Page 53 of The Naughty Professor
“Okay,” he said, already backing away a step.“I—I’m running really late.Sorry.”
“Sure,” I said.“Felix—”
But he was already half turned, nodding fast.“Um, yeah.Tomorrow.Or… soon.”
And then he was gone, the door at the end of the corridor swinging shut behind him.
I stood there for a moment, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hallway.The warmth from earlier drained, leaving something uncertain in its place.
What on earth had happened to the sexy man who had rocked my world last night?
ChapterEighteen
Felix
By the time I turned onto Grandma’s street, the first drops of rain began to fall—fat, lazy splats that hit the windshield like punctuation marks to the thought I couldn’t stop repeating: You’ve really screwed this up, Felix.
The clouds hung low and heavy, the kind that made the world look gray and waterlogged before the real downpour began.I parked beside Grandma’s ancient Buick and sat there a second, listening to the rain pick up on the roof.It matched my mood perfectly—soft, steady, just this side of miserable.
The front door opened before I even knocked.“Felix!”Grandma stood framed in the doorway in her floral housecoat, her silver hair piled high like a frosted meringue.“You’re gonna get soaked!Get in here before you melt, sugar.”
“I won’t melt,” I said, stepping inside and wiping my glasses on my sleeve.
“You look like a man who needs soup and a stern talking-to,” she declared.Then, raising her voice, “Girls!Guess who’s here!”
I stepped inside, and Grandma ushered me into the dining room.
“Oh Lord, it’s the prodigal grandson,” smiled Betty—short, round, and perpetually in leopard print.She was sitting at the head of the dining table with a cigarette clamped between two fuchsia-tipped fingers.The table was scattered with pennies, beer bottles, and a mountain of playing cards.
Across from her sat Frieda, the self-proclaimed “hot one” of the trio, whose lipstick was always crooked and whose laugh could strip paint.Next to her was Lisa, the quiet one—at least until she had her third Coors Light.Then she got loud about everything from politics to her many ex-husbands.
“Evening, ladies,” I said, hanging up my jacket.
“Well, well,” Frieda purred, squinting at me over her bifocals.“Look who got handsome.”
“Frieda,” Grandma warned.
“What?I said handsome.That’s not obscene.Yet.”
Lisa snorted into her beer.“Give her time, Nessie.She’ll get there.”
Grandma—Vanessa to her poker crew—rolled her eyes and returned to her chair.“Sit, honey.We’re just finishing a hand.”
I did as told, though I knew better than to touch the deck.The last time I’d joined them for “just a friendly game,” I’d ended up losing twenty-three dollars, my dignity, and a promise to wash Frieda’s car for a month.
The rain deepened outside, soft against the roof, a steady percussion beneath the sound of shuffling cards and the women’s chatter.The dining room smelled of talcum powder, rose perfume, and cigarettes that had burned out in the ashtray hours ago.
“Lisa,” Betty barked, “you’re short two pennies in the pot.”
Lisa fished in her sweater pocket and flicked them across the table.“I’m short of a lot of things, Betty, but fucking pennies ain’t one of ’em.”
Grandma clicked her tongue.“Language.”
“Please,” Frieda muttered.“The day I censor myself is the day I’m in the ground.Which, given the way Betty drives, might be tomorrow.”
“Don’t tempt me, Freeds,” Betty shot back.
I grinned despite myself.I’d grown up around this table, listening to their running commentary on men, menopause, and Medicare.They’d taught me more about life than any school ever had—especially the part about when to fold and when to bluff.
