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“You haven’t returned any of my calls,” he says.
“It’s been frantic around here.”
“The market’s been worse.”
I’m sure it was. I hunch my shoulders, attempting to stretch. “Bad week?”
“You didn’t return my calls.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How sorry?”
Not that sorry. I grit my teeth. Close my eyes.Be strong, Holly. Just get rid of him. Tell him you’re not interested. Tell him good-bye and be done with it.
I don’t, which gives him a chance to talk next. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Working late,” I answer.
“After work?”
“Going to bed.”
“Sounds like fun.”
I shudder. I should know better than to use a word like “bed” or “night” around him. “Alone.”
“You’d like me in your bed. I’m a big cuddler. Love to spoon.”
I nearly hang up. The verb “spoon” has always turned me off. There’s something unsavory about two people calling themselves silverware. “Tom, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got to go; I’ve got another call holding.”
“Oh.” He pauses. “Who?”
“A reporter from the paper,” I fib, but it’s a good fib.
“Which paper?”
“TheChronicle.”
Tom’s quiet now, and I want to get off the phone before he asks me out for tomorrow night. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, trying to sound cheerful but not too encouraging.
But he jumps on it, like a dog on a stick. “When?”
Never. “Next week.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
I’ve no doubt. I hang up. I still have Tom to deal with, but at least I’m off the hook for now.
Josh appears at my desk. He’s attractive in a nearly invisible sort of way. Slender frame, about six feet, lightish eyes, light brown hair. He probably was a very sweet child.
I can’t imagine him attending Beckett. Beckett has more than money. It’s been investigated twice in the past ten years for its “history of hazing.”
I don’t know if Josh is gay. He might be; he might not be. But I can’t imagine him wild in high school, pumped by testosterone surges.
“You’re leaving,” I say, seeing he’s got his brown leather barn coat on.
“Going to meet friends for drinks.”
