Request for Proposal

Chapter One

Bernie

I’m alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic. Woo.

With a huff, I slap my notebook on the counter and dig deeper into my bag. I can’t help but wonder what it says about me that this damn song is the only thing I remember from eight summers of Camp Fire Kids. Or that it seems to play on a loop in my head whenever I’m exhausted.

I’m leaning toward it not being great.

“I’m so sorry–I’m not usually so disorganized. I just came from the airport, and all my stuff got shuffled around,” I mumble to the hotel receptionist as I dig for my wallet. She doesn’t say anything, just watches my hands and sweeps her shiny brown hair behind an ear.

Why is there only one person checking people in, I think desperately I can feel the weight of every pair of eyes behind me and it’s making me feel even less put together. My fingers close around my wallet just as my phone buzzes on the reception desk, buried under everything I’ve piled there. The receptionist and I both stare down at it.

“Do you need to get that?” she asks managing to sound both judgmental and professional. It’s low-key kind of impressive.

“Honestly, I’d rather not.”

“Okay…” She draws the word out, tilting her head to the side. Judgment received.

I quickly open my wallet and pass my credit card and license across the counter before picking up my phone.

“Hello?” Clamping the phone between my ear and shoulder, I open my bag and sweep the contents into the abyss.

“Bernadette, you’re here?” Usually, Gail’s directness is one of the things I like most about her—having a boss who gets to the point is great in theory. But right now, frazzled and bone-tired, it feels less like efficiency and more like she’s annoyed with me.

I take a deep cleansing breath and make myself smile. I’ve heard that people can hear a difference if you’re smiling over the phone. I grab the phone from the crook of my neck and shuffle my bag to the other shoulder.

“I’m here,” I affirm. “I’m checking in right now.” I smile wider as the receptionist activates my key card. See, I try to tell her with my eyes, I’ve got this. Based on her raised eyebrows and averted gaze, she does not believe me.

“Great, when are you heading over here? The opening reception and keynote start in about an hour.”

I accept my credit card and room key and step aside so the line behind me can check in. My shoes squeak on the white and brown marbled floor as I spin, looking for the elevators.

“Sorry, Gail, what was that? I was just getting my key,” I say quickly, stalling. I totally heard her, I just wish I hadn’t.

The truth is, I don’t want to sit in some hotel ballroom and listen to a keynote speaker attempt to inspire us to raise more money for our universities. I don’t want to go to this freaking conference. I want to delay the inevitable as much as humanly possible. But instead, I have to pay the price for young Bernadette’s shitty decision-making. As much as I would have loved to pass on this conference, I don’t have a good reason, just like I didn’t have a good reason for booking a hotel a mile away. The reality is, I can’t tell anyone I don’t want to be here, otherwise I’ll have to tell them why . And I don’t want to live in a future where everyone knows I’m a dumbass.

“You good?” she asks dryly.

I cringe. I knew smiling over the phone was bullshit.

Scanning the lobby, I take in the long cream fabric panels hanging from the ceiling, creating little nooks and seating areas. Spotting an unoccupied one, I duck behind the panel and rest my suitcase against the wall.

“I’m good? Yes. Totally good. Never better. Sorry, I’m just tired with all the re-routing. I just…um…I just need to go up to the room and I think I can be ready in…maybe 30 or 40 minutes?” Sagging into the wall, I wish I could sink into it.

Not forever. Just three to four days should do it.

I’m not being entirely dishonest--I am tired. I flew into Boston from Seattle, not Indiana. I’d been on ‘vacation’. Not sure visiting my mother counts as vacation. At least not anymore. Just another person I’ve disappointed.

Unfortunately, my flight was delayed, so I missed my connecting flight. With an unexpected detour to Atlanta, I’d successfully zig zagged across the US in the last twenty-four hours, replacing the day I’d given myself to worry in my hotel room with worrying in four airports without sleep.

“You do sound tired,” Gail says bluntly. “Why don’t you skip tonight, we’ll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Really?” I blurt, and she laughs.

