Page 42 of Penthouse Prince
Sigh. We’re not off to a great start.
Once we’ve both settled into our seats, I have a chance to get a real, honest-to-God look at my date for this evening. And I hate to be mean, but he’s not as good-looking as I remembered. Maybe it’s just his sunburned cheeks that are throwing me off, but I also don’t recall him having that receding hairline. For bonus points, his normally clean-shaven face is a mess of patchy stubble. It’s like the hair on his head said see ya and relocated to his jawline. But maybe I won’t notice after a glass or two of wine.
“Hope you’re good with red.” Keagan gestures to the uncorked bottle in the middle of the table. I recognize the label immediately—this is the same brand of cheap five-dollar wine I pick up when I’m grading papers.
“Of course,” I lie, then fill up my glass and take a good, long sip.
It takes a lot of willpower, but I manage not to visibly wince at the taste. I’m getting notes of friend vibes and dead dreams. Rudely, my taste buds choose now as a good time to remind me that, less than a week ago, I was drinking a fancy-pants chardonnay with a much better-groomed man. A man that makes my heart rate shoot up, despite the short leash I try to keep my body on when he’s near.
“How’s your summer going?” Keagan asks, pulling me back into the present.
Jeez. Since when am I the kind of girl to fantasize about another guy while on a date? I really need to pull it together. I’m being rude.
“It’s been great so far,” I say, forcing a smile. “What about you? Are you missing your kiddos?”
“Not even a little.” Keagan chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not actually a huge fan of kids.”
I blink at him, waiting for him to admit that he’s making a joke, albeit not a very funny one. Instead, he just smiles sheepishly from behind his wineglass.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask on a nervous laugh. He has to be. Who in the world would go into education without being truly passionate about kids?
Much to my surprise and complete confusion, Keagan shakes his head. “I was originally in school to be an engineer,” he says, swirling his wine around inside his glass as he gazes up at the ceiling. “I wanted to work on planes. But it turns out those classes are, like, really hard. I was failing out of the program and needed to find a new major, and fast. Luckily, I’d already passed a few of the prerequisite courses for a degree in elementary education. So, here I am.”
He finally returns his gaze to me, shooting me a big, cheesy smile, as though the crazy talk coming out of his mouth was the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, my fingernails are digging tiny trenches into my palms.
“So you became a teacher . . . by accident?” My voice is strained, but it’s all I can do to keep from snapping at this guy in the middle of this perfectly mediocre restaurant.
“Not really by accident. It was more just like a backup plan. Those who can’t do, teach, right?”
His nasally laugh makes my stomach uneasy, so I settle it with a long, slow sip of this terrible cabernet, and fix my gaze on his hairline to keep from having to look this jerk in the eye.
“Personally, I think the people forming the minds of our future generations shouldn’t be doing it just as a backup plan,” I reply curtly. Frankly, I shouldn’t even dignify that overused teacher joke with a response, but I’m not just going to sit here and act like my profession is a punch line.
Keagan’s brown eyes widen to twice their normal size. “Wow, you, uh, really care a lot about this.”
“Of course I do,” I mumble, pinching off a bite of bread and popping it between my lips. Maybe if I’m chewing, I’ll be able to hold back all the snarky comments I’d like to spew across the table right now. Plus, the sooner the food is gone, the sooner this first date finishes dying its slow, painful death.
“Well, I think that’s really great. I’m hoping to get back into working with planes someday. Maybe I’ll become a pilot or something. But until then, having the summers off is nice, right? Two-month vacation.” He holds up a hand across the table, like I’m supposed to high-five him or something. After a solid ten seconds of me ignoring it, he dejectedly pulls it away.
“I’m working this summer, actually,” I say. “Nannying.”
As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I regret them. The last thing I need is for Keagan to ask any questions about Grier, or worse yet, her father, who has been occupying my thoughts nonstop for this entire date.
