But if his wealthy spouse is anything like my mother, she might not keep him much longer. His stomach and waist have ballooned since his marriage, a clear sign he let himself go the moment he got his sugar mama. The only part of his anatomy that’s remained slim are his shoulders, giving him a decidedly pear-like appearance.
His sandy hair is cut short—the infamous two-thousand-dollar haircut he bragged about during the interdepartmental holiday social—and his face is clean-shaven. White bandages swaddle his head as though he has a dislocated jaw, which is an odd injury for an English professor who spends most of his time sneering at anything that isn’t considered the canon of English literature.
Bulges press against the bandages, indicating his joint is swollen as well, except something about them looks off. But the old bluish bruises on his cheek are real, so perhaps he is truly hurt.
Although he looks like he lost a fight with a steel door, he holds his head with defiance and pride, his swamp-green gaze superior and determined. Following him is another group of college kids, none of them econ majors. They have the dreamy, unfocused eyes of creative types.
What the hell is he doing here with his poetry class?
Todd notices me and his eyes flash with wary hostility. “What are you doing here?” His words are slightly slurred from the bandages around his head.
“Charles sent me.” My answer is cool, clipped. His very presence is suffocating my brain cells. I glance at the giant purple dick-clock. The company representative is late. Very late.
“For what?” Todd is staring like he doesn’t understand. “Well?” he prods when I don’t answer. He places his hands on his hips, his foot tapping the floor as though he’s losing patience.
I raise an eyebrow at his attitude. At the same time, my students start raising their phones to record a potential professorial fight. Tanner in particular looks like he’s about to pee with excitement. His bright eyes scream, Fight fight fight fight!
For God’s sake.
Hands still on his hips, Todd squares up to me, slightly invading my personal space. It’s a ridiculously stupid move, because if I felt like hitting him, he’d never get a guard up in time.
His face slowly turns red as he realizes I’m not going to react. “Just because—”
A loud clattering of feet on the marble tiles interrupts his posturing. I shift my gaze slightly to see a trio of women and a man marching toward us.
The two women in front are both wearing I’m-the-boss expressions. The older one is walking with unnaturally fast steps, like she’s trying to get to us first without looking like she’s running. Her bottle-pale hair is piled high and is apparently held together by too much spray from the way it unnaturally reflects the light. Overly rouged lips are set in an unattractive semi-sneer.
In addition, her dress isn’t doing much for her. It’s skintight on an average body that’s seen better days. She should’ve worn something that would hide her “liabilities,” as my mother would put it.
She seems like one of those women who wants to be like Mom, but doesn’t have the taste or beauty to pull it off. Instead of accepting that and making the best of what she has, this one is clinging to a futile effort. An unmistakable sign of poor judgment, since she’s clearly old enough to know better.
The other I’m-in-charge woman, however, is younger, and something about her feels familiar. Her golden hair flows like a mass of honey down her shoulders and back, framing a small, heart-shaped face with a stubborn chin. For a second, I wonder if she’s wearing colored contacts because she has the most unusual shade of purple-blue eyes. Her mouth is lush and generous, coated with a bright red that screams hot nights and tangled sheets.
And her body too. It’s slim and beautifully proportioned, with long, straight limbs more fitting for a ballerina at the Royal Ballet than somebody who works at Cock Clock, Inc. Her posture is also like a ballerina’s—erect with her head held high. Her breasts are full and look soft, pressed against the fabric of her sleeveless pink dress, and a silver metal belt cinches her small waist just so. She’s wearing a pair of stilettos that look very much like the ones Purple Girl was wearing in New Orleans.
Don’t be stupid,I warn myself. Purple Girl was actually sweet. With class. Without drama. The female duo—and this whole place—reeks of drama. Like bad-telenovela-level drama.
And yet…I can’t seem to tear my gaze from the younger one. It’s like she’s a magnet that’s pulling me in.
I suddenly realize where I’ve seen her before—she’s the enabler from Dad’s birthday party! The one who encouraged Mom to go on and on. I had to exhaust what was left of my patience to calm her down after I dragged her away, because she really wanted to go back to the pool area and find her appreciative audience of one again.
Why didn’t I recognize the drama encourager instantly?
Probably because she’s actually wearing clothes. And she isn’t wearing huge sunglasses or a huge hat.
Does she recognize me? I look for signs, but she’s entirely too calm as she looks at me. So. She has no clue that we’ve met. Which is fine.
Todd turns from me and says, “Linda!” in the perkiest voice I’ve ever heard from him.
I force my eyes away from the vision in pink.
“Todd!” the weird-hair woman calls back, her eyes going wide with recognition and affection.
She runs past the turnstiles, dashing toward him with her arms spread, as though they’re filming a tender loving reunion scene. All you’d need is Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet overture to complete the effect.
Is that his wife? If so, he has my condolences.
Suddenly, Todd blinks and grimaces, very much like a student who’s turned in his midterm a second ago only to realize he made a stupid math mistake on one of the questions. He then pastes on a smile and turns to the other woman. “Sierra!”