“Nope—” I hold up my hand “—I don’t have the energy to argue with you. To listen to a lecture. I’m done.” Head high, I turn and move back to the table.
“You okay?” Anker asks once I reach the table.
“Perfect,” I say through a tight smile, sliding into my seat and folding my cane.
“That’s our Jenny Wren. No sense crying over spilled scotch.” Miles bumps my shoulder with his.
I just nod and smile.
“Yeah… Speaking of drinks, I’m just about done with mine, so we should head out to Marie’s and then home. We have an early start tomorrow, after all,” Anker says.
It’s the typical agenda for our happy hours. Two drinks each, followed by ice cream at Marie’s Scoops down the street. Right now, I have no desire to spend additional time with Garrett. Breakfast tomorrow followed by the drive to LAX is enough prolonged proximity to him for me.
“Ready for ice cream?” Anker says, indicating Garrett’s return to the table.
“Sure,” Garrett grunts.
“Boo!” Miles’s protest is playful. “And here I thought you were going to buy me a replacement drink, Jenny luv.”
I bite back the smile blooming from his endearment. My belly battles between a swoop and a queasy sensation. No doubt Garrett wears a smug expression at my reaction to Miles’s flirtation.
Fuck him!I replace the tamped-down smile with a sultry expression. “Only if you promise to buy me a drink after.”
Miles leans close and purrs, “Gladly.”
“What about ice cream?” Anker asks.
I wave him off with a flick of my wrist. “You can go without me.”
“Are you sure? We could stay.”
“No worries, gents. I’ve got her,” Miles drawls.
“See. I’m good. I’ll see you in the morning.” I lean back in my chair.
“Okay…” Anker shrugs. “Text me when you get home.”
“Yeah… Goodnight.” I twist towards Miles. “Walk me to the bar, so I can buy the first round?”
“My lady,” he coos, offering me his arm.
“Goodnight, Jensen,” Garrett says as I walk away without a word.
2
MILE TWO
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
Harkey’s subdued happy hour crowd becomes more boisterous as I sit beside Miles. After we grabbed fresh drinks at the bar, we joined some of his fellow professors who escaped the English department’s mixer. Some I’ve met through Catherine or interactions through students of theirs.
As an assistant disability services coordinator for Pemberly, part of my job is assisting disabled students with needed accommodations. At times, this requires me to advocate, alongside the student, directly with the professor. Some professors are easier to work with than others. Edward, who blathers on about how the social media app, BookChat, is responsible for the downfall of literature, is one of my least favorite professors to deal with.
Miles’s hot breath caresses the shell of my ear as he leans close and whispers, “Not sure why his drawers are in such a twist, I rather enjoy some of those BookChat books.”
“Me too,” I breathe.
“I bet you do, gorgeous.” He tucks a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “Especially the spicy ones.”
