Play Fling (A Stupid Cupid Book) (3 page)

No. He’d been bold enough. Any more would be
stalker-like.

He retrieved the bag of pretzels and went
back in. Better to back off. In the meantime, he could savor his
moment and muse about just how flustered he’d made her.

The last role Brooke wanted her much younger,
history classmates pigeon-holing her into was desperate housewife.
The older woman who goes back to school after her kids have grown
because she finds herself needing to fill the day, scrambling to
recapture the scent of her youth.

She wasn’t desperate and she was no longer a
housewife. Thank God.

The five books she’d been so gallantly given
twenty yards from class might as well be billboard ads for a
desperate housewife, though. Two bestseller mysteries, a tawdry
historical romance, a chick lit and the quintessential
I
-
don’t
-
belong
-
here of them all,
7 Stupid
Mistakes Smart Women Make
. They sat hidden under her theater
style seat, spines masked by her ankles.

If the community college offered this level
course, she would be there instead, where students her age
abounded. She wasn’t some empty nesting mom trying to recapture
some sense of herself. Enough of her former friends were, though.
She knew the signs and symptoms. Survival depended on fitting in,
for study groups and more. If no one gave her a second glance,
maybe they wouldn’t sniff her out, point and demand a reason for
hiding among them.

She still couldn’t believe Blue Eyes’ guts.
What he’d done took a lot, too. She was not approachable.
Especially by men. Particularly when she wanted to be, or rather,
didn’t want to be. Approached, that is. Funny how that worked.

Professor Shope’s chalk snapped in half,
cracking her attention back to the lecture. Class. Lecture.
Focus, Brooke. Mind off the
far
-
too
-
young
-
for
-
you
-
despite
-
being
-
so
-
forward
and, well, admit it, imaginative. And forget the color of his eyes.
You are here to learn, to bolster your brain and your eBay
business. No more.

World War II. Today in particular, Stalin.
Biting down a yawn, Brooke blinked at the soreness in her eyes and
let herself daydream the tiniest bit. About her baby. Her online
eBay store, Memory Lane, would be exactly fifteen months old
tomorrow. Her “silly” idea, which sprang into her brain one summer
afternoon while antiquing with Jason, had slowly come to life.

No thanks to Stalin, Brooke had made her
first notable profit last month. One thousand, seven hundred,
fifty-four dollars and thirty-two cents. Felt like a million.

A year and a half ago, no one had taken her
idea, or her, seriously. Not her in-laws, her husband or their
friends. In fact, Millie counted as the only person who did since.
But then Millie hadn’t known her as Mrs. Jason Munkle. They’d only
met seven or eight months ago. Still, success felt damned when
everyone wondered why on earth she would need money or want to
work. Jason did so well for them, as her mother, and his,
consistently pointed out. Jason had treated her as though she’d
adultered herself. Over a job. A tiny little business.

It was never for the money. It was for
her.

Thinking back, to Jason, her starting a
business must have felt like cheating. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t
been surprised when she’d asked for a divorce one month after that
antiquing trip. It was almost as though he had anticipated it.
Remarkable. Fifteen years should have been more difficult to walk
away from. For both of them.

She conceded one yawn, trying to conceal it
with a hand to her chin and a bend to her purse. Absolute boredom.
Her lips were dry. The twenty something brunette next to her
crossed her jean-clad legs. Brooke stared at the taunt butterfly
design embroidered on the thigh area. She had once been able to
pull off butterfly jeans. Brooke sighed.

Forty more minutes. Brooke would not leave
early. Not today. Maybe another time. She’d spent good money on
this class and eventually, understanding her bestselling
merchandise’s era would improve sales. It would. Dramatically, she
hoped. And wouldn’t that feel good? Proving everyone wrong? Worth a
few yawns, certainly.

Identify what drew people to this era, spoke
to their hearts, then speak that language herself. Fluently. Millie
always got it. She’d said, “Don’t try to sell Prada if you’ve only
ever worn Gap.” Precisely.

A third yawn threatened. Brooke began willing
Shope to call a break. He held out to the bitter end on breaks.
Probably because he lost half his audience. Man, did he love an
audience.