“Yeah. Get some rest, Murphy. I need you to be on tomorrow.” She hangs up without saying goodbye. Shoving my phone into my bag, I wheel my suitcase to the elevator feeling equal parts elated and guilty.

The elevator is slow and crowded, but I don’t care. Leaning against the wall, I let my eyes drift closed, savoring the brief pause. In just a few minutes, I can rest. A couple of guys next to me are chatting—something about favorite scalpel brands. I try not to think too hard about it and I’m grateful when they don’t get off on my floor.

When I get to the room, all I see is the bed, and I don’t care that I need to hang my clothes or wash my face or shower. I need to sleep horizontally because sleeping upright while hugging a bag sucks.

I kick off my shoes and take off my jeans, flipping the covers back and sliding between the sheets that smell clean in that sterile way. Rubbing my face against the pillow, I will myself to sleep. I try to concentrate on how gritty my eyes feel, and the ache I feel deep in my bones. I try to think of anything but this impending sense of doom at the prospect of being shoved back in his orbit and not being able to do anything about it.

***

Three hours later, I’m scrubbing airplane scum from my face and avoiding the mirror. It’s almost seven; if I got dressed now, maybe I could catch the tail end of dinner. Be helpful somehow? Instead, I compulsively check my email. Nothing new, no surprise , I tell myself and hide the phone face down under a towel.

It’s going to be fine, I tell myself for the hundredth time.

Reaching for my tube of moisturizer I wrestle with my guilt. Even if I got dressed and headed to the conference, I wouldn’t arrive with enough time to hear anything meaningful. The speaker is probably already done, food eaten, and people already heading to bars.

After smoothing the cream across my face, I catch myself moving the towel to check my screen. Seeing the smudged back of the case reminds me how freaking crazy I am and I growl, picking up my hair brush instead. I’m going to braid my hair put on some freaking pants and let it go. I can watch a movie or maybe lie down again. Order some room service. Sucking in a deep breath I look at myself in the mirror.

No one is mad or disappointed in you–so fucking relax , I tell my reflection.

Shoving my phone under my armpit I head for the bed, flopping down face first. There’s something satisfying in pressure on my nose so I dig a little deeper into the covers. Why can’t people be like spreadsheets? When a spreadsheet is confusing, you work on it, try different formulas, and attempt to display the data in different ways. But when a person is confusing, you have to sit in discomfort with a smile pasted on your face while your brain works a million miles a minute to figure out the next ‘right’ thing to say. When you mess up a spreadsheet, you can just delete it and move on with your life.

Despite not wanting to be within a hundred miles of that hotel ballroom, I can’t help but feel like I’m letting Gail down. I hate myself a little when I curl onto my side, unlock my phone, and check my email one more time. Just one last time, I promise myself. Opening the app, I see two from him that I delete immediately and nothing from Gail.

Because she said to rest, my asshole brain reminds me. I guess I enjoy self-loathing because I open the digital wellness page in settings for proof of my anxiety. I’ve unlocked my phone one hundred and twelve times. Pinching my lips into a hard line I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

I can’t stay in this room.

No amount of rest is going to silence this self-recrimination and the low gnawing ache that’s creeping up from my stomach to sit in my chest. I hate feeling like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to, but it seems no amount of shame will make me actually do anything about it.

Powering off the phone, my stomach growls. I push myself off the mattress with a groan and open my suitcase to search for pants. Pulling out dark jeans and a shirt I remember the bar and restaurant off the lobby downstairs. I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder, double-checking for my wallet and room key before my gaze lingers on the phone lying on the mattress. I decide I’m not getting to a hundred and thirteen and head for the door. This hotel is nice but the floors still creak when you walk on them and the carpet smells old. It’s a smell so unique to historic buildings that serve conferences—creaky floors, too small bathrooms, and carpet you can’t date. Thankfully, the elevator is absent of the earlier crowd but people weave around each other in the lobby, checking in, going down hallways to some unknown ballroom or conference room. Peeking into the restaurant with a lobby entrance, it looks like all the regular tables have been cleared and people circulate the room, drinking and chatting with each other. I steer clear and head for the bar.

