Page 3 of His to Teach
I pocket my phone, feeling strangely calm for the first time tonight. I’m not sure what it is about that stranger—besides for the fact that he was insanely hot—but something in me seems drawn to follow him. Like a string was attached in that brief moment where he held me, and I’m powerless to cut the tie.
All of my nerves seem to quiet, to move into the back of my mind. They don’t feel so pressing anymore, all of those things that I feared about this night. The only thing that’s important is following him inside.
My immediate impressionof Club Wyld is somewhat disappointing. I’ve been fantasizing about this moment, finally stepping through those mysterious wooden doors, for ages now. I expected to find lush furnishings, sumptuous fabrics and romantic lighting, gorgeous people partially hidden in dark shadows. Instead I find myself standing in an unremarkable entryway. The small space is paneled in dark wood, the floor a soft grey marble, the lights overhead bright. To one side stands a plain desk, empty but for a thick ledger and a potted peace lily. It looks a lot like the reception area of my brother’s law office, to be honest. Talk about a letdown.
A woman steps through the door behind the desk, smiling at me politely. I do a double take—she’s freaking beautiful. Like, model-level gorgeous. Her hair is a smooth sheet of blond, much lighter than my own honey locks, cascading down her back, her eyes a delicate shade of blue. Tall and willowy, she’s dressed in a black, slim-fitted pantsuit with no shirt under the blazer, her skin pale and creamy in the deep V that cuts down to her bellybutton.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes,” I say, the flutter of nerves returning as I tear my gaze away. “I um, have a pass.” I fumble in my purse, feeling clumsy all over again next to her gentle coolness. “I’m Harper Cain.”
The woman takes the pass when I hold it out, a slim gold plastic rectangle that resembles a credit card, and slides it into a scanner of some kind. “And do you have your ID, Miss Cain?” I hand her that, too, and she peers at it closely before looking up at me again. “This all seems to be in order. According to your file, this is your first time visiting us?”
My file? What in the hell does that mean? How do I have a file? I clear my throat, the nerves building again. “Yes. It’s my first time. At the club, I mean.” Shit, I’m babbling, aren’t I? I clear my throat again.
The receptionist maintains her polite smile. “I’ll send a host through to walk you in.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “Okay.”
She presses a button on the desk and a moment later, the door behind her opens again, revealing an older man in a dark, perfectly fitted suit. His hair is thick and greying, his eyes sharp, jaw chiseled. Total silver fox. If this is what the employees look like, I wonder what in the hell I’ll find inside.
He confers briefly with the woman and then turns to me. “Miss Cain? If you’re ready you may follow me.”
I take a deep breath, my nerves now more intense than they were outside.It’s now or never, Harper.
“I’m ready,” I tell him, and he smiles in response, the expression professional and inviting, before turning to gesture towards another heavy door.
“Welcome to Club Wyld.”
NATE
The buzz of the club, familiar and comforting, envelops me the moment I step through the doors. In my experience, there isn’t much in this life that can be counted on. But Saturday night at Club Wyld is one of the few constants. The hushed whisper of voices broken only by the occasional laugh, the sensual sounds of light jazz through the speakers, the dim lighting. The couples filling the tables, huddled in dark corners. The thrumming vibe of desire, barely kept under wraps.
I know, of course, that a closer look into those dark corners would start to peel away the thin veneer of respectability the room maintains. More skin, more passionate embraces. Whispered words of promise and depravity. Whispered words that hint at what might be happening, even now, beyond the thick steel door that leads to the back rooms.
“Well this certainly can’t stand.”
I turn in the direction of the familiar British accent, smiling when I see my old friend, Philip, approaching. “Nathan Chase without a drink in his hands? Unheard of.”
I glance at the tumbler of scotch in his hand. “I notice you’re not offering meyourdrink.”
He smirks. “If a drink-free Nathan Chase is unheard of, an empty-handed Philip Matthews is downright scandalous.” He nods at a passing waiter, the subtle motion sufficient to send the man scurrying off to the bar, before directing his attention back to me. “You’re late,” he says. “Several of the scenes are about to begin.”
“I had some business to attend.”
His smirk grows. “Attempted hostile takeover by the Math department?”
I’m used to his ribbing in regards to my career. I’ve been hearing some version of the same joke for years. “We can’t all be titans of industry, Philip.”
“I’ll remember to tell your father that the next time I see him in Manhattan and he starts in on me about you.”
I grunt, well aware of my father’s thoughts on my choice of career—I really don’t need to hear those same opinions second-hand from Philip.
“Don’t worry,” he says, chuckling as he slaps my back. “Your father assures me you’ll grow out of it.”
“Any day now,” I agree, rolling my eyes. My reluctance to leave academia to join my father in his quest to rule the business world is obvious to anyone with half a brain. The fact that the old man hasn’t given up yet is beginning to verge on pathetic.
“So,” Philip says, turning his attention to the crowd. “Will this be the night you finally break the dry spell?”
