Page 45 of Lovesick
Then let them see. Maybe we’re discussing the fundraiser.
But we’re not.
No, we’re not. I only get a small fraction of your time. I’m not wasting it.
So what, you’re my new admirer now?
I’ve always been. And I take my jobveryseriously.
I just shake my head, turning the ink monstrosity over so my writing is legible. Like clockwork, I hurl the note in his direction.
You’re bad for me.
We can be bad for each other.
Maybe it’s my poor eyesight or the fact that I haven’t visited the optometrist in years because I’m terrified of the air puff eye test thing, but it takes me a few seconds to realize that there’s the smallest heart by Crew’s surprisingly neat penmanship. I heart that IknowI didn’t doodle.
A heart? Really?
Crew adds another to spite me. And another. And another.
You’re cute when you’re flustered.
You’re endangering us! This is evidence of our—our…
If you say “friendship,” I’m going to blow a gasket.
Out of nowhere, Irelyn stands up from her seat, huffing and puffing, with a piece of paper lodged in her fist.
“An auction,” she declares to the whole room with a crazy look in her eyes.
I’ve seen that look before—it’s the look she gets at two in the morning when she figures out who the killer is during our murder mystery marathons.
“We auction off the hockey team for dates.”
The lecture hall is up in arms within seconds, with most of the committee sharing in hushed, approving murmurs. One of Crew’s teammates—a bigger guy with a shaggy mullet—raises his hand politely.
“Um, what kind of dates?” he asks.
Someone else chimes in. “Is this considered prostitution?”
Irelyn goes deathly quiet, digging the heel of her palm into her forehead. “Um, I don’t…I don’t think so? Prostitution is legal in Minnesota, right?”
“It definitely isn’t,” I reply, discreetly scooting the heart-infested note off my desk and onto the floor. “But these dates can be professional. Maybe the winning bidders get a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant for forty minutes? Or a sightseeing tour of Minnesota’s nightlife?”
My best friend points at me. “Yes, exactly! It’ll entice anyone who’s interested in learning about hockey, fans of the sport, orwomen who are too old to be participating in a college auction.”
The mouthy hockey player from earlier elbows his buddy. “I hope I get a cougar.”
Crew, frowning, rips another piece of paper out of his notebook before angrily scribbling on it and chucking it at me.
Are you trying to kill me?
What are you talking about?
I’m not going on a date with a random stranger.
It’s for a good cause.