One bowl of pasta and a glass of wine later, the cake in front of me lacks both frosting and answers.

I guess I don’t need my phone to worry. Two years ago, I moved halfway across the country to get away from my ex and now I have to face him. He’s going to be there, holding court, and if the emails I deleted earlier are any indication, he’s not going to ignore me like I want to ignore him. Gail’s smart, if he trails me she’s going to want to know why. I can’t let him bulldozer this career like he did my last one.

I stab the carrot cake with my fork, flattening the crumb against the plate.

It’s why I’m in this hotel—lower the probability of us running into each other. I have no interest in old hurts or old habits. He’s been spamming me for weeks to talk, asking to meet. Why, I have no idea. What’s left to talk about? Unfortunately, we aren’t on the same page about that either.

I drag my water across the table, creating a long trail of condensation on the black lacquered top. I should go up to my room, relax, lay out my clothes, and review tomorrow’s schedule. Maybe watch a movie? Run? I need a distraction and for the sense of doom to stop manifesting in my stomach. Twisting, I pull my purse across the bench and look for some Tums.

If I could go back in time, I’d rather take my qualifying exams twice than date a co-worker. I grimace as I chew the chalky tablets. Co-worker? That’s revisionist history. More like boss. Older, established, tenured boss. Untouchable, thinks he's hot shit--boss.

Career-ruining, money-grubbing—I stop that line of thinking for fear that no amount of antacids will save my stomach lining if I keep thinking about it. Picking up the fork, I pick through the carrot cake layers, looking for more frosting.

“I have to ask, what did that cake do to you?” an amused voice cuts through the white noise of the bar.

I look up, surprised by the striking man in front of me. I didn’t hear or see his approach. Dressed in a dark brown suit with a cream button-down, the color combination and cut are absolutely working in his favor. He looks South Asian, his skin a medium brown and his hair and beard are either black or dark brown. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting of the bar. He leans casually against the back of the booth opposite me, his eyes crinkling in a smile as I stare at him stupidly. Stupid hot , that’s how my best friend would describe him. The kind of hot that renders you stupid.

“Excuse me?” I push a few escaped hairs behind my ear and sit up a little straighter.

He nods toward my plate. “I’ve been watching you methodically strip every ounce of frosting from that cake. And now you’re stabbing it like it wronged you somehow.”

I sit back and cross my arms. “So, you’re a stalker?”

He shrugs one of his shoulders. It makes his shirt stretch across his chest as his suit coat shifts open. “I wouldn’t describe noticing how someone eats cake as stalking, but please let me know if I have caused you emotional distress or fear.”

I look around to see that the bar has filled up since I first sat down. Maybe the party from the restaurant moved over here. I try to remember the sign from the restaurant, cardiologist association, or something. Maybe he’s here for a conference. I guess it explains the elevator scalpel talk-–at least I hope so.

“I’m not sure if I should be concerned that you just low-key defined stalking.”

He smirks. “Look, I’m just the first to work up the guts to talk to you.”

“Guts? I thought cardiologists were all heart.”

He gestures to the empty place next to me. “May I?”

Before I can answer, he’s sliding into the booth, my side of the booth–-every solid inch of him. His body fills all the extra space in of the seat I’ve been wallowing in. Glancing meaningfully at the opposite side of the table, I raise my eyebrows only to get distracted by the way his slacks stretch tight over his quads when he scooches closer to me. His thighs are thick at the top then more slender towards the knee, like a cyclist. Dr. Hottie does not skip leg day.

“Actually, I was just leaving…” My voice trails off as I lift my eyes back to his face, flushing.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft and seductive as he leans an elbow on the table, angling his body toward me. “But you haven’t finished your cake.”

“It’s been a long day. A long two days.” I lean over the table to see past his broad shoulders, trying to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Hmm, are you a cardiologist?” He nods to the people in the bar around us.

“No, no. Wrong kind of doctor.” Where is that bartender? I crane my neck, but Hunk Mountain is effectively blocking me from the room. Dr. Hottie’s lips quirk as he appraises me. “I’m attending a higher ed conference down the street.”

