“3120, North Tower.”
She shook her head. “You’re right next door. Shorty’s doing, no doubt.”
“Be over in a jiffy.”
She smirked, hanging up. She had no idea how long a jiffy was so she pulled out her study books and set them on the bar. Sliding into a chair she flipped to the math section—her favorite.
But focusing was impossible. A martini shaker sat in her sightline, taunting her. For no reason other than curiosity—or maybe something else she didn’t want to name—she slid off the chair and opened the bar fridge. A mini bottle of Grey Goose vodka sat on the shelf. Not her first choice, but a perfectly acceptable runner-up.
A knock at the door stopped her from twisting off the cap. She needed to study if she had any hope of earning her high school diploma.
With a sigh she set the bottle down and opened the door.
Clayton stood on the other side, holding two full-size bottles—Jack Daniel’s and Ketel One.
“Steve Trevor at your service,” he announced, his accent even more British now.
Jamie folded her arms. “I’m not letting you in if you talk like that.”
Clayton shrugged and turned to leave. “Your loss.”
“No!” She pulled the door open wider. “Come in.”
He handed her the vodka bottle with a mock bow. “Madam.”
She eyed the bottle. “Where did you get this? The ones in my room are made for elves.”
“I went across the street to CVS.”
She squinted. “Did you talk in that accent?”
“Of course I did.” He grinned. “I’m Steve Trevor.”
She rolled her eyes and took two highball glasses from the bar. “I’m only going to have a splash,” she said, pouring two fingers. “I need to study.” She cracked open a can of club soda and filled it to the rim.
He pulled out index cards from his back pocket. “I made flashcards.”
“Did you buy those at CVS?”
“Indeed I did.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “The cashier must’ve had questions—two bottles of booze and index cards, all in an English accent.”
He poured three shots into his glass and raised it. “I’m not studying.”
She took a sip of her drink, warmth spreading through her chest. “Quiz me.”
He pulled up a chair, close enough that their arms nearly touched. His glass hit the table with a quiet clink.
She told him, “Start with math.”
“All right.” He flipped through a card and said, “Last month, Agatha’s checkbook balance was $1,219. She deposited her paycheck—$2,426—and paid $850 for rent, $236 for her car, and $418 for her credit card. What’s her current balance?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Agatha?”
“She’s British.”
A beat passed. She took another sip, then answered. “$2,141.”