The brunette stretched, revealing a page of
doodling, what looked like practiced signatures. Instead of copious
notes, Beth, as the majority of the scroll suggested, focused on
whether or not to hyphenate her (new?) last name. The Mrs. part she
had down. Part of Brooke wanted to pull her aside and warn her.
Warn her to wait for marriage, to live a life first, because the
best years would siphon away in a blink of an eye.

Shope paused in his animated drone and
retrieved his pocket watch.

Brooke inched her hand toward her purse,
ready to sprint. Front row had advantages beyond a sunset view. The
pretty brunette shifted again, tossing her long mane of hair past
Brooke’s face.

“As you leave for a brief interlude,” Shope
said, chalk tapping his lips. Brooke lifted her bag. “Imagine
yourself a concentration camp inmate, suddenly freed by Allied
soldiers. Those of you who do so successfully, will get the
inexplicable desire to return post haste. I hope you will do so, in
no more than ten minutes.”

What the…? Had he really just said that?
Brooke schooled her features and kept her gaze on the door. She
thanked whoever was in charge up there for Shope’s self-importance,
though. It meant he likely wouldn’t be grading this week’s paper,
either. Funny how collecting them at the close of class didn’t
improve attendance any more than his wacko break comments. Several
students left theirs behind on desks, making pacts with those who
stayed to turn theirs in for them.

Her fellow inmates dug for keys, shuffled
papers and fled, assignments if not left behind, then maybe dropped
off at Shope’s office instead. Brooke watched one wistfully. A
grade hung in the balance. Her grade. She couldn’t stomach leaving
her paper on a desk, couldn’t muster asking someone to take her
responsibility. What if Shope missed it? What if her co-conspirator
failed? She wanted her grade. This time, it might finally be better
than a B.

Brooke slipped a dollar into the snack
machine. Home early, snuggled up in yoga pants and fuzzy socks with
one of her new novels sounded divine. She sighed. Four new novels.
If she was honest with herself, it was terribly sweet of Blue Eyes.
She should have at least thanked him. Especially for the Scottish
highlander. Hmmm. What if she dropped her ten pages of hard labor
off at Shope’s office instead? Just this once. She could study
extra as punishment.

But her books were still in the room.

A quick glance revealed Shope at the door,
talking with the brunette. Brooke bit down. Now or never. She
slipped past them and grabbed the novels. She jammed the four that
would fit into her bag and tucked the fifth under her arm.
Hesitating only a moment, she hurried past again, trying to look
rapt in concern with her cell phone to her ear. “Oh now,” she said
aloud, for effect.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Excuse
me.” It was the brunette. Her big brown eyes held Brooke’s. “Can I
ask you something?”

Shope stood at the door, rocking on his
heels.

“Um, yes,” Brooke said, itching to slip away.
She closed her phone.

“My mom’s birthday is next Friday and I was
just wondering if you could help me. She’s about your age and I
really need help with a gift. Maybe music or something?”

Brooke clasped her hands together. “Okay,
sure.” The possibility of a sale occurred to her. She dug out a
business card. “What year would you say your mom graduated?” It was
a nice way to ask a person’s actual age.

“Oh, I have no idea,” the brunette said,
rolling her eyes. “But it’s her fiftieth birthday, kind of a big
deal. What year did you graduate high school?”

Brooke coughed, trying not to sputter. Fifty?
She looked fifty? “Um—I…well, I uh…. Hmmm. That is a big deal,
huh?” She had no idea what to say. She handed over her card with a
high twittering laugh. To her horror, tears stung in her eyes.
“Maybe this will help.”

Brooke’s phone rang. Startled, she dropped
it. It skidded across the floor, dangerously close to where Shope
had just been standing. The brunette giggled, covering her mouth
with Brooke’s card.

“Good luck with that,” Brooke mumbled,
retrieving her phone. It rang again. She answered, her voice
clogged with emotion.

“Brooke? Oh good. I found you. Where are
you?”

“Millie?” Brooke hadn’t expected her. She
headed for the exit. “I’m just leaving class. Where are you?”

“I’m home, and I’m so, so, so sorry I missed
you earlier.”

Oh yeah.
That
. She sniffed. “I was
almost late for class,” Brooke said, hating the pitch in her voice.
“I had a paper due.”

“I know, I know. I said I would read it for
you. I’m really, super sorry.” Millie paused. “Let me make it up to
you.”