“Oh? You want to mingle with MDs instead of PhDs?” he asks, and I scoff. Is this guy for real?

“Not trying to mingle, just enjoying dinner---alone,” I retort.

“Hmm, not sure what I watched you do to this cake could be described as enjoyment.”

“Ignoring the very concerning reality that you’ve been watching me, everyone knows the frosting is the best part of the cake.”

He laughs. “I’m pretty sure the only other person I’ve seen eat just the frosting was three years old.”

“I’m not open to feedback on my cake preferences.” I rise onto my knee, my front brushing his shoulder, and wave at the bartender. He finally sees me and gives a harried shake of his hand before filling up a row of shot glasses for a group of guys at the bar.

Jesus, isn’t alcohol supposed to be bad for the heart?

“So, you’re not a cardiologist and not interested in this particular company. Why this bar and not the one at your hotel?”

I plop down quickly, realizing how close this guy's face is to my chest.

“This is my hotel.”

He smiles like he wasn’t almost motorboating me. “I thought you were attending the conference down the street?”

Is it my imagination or is he closer to me? Did the booth shrink? Dr. Hottie’s legs are taking up all my space. “Maybe this hotel had better rates. Not that it’s any of your business.”

His eyebrows raise, and he shrugs out of his jacket and twists hanging it on the hook over my purse. I follow his movements as he unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls his dress shirt methodically up his forearms. His forearm porn is unsettling.

“Getting comfortable?” I say dryly, trying not to ogle this man’s wrists and forearms.

“Not into professors?”

This man is smoldering at me. Smoldering . His eyes are sharp, slightly narrowed, shadowed by thick black eyebrows.

“Don’t you think it’s a little forward to ask me about my preferences?” I ask, and he smiles, flashing white teeth.

“I mean, you’ve already accused me of stalking you, I figured intrusive questions were in line with your expectations. Call me curious.”

“Why are you curious?”

“Why don’t you like professors?” he presses.

I roll my eyes. “Why do you care?”

“Maybe because I’ve never met someone who was looking to actively avoid academics? Wait-–I know, did someone give you a bad grade?” He looks over my face like he’s taking me in. “You look like one of those honor students that would die if you got a B.”

“I have never gotten a B!” I almost shout. He laughs, and I can’t help it; I feel a matching smile creep over my face. Because he’s right, that was ridiculous. I am ridiculous. I also have never gotten a B.

“I’m sure you haven’t, sunshine. You strike me as very smart and studious.”

My little smile turns into a bigger one because who doesn’t like to be called smart? “It’s not only professors. I just-–I work in higher ed, and I don’t really have any interest in dating someone who works in higher ed. Especially a professor. Let’s say, been there, done that, burned the commemorative t-shirt. I don’t really have anything against medical doctors, I guess,” I grumble.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute like he’s processing my words. Finally, he says, “Who said anything about dating? Do you often go to conferences looking for a date? If that’s the case, I’m happy to volunteer.”

“No, I’m–-not, you said…I thought you meant dating. I don’t go to conferences to…” I let my words trail off and sink against the wall behind me.

Dr. Hottie just chuckles.

“I’m Ashish, but my friends call me Ash.” He reaches out a hand, and I reflexively take it. His hand is big and warm, with hair sprinkled on the knuckles. He has calluses across his palm, and I wonder what he did to get them. I keep holding his hand well beyond the polite period for a handshake. I just can’t seem to make myself let it go.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” His voice sounds closer, and I look up to see him leaning in slightly over our hands.

“Um, it’s-–it’s Bernie. Bernadette. But I go by Bernie.”

“Bernie.” He flips our hands and raises mine to his lips, a soft brush across my knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you.”

This is not real , I think a little desperately. “Umm, okay, you can shut down the high beams, Scott Summers. Save ‘em for someone else. I gotta go.” I give my fingers a tug, but he holds on, laughing.

“Or you could stay. Does your conference start tomorrow? Why don’t you tell me more about this aversion to professors?” He smolders at me again and something warm uncurls low in my belly. Apparently, flirty doctors are more effective than antacids.

