“Well, hello there,” Kip says as I walk into the main office. “Not looking nearly as slinky as you did Friday night.”

“Oh, no! I meant to wear lingerie to impress my two P.M. class.” I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Do you have any pasties lying around? Or a G-string?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kip gives me a sidelong glance; his quick fingers never stop typing for a second. “I thought you might want to look nice for Geordie. Don’t think I didn’t see him out there, so spare me the sarcasm.”

“Geordie and I are just friends now, remember?”

“Mmmm-hmm,” Kip hums, making it clear he doesn’t believe me.

When Kip Rucker joined our department last year, I wasn’t sure what to think. Our previous secretary was a grandmotherly lady who wore appliquéd sweatshirts themed for every holiday, including Arbor Day. Kip, on the other hand, wears skinny jeans, oversized designer T-shirts, and nail polish. It takes courage to be as out as Kip is, here in Austin; we might be the bluest city in the great red state of Texas, but this is still Texas. So I admired his guts from the start, but couldn’t imagine him fitting in. He has a big mouth and a bigger attitude and doesn’t give a damn what anyone in the world thinks of him. Usually this is not great secretary material.

Within three weeks, Kip had restructured our entire office. Suddenly we’d become efficient. He turned around work faster and more effortlessly than any of us had dreamed possible. Even the old coffeemaker vanished, replaced by a newer model that produced actual coffee instead of blackish sludge.

When we asked him how he managed that, he said he knows people in food services. We soon learned that Kip knows people in every single department of the university. Somehow, all these people seem to owe him a favor. I think Kip could take over as dean if he set his mind to it. Possibly as dictator. I’m just glad he’s on our side.

This morning, Kip’s nails are cherry red. I take his hand for a second. “Nice shade.”

“Thanks. You can borrow the bottle if you want.”

“Not today. Maybe sometime.”

I go through the side door into my skinny little suboffice. Neither of the other TAs has come in yet; Marvin’s got class right now, and Keiko never puts in office time before noon. That means I have a little while to myself.

The computer chimes on. Our home page is the university’s site, so it only takes a couple of keystrokes to get into faculty—and to bring up the page for Jonah Marks.

Once again I look at his picture. I’ve spent all weekend imagining his face near mine—giving me orders, calling me names—but the sight of him hasn’t lost its power over me. If anything, he overwhelms me even more.

Maybe that’s because he’s closer than ever.

Before I can chicken out, I click the link for his university e-mail. A letter form pops out, Jonah’s address at the top, ready for me to type. I don’t bother putting anything in the body of the e-mail; everything I have to say to him fits in the subject line.

I type, Let’s talk.

And then I hit send.

Six

Here in Austin, most bars are raucous places meant to serve either the live-music scene, the crowds of college students with fake IDs, or both. This hotel bar, however, is more sophisticated, more low-key. Instead of the usual blaring alt-rock, R&B music plays softly from hidden speakers around the room. Pale leather couches and chairs cluster in various nooks to encourage conversation and create privacy. The other people here are mostly adults, and nearly as many people hold coffee cups as wineglasses.

I hesitate before I order my own drink. It feels important to keep my head—but I’m already nervous. Caffeine would tip me over the brink. Pinot noir it is.

The couch tucked in the farthest, most intimate area of the bar is available, so I claim it. I came here early on purpose, so I’d have a few moments to collect myself before Jonah arrives. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t. While I sit here, I have nothing to do but freak myself out.

It’s not too late to walk out of here. E-mail Jonah, tell him you can’t make it, go out to your car and drive the hell away while you still can.

I don’t move.

By now I’m used to the second-guessing. I’ve been doing that ever since I sent that e-mail to Jonah two days ago. His reply was simply this address, this day, this time—and the line, “Just to talk.” At first I found that maddening. He couldn’t express surprise, enthusiasm, doubt, anything? Not one question, not one detail, about what he’s thinking? Then I realized this conversation is one that has to happen in person. We have to be completely clear about this, in every detail. Otherwise everything could go terribly wrong.

Is it even possible for something this screwed up to go well? I doubt it. Maybe I’ll regret this. The dangers are very real, and I haven’t lost sight of any of them. This fantasy that dominates me—it’s sick, and it’s twisted, but it’s not going away. Fighting it hasn’t done any good. So I’m giving in. Surrendering.

I take a deep drink of my wine¸ close my eyes, and take a deep breath, willing myself to be calm. It works until I open my eyes again and see Jonah.

He walks straight toward me as if he’d known where I would be sitting before he even came through the door. Like me, Jonah dressed to fit in at this upscale place—charcoal gray slacks cut perfectly to accentuate the taper of his waist, and a black linen shirt that drapes across his powerful body. My hand goes to the neckline of my plum-colored wrap dress. It’s not that revealing, but I feel exposed before his knowing gaze.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” Jonah says.

Hello to you too. If he can cut to the chase, so can I. “Nearly bolted for the door a couple of times. But here I am.”

That wins me his fierce version of a smile.

Jonah sits down beside me—but a couple of feet away, as though I were a business colleague instead of the woman he wants to fuck. Then again, this isn’t foreplay. Nothing’s going to happen tonight. If we’re going to go ahead, we need boundaries. Definitions. I might be crazy enough to do this, but I’m not crazy enough to do it without any rules.

“How was your day?” I say.

He gives me a look. Like he said at Carmen’s, the less we know about each other’s lives, the better. This is not a first date.

“Sorry.” I take another sip of wine, then put down the glass. If I drink a little more every time I feel on edge tonight, I’ll get plastered. “No details. No chitchat. We shouldn’t go there.”

“It’s okay. This is difficult.” He pauses a moment before adding, “Are you scared?”

Deep breath. Honest answer. “Yes and no. I believe you aren’t going to do anything without my permission. But what we’re doing feels a little like jumping off a cliff. I’ve had this fantasy since—since always, but I never thought I’d act it out with a stranger—”

At that moment, a waiter appears by our sofa. Why do bar waiters only show up when you least want them around? Offhandedly Jonah says, “Bring me whatever she’s having.”

I don’t think he’s even looked at my glass. What if I had some ridiculous tropical drink, the kind of thing served in a pineapple with pink straws and paper umbrellas? The thought of someone as serious as Jonah sipping one of those makes me smile. Finally I’m able to relax a little—but not much.

As soon as the waiter hurries off, Jonah turns to me. “What would it take to make you feel safe?”

I like that he asked this. But how do I answer?

Cut to the chase, I remind myself. Jonah’s blunt honesty is the only way to go. “I’d need you to wear condoms. Unless you want to show me your medical records.”