Brooke bit down. Why did people say that?
Like anything could ever
really
be made up for.

Millie pressed on. “I’ll bet it was just as
good as your other ones.”

She didn’t want good. She wanted better. But,
Millie’s voice sounded unusually tight. More than just guilt?

“Brooke, you always do a great job on them. I
don’t even know why you have me read them.”

She almost snapped that she didn’t either but
held back. Sniping at Millie wouldn’t change the past. And in the
grand scheme of things, she knew a missed coffee was small
potatoes. The whole thing sucked, though. She used to have more
people in her life she could count on for these kinds of quirky
little things. Especially, for the little things, quirks or
not.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Brooke said,
heading down the basement panel of offices. Shope’s was the last
one on the end. A light was on. His protégé must be hard at work.
Perfect. “I’m turning the thing in now and going home.”

“No,” Millie said fast. “Don’t go home. Let
me make it up to you. Come out with me. Dinner. My treat.”

Brooke halted in front of the ajar door, arm
out to open it. Her body stiffened.

“Brooke?” Millie’s voice sounded far away.
“Hello?”

The gulp of air she’d inhaled whooshed out as
her mind confirmed what her senses already suspected. Behind
Shope’s desk, Blue Eyes looked up at her.

His expression flashed surprise then
smoothed. His chair scraped over the floor. He stood and came from
behind the worn metal desk. His lips parted but he didn’t speak.
Hopefully, because Brooke had jabbed a finger into the air, and not
because she’d rendered him speechless. She’d rendered enough for
one day.

“Dinner sounds great!” she said, faking
enthusiasm.

“Really?” Millie’s tone improved. “Oh. Good.
How about in an hour or so? After class?”

“I’m on my way now. I’m just dropping
something off.”

“Now? Um, okay, but I’m not really ready yet.
Did your class let out early or something? You sound funny.”

Brooke pursed her lips. Blue eyes closed his
mouth and sat at the edge of the creaky desk, arms crossed. He
could have been James Dean for all the recklessness in his
demeanor. Except for those glasses. She might be able to think
straight, in fact, were it not for those damned glasses. “I’m
great. So, where again?”

“Alright,” Millie said. “I’ll play along but
only if you promise to spill every last detail the minute you see
me.”

Brooke giggled. Leastwise, she did her best
version of a giggle. Whether or not it sounded as flirtatious as
she hoped, only Blue Eyes—she had to stop calling him that! —could
say. Not that she would ask. “Ramone’s? Perfect. I love Italian. On
my way now.”

Millie squealed. “Brooke, I have to say, I
love this game. So, are we really meeting at Ramone’s or does it
even matter what I say right now? Is it a guy? No, wait, it’s your
professor, right? Your ex?”

Brooke stiffened at the mention of Jason. Her
belly flopped and sank. “You, too. Bye.”

She hung up, no longer caring what impressed
her audience or not. All she knew was her best friend—and she
hadn’t had any in a very long time—had secretly called her
ex-husband for reasons unknown. Millie hadn’t asked Brooke for a
referral. Generally broke, Millie didn’t own a home to sell. So,
there wasn’t a single reason to call Jason. The whole thing felt
wrong.

She’d find out from Millie soon enough. The
back of her throat burned a little just thinking about it but she
kept a straight face and gave Shope’s lackey—much better
nickname—her attention.

The last thing she wanted was him putting a
face to her paper’s name. She handed over the paper-clipped pages,
half turned to leave. “I found this outside on a bench. In the
quad.”

“Really?” The desk creaked as he shifted,
taking the paper. “That’s it?”

Brooke couldn’t stand any straighter.
“Yes.”

“No, ‘thank you for the books’, no ‘hello, my
name is…?’” He actually sounded more amused than wounded.

She kept her gaze on his mouth. Didn’t help
her legs to firm up and start working. “Mmm-hmmm.”

“Well, allow me.” He extended his hand and
cocked his head in an I-don’t-bite kind of way. “I’m Elliott.”

Her toes tingled. The entire afternoon’s
incident flashed hot in her mind. If she stayed any longer, she’d
be stumbling over her tongue, telling him all sorts of things about
the books, about class, about Millie. She could see it now. He’d be
kind enough to fake interest, in what was none of his concern, and
she’d end up falling all over herself for another one of his panty
melting smiles. No thank you.