“Did you appeal your bad grade?”

I gape at him, a little shocked. Ashish’s lips twist with a small smile, and I watch him bite his lower lip.

“Why would you want to know?”

He flips from sexy to earnest. “I can honestly tell you there isn’t anything about you I wouldn’t want to know.”

I laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I promise you, Bernie, nothing would make this day better.” He blinks slowly before that small sexy smile crosses his lips again.

“Coming on a little strong, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Is it working?”

It is, it's totally working. I haven’t dated for over two years, and there’s something thrilling about the anonymity of talking to a stranger in a bar in a city so far from my own.

“Miss? Can I get you anything else?”

I look over Ash’s shoulder to the bartender. He must have finally caught a break from the rager at the other end of the room. He looks quizzically at my cake.

Seriously, what’s with all the dessert judgment?

“I’d love to buy you a drink,” Ash interrupts, and I look back at him. He’s still holding my hand. As if he senses my thoughts, he strokes his thumb along the side of my wrist. My entire nervous system centers on that single inch of skin.

Tempting, so very tempting.

Fuck it . People let loose at conferences all the time. Why can’t I? What’s the harm, he’s probably some heart surgeon I’m never going to see again. Have fun, right? If anything, he’s chasing away my anxiety.

I find myself nodding, “Okay.” His smile is instant and brilliant. His eyes completely disappear, and I think my heart beats a little faster.

“Yeah? You like wine?” I nod. I think I’d like almost anything if he keeps stroking his thumb over my skin.

“Red, mostly.”

“Right, goes well with frosting-–I mean cake.” He winks and points to a bottle on the menu before turning back to me. “Would you like another slice?”

I shake my head, feeling a little like someone stunned me. Travel stress must be catching up to me.

My stomach flutters when the bartender walks away because without him there it feels a lot more intimate. There must be fifty people in this bar but Ashish’s body kind of buffers the crowd. And he’s still holding my hand. God, is my hand clammy? I can feel my face flushing, what is happening to me? You’re having fun, Bernie. You’re allowed to have fun. Be bold.

Emboldened, I cup the back of his hand with mine and flip it over, palm up, cradling it with my smaller one.

“What are these from?” I trace the thick callused circles at the base of each finger. His eyebrows raise a little in surprise, and he clears his throat. The gesture is so at odds with how confidently he integrated himself into my booth. It’s endearing as hell.

“Hmm. Cycling is one of my hobbies. Even when I wear gloves, I get calluses from the handlebars.” He shifts in his seat when I draw a line connecting each circle with my fingertip. I pretend not to notice how easily we’ve become tangled together.

“Road or mountain?”

“I think it’s my turn to ask a question,” he rumbles, curling his fingers around mine. His skin is warm and dry and I have the insane urge to crawl in his lap. There must have been something in that cake.

“What’s your question?”

“You said you weren’t that kind of doctor. What kind are you?”

His thumb is stroking my skin again-–so soft. Can he feel my pulse? The bartender sets a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table, but everything in my peripheral seems a little fuzzy. Like my brain only wants to focus on his hooded eyes and soft smile. It makes me wonder what color his eyes are. They look dark, maybe brown.

“I have my PhD in Sociology.”

“Ah, so you’re a professor.”

“Why? Do you have a professor kink?” I quip and he laughs, leaning forward. The stiff hair of his beard grazes my cheek. I don’t think I’ve ever kissed someone with a beard, and I find that I really want to know what it feels like.

“I’d be happy to tell you my kinks. Do you want to know them, Bernie?” His breath is hot on my ear, and I suck in a lungful of air. His cologne is bright and fresh and I stifle the urge to bury my face in his neck. When I don’t answer immediately, he huffs a laugh at my silence and gives me a little space. Not too much, because he retains ownership of my hand, placing it on his knee before pouring us each a glass of wine. The dark red liquid sluices down the side of the glass, but it’s his large hands, lightly holding the base of each stem that hold my attention. He moves the glasses in small circles, pulling air into the wine.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Dr–?” I realize I don’t even know his last name. It breaks the magic of the moment, and I take a deep breath before sliding my hand from his knee where I had obediently left it.

