Page 10 of Connectio

Chapter Three

Oliver had pretended he couldn’t smell my feet, but there’s good reason why he’s not the drama teacher, and that’s because he can’t act for shit.

I appreciated the sentiment, though I’d been so mortified I could barely make eye contact with him for the remainder of that day. Thank God Oliver’s timetable included a double session of Sport, which meant he’d been out of the classroom. And thank God Jet never brought it up again, especially when the students practised their “ch” spelling words, one of which had been “stench.”

Needless to say, I’d been pleasantly surprised when, at the end of that day as I climbed into my car and he climbed into his, Oliver asked if we were still on for dinner that coming Wednesday night. I’d been certain he’d ask for another raincheck, or no rainchecks at all.

Now Wednesday afternoon, I slide my feet into a pair of perfectly aerated sandals. I’m preparing to leave for my dinner date with Oliver when Carly leans against my bedroom door.

“You look… nice.” She nods toward my ensemble—pink floral maxi skirt, white T-shirt, and a denim jacket.

“Thanks.” I tilt my head to the side and assess myself in the mirror. “Is it too much?”

“Too much?” Carly steps into my room and unties the silk scarf around my neck. “If you mean too much clothing, then yes.”

I roll my eyes and step around her. “What would you have me wear, a swimsuit?”

“Depends, are you and Mr Bunt”—she wobbles her head like an idiot as she says his name—“going swimming?”

I glare at her. “No.”

“Where is the dork taking you, his grandma’s?” Carly picks up my bottle of Chanel N°5 and sniffs it, pulling a face similar to Oliver’s when he pretended my feet didn’t smell bad.

I snatch it from her. “No. His grandma lives in a granny flat in his backyard.”

“Ew.”

“It’s not ‘ew.’ It’s lovely.”

She picks up a pair of my earrings and holds them to her to ears. “It’s weird.”

“It is not.”

“Yeah, it is, and so is he. Why are you even going out to dinner with him?”

“The same reason you go out with Derek.”

Carly puts down the earrings and licks her lips, and I know what her X-rated mind is thinking.

I sigh. “Because he asked me to, that’s why. You know, courtship? And just because you and Oliver don’t get along, that doesn’t mean he’s a weird person.”

“Courtship? What century are you in?” She flops onto my bed and picks up my seashell-shaped cushion. “He dresses like a grandpa, Lib. Enough said.”

“He does not! I happen to think he dresses with sophistication.”

“Yeah, if you call golf pants and turtlenecks sophisticated.”

“When did you become Queen Judge of Character?”

“When I was born.”

I take hold of her hands, help her to her feet, then spin her to face the door, and give her a gentle nudge to leave. “Goodbye, Carly. Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t have to. His bedtime is probably seven o’clock.”

My gentle nudge turns to a playful shove.

“Hey!” She bounces off the hallway wall and stumbles.