes them to his elbows, revealing tan, muscular forearms. Beneath the cardigan is a pristine white T-shirt with just the very front tucked in, showing off a brown belt that’s securing a pair of dark-washed jeans to his trim waist. Brown boots tap the edge of his cuffed jeans and . . .
Oh.
Dear.
God.
His sharp jawline is covered in a perfect five o’clock shadow, producing a dark and mysterious look, while his hair is styled short on the sides with that sexy kind of messy on top. I’m too far away to tell the color of his eyes, either a blue or a green based on how light they are, but from the overshadow of his narrowing eyebrows, I know they’d be devastating up close.
There’s an unlearned swagger in the way he moves around the patio, shaking hands, handing out distant nods of hello with his expertly carved jaw. A smooth quirk to his brow when he spots Gunner and Brock by the buffet of food. And when he finally walks up to us, there’s the smallest lift of the corners of his lips as he says in a deep, masculine voice, a voice I’d recognize anywhere, “Hello, ladies.”
Oh God . . . it’s him.
“Hey, Arlo. Great party, once again. Thanks for having us,” Stella says.
“I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.” His eyes—a combination of blue green, Lord help me—slay me as he gives me a quick once-over. His assessment isn’t positive as his face remains neutral.
“We are most satisfied,” Keiko says. “We were just conversing about your distaste for Greer Gibson. From her baffled facial expression and lack of response, I’ve come to the logical conclusion that she was unaware of the foul feelings you harbor for our newest faculty member.”
“Jesus, Keeks,” Stella grumbles.
Arlo’s eyes snap to mine and I quickly look away, downing the rest of my drink.
“Did I say something wrong?” Keiko asks. “I don’t quite understand. I stated the facts within relevancy of the conversation. He clearly stated he hoped we were enjoying ourselves, and I perceived that we were enjoying ourselves up until the moment you notified Greer about Arlo not expressing fond feelings for her. Although, we haven’t explored the core reasoning as to why. I’m still very much inclined to find out.”
Arlo nods, and says, “Excuse me. I’m going to say hi to the rest of the staff.” He pats Keiko on the shoulder. “Always a pleasure, Miss Seymour.”
“Pleasure is all ours,” Keiko replies with a brief curtsy.
When he’s out of hearing range, Stella says, “What the hell was that?”
Truly confused, Keiko looks behind her and then back to us. “Well . . . I perceived it as a host greeting his guests, but if I read that situation incorrectly, please help me understand what that was.”
“No, why did you tell him I told Greer he didn’t like her?”
“Because you did,” she says with confusion.
Groaning, Stella drags her hand down her face. “That was humiliating.”
Staring at his retreating back, I ask, “But why doesn’t he like me?” Was it because I called him an elitist? That surely can’t be the case.
“The million-dollar question.” Keiko shakes her head as if nothing happened and stares at Arlo as well. “If I were to hypothesize—”
“Please don’t,” Stella says. “Let’s just get more drinks.”
Taking me by the arm, Stella drags me to the bar, where we fill up on champagne . . . five more times.
“I believe you two are intoxicated,” Keiko says, standing above us as Stella and I share a lounge chair and giggle. “May I remind you about the lack of inhibition you possess at this moment?”
“Well aware of the no inhibi—hiccup—tions.” Stella laughs. “Don’t worry, Keeks, I’ll keep my underwear on. This bra though . . .” Stella starts fishing around in her shirt. “It’s like a torture device. Keeks, help me take it off.”
“I will not,” she answers, head held high. “Disrobing at a work event is strictly prohibited by standard social etiquette.”
“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.