“Mishra, my last name is Mishra.” He looks down at my hand as it retreats. Does he want to take it back in his hand or put it back on his knee? Put it somewhere else?

What is wrong with me? I know people get horny at conferences, but I’ve never been tempted before.

You’ve never been single at a conference before . The errant thought reminds me that my limbic system is a bitch.

I’m almost startled when he weaves his fingers through mine, lifting my hand back to his mouth, this time brushing his lips against the inside of my wrist. “To answer your question, I am absolutely trying to seduce you, sunshine.”

Holy shit.

This is not happening to me. I clear my throat and sit up a little, trying to look sexy and confident. In reality, I’m like a duck, chill on the surface but paddling like crazy under the water to keep myself afloat.

“Well, Dr. Mishra, why don’t you tell me more about your bike.” With my other hand, I reach for my wine and gulp it. I don’t know anything about wine, but it tastes good and is giving me something to do. I wonder if he would taste like this, sharp and heady. I lick my lips, and he watches me.

Am I blushing? I am definitely blushing.

When he smiles, fine lines radiate from the corner of his eyes. Skin doesn’t lie, those kind of lines say this guy smiles often and big. Guys that have big smiles can’t be bad right? I try to remember if Stephen had crow’s feet. I don’t remember him smiling with his eyes.

“You owe me two questions, Dr–?” He pauses, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Murphy, but I don’t really use that title. And that’s one of your questions.”

He rolls his eyes. “I gave you a freebie, you owe me.” His fingers give mine a squeeze. “You’re attending a higher education conference? Your conference starts tomorrow?”

“Yes, I work in research development, on the staff side. Essentially project management. And no, the conference started today but my flight made me late so I skipped the opening dinner and keynote.”

He rests an arm along the booth so our bodies are facing each other on the bench. When I don’t say anything he squeezes my hand softly.

“Is it my turn yet?” I ask.

He hesitates briefly before nodding.

“Good, tell me about your bike.”

“Well, Dr. Murphy, I have two bikes: a road and a mountain bike.”

“Hmm, tell me all about mountain biking. I’m too chicken to try it and live in the Midwest, not really known for the mountains.”

He starts talking. He tells me about his biking adventures with his brother, Ravi. How they’d get lost in the woods but always managed to find their way out, often not where they meant to. He tells me about crashing and figuring out how to pack enough to camp for overnight trips. I’m almost in tears as he recalls the horrors of packing one pair of socks and too much Lycra. They’d had to call their dad to come to pick them up, but apparently, his car was too small to fit both their bikes and they’d refused to leave them. They’d had to take off both sets of wheels and put down one of the back seats to manage. Which apparently was hilarious because his brother is really freaking tall.

We start talking about road biking, and I tell him about my bike club and the metric century I trained for. I admit I want to sign up for a full century but riding a hundred miles in one day still feels like too big of a number. Sometime between mountain and road biking, I’m leaning against the back of the booth and his finger starts to idly stroke my shoulder. I think ninety percent of my brain is concentrating on that shoulder.

I tell him about riding my bike through a Taco Bell drive-thru for a bean burrito, and he strokes a fingertip along the neckline of my shirt, just under the nape of my neck.

He tells me about the first time he had to change a flat in the rain, and I feel that finger move from my shirt to touch my skin, softly stroking where my shoulder and neck meet. Then dragging up to tease along my hairline. Touches so soft I can almost pretend I’m imagining them.

Between my first and second glass of wine, his other hand rests on my knee. I’ve never felt this instant attraction to another person. The pull feels so strong I want to slide my knees on either side of his hips right here in this dark booth. My anxiety might be gone, but my heart is still racing.

He’s playing with my braid as I tell him about my current training plan. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he slowly wraps the tip around a finger, and then coils the thick length around his fist. Our heads are so close together that I can feel his breath on my cheeks when he laughs.

Is he going to kiss me?

Do I want him to?

I feel a little tension in my hair, pulling me toward him, and lick my lips in anticipation. My eyes slowly start closing when a throat clears in front of us.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need to break down the bar.” The bartender slides two checks on the table, and I blink, blood rushing to my cheeks. Sitting up, I shift away from Ash, the spell broken.

Shit, what time is it? I glance at my watch and see it’s almost midnight. Four hours? How have I been talking to this guy for four freaking hours? I’m a little shaken. I reach for my phone to make sure I didn’t miss anything but remember I left it in the room. All of the worry that was staved off seems to crash into my chest. God, I’m so freaking irresponsible.

“Sure, sorry about that.” Ash sounds so calm that I almost miss him stacking the checks and handing them to the bartender with his card.

“Oh, you don’t have to get my bill.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He smiles at me, and I break eye contact. I am not going to get sucked into this guy's orbit again. I can’t believe I’m still awake, even functioning, at this point. I slap my hands together and lock them between my legs to keep them to myself.

My palms tingle and I realize I might be a little drunk on top of sleep-deprived.

I wait for him to sign the checks, and we walk out of the bar together, the bartender locking the door behind us. Staring at each other in the empty lobby, so quiet I can hear the clicking of a keyboard at the front desk.

“This was–”

“May I–”

Hazel , I realize. His eyes are a mixture of brown and green, fall eyes. I can feel a tipsy dopey smile taking over my face and gesture for him to speak. “Sorry, you go.”

He smiles and steps closer, reaching for my hands.

“May I walk you to your room, Bernie?” His voice sounds kind of scratchy, and it’s doing something for me. I bite my lip, unsure. He squeezes my fingers. “Just to see you safely there, not to come inside.” I’m not sure if I’m drunk on wine or drunk on him, but I believe him.

“Okay.” I tug him toward the elevator doors, and we hold hands as I hit the twelfth floor. His fingers stay laced with mine. I know he said he wasn’t going to come in, but he wasn’t serious, right? Like we’re doing this, right? Am I really doing this?

“What’s your room number?” He asks as we step out of the elevator and my heart thuds in my chest.

“1216.” I motion to the left, and we walk hand in hand to my door. Based on our pace, I don’t think either of us wants this night to end.

Should I invite him in?

Would he say yes?

I want to kiss him.

I drop his hand to reach into my purse for my keycard, and he takes it from me. Placing a hand on each side of the doorframe, caging me in.

“I had an amazing night with you, Bernadette Murphy.”

I shiver, and he licks his lips.

“Can I take you out to dinner tomorrow night? I mean, tonight?” His nose grazes my cheek, unlocking an unexpected erogenous zone.

“I might have something for my conference,” I whisper.

“Come to dinner with me. I need to spend more time with you.”

I’m struck by how different ‘ I need’ feels than ‘ I

want.’ I turn my face toward him and let my lips slide over his. His breath smells like the wine we shared, and I want to taste him.

“Bernie,” he whispers against my lips. “Say yes, tell me I can see you tomorrow.”

I lick my lips, and I can feel his breath there.

“Spend more time with me now ,” I whisper, bringing my hands up to his chest. He nips my bottom lip. His beard is scratchy against my chin, and I find I love the way it feels. I lean into him, thinking now–now he’ll kiss me.

“Say yes, Bernie.”

“Yes, Bernie.”

I can feel his smile, then hear a beep and click. He holds my shoulder as he opens the door so I don’t fall back.

“I look forward to it. I’ll be here at seven?”

He’s too far away; I want to curl my hands in his perfect creamy shirt and pull him into my room.

“You’re leaving? I thought you were seducing me.” I am not ashamed that I whine a bit. At least right now. Tomorrow? I will probably want to die tomorrow.

He leans forward and kisses my cheek, sliding his lips back to my ear. “Bernadette Murphy, I plan to do more than seduce you.”

He sucks my earlobe into his mouth and my lungs lock.

“Tonight, seven?” He asks, and I nod as he presses a kiss in the hollow behind my ear. “I can’t wait, Bernie. Sweet dreams.”

I watch him walk down the hall to the stairs, admiring the way his slacks fit him.

‘I can’t wait.’

I don’t think I can either.