Page 4 of How Freaking Romantic

As if on cue, Blake appears in the doorway, his attention on his cell phone.

Frank Landry only hires two L3s to be his teaching assistants each year, and as excited as I was to snag one of the coveted positions that would help pay my tuition, I was equally as annoyed to find out that Blake Sepper got the other.

Not that I had anything against Blake personally.

It’s only that he seemed more interested in gossip surrounding the student body than in doing any actual work.

To make matters worse, his office is right next to mine and, as he reminds me biweekly, two square feet larger.

“Hey,” he says, leaning gingerly against the doorframe, as if it might wrinkle his blazer.

Blake always struck me as someone who watched ’80s movies growing up, just to steal fashion tips from the antagonists.

With his blond hair swept across his forehead and his blazer open to reveal a white shirt unbuttoned one too many, he looks like he’s a few seconds away from convincing you not to take that quirky girl you like to prom.

When he doesn’t say anything after another moment, I sigh. “Can I help you with something?”

“You can start checking our voicemail,” he says, his attention still on his phone. “Or at least let me change the message so it doesn’t sound like it’s just yours. It’s full again, and I have people who need to contact me.”

I roll my eyes. While we have separate offices, our status as teaching assistants means we’re still forced to share one voicemail.

It never felt like that much of an issue, especially since I assumed most people used their cell phones anyway, so after recording the outgoing message the first week of school, I promptly forgot all about it, except for when Blake stops by to give me my messages and complain.

“Who needs to contact you?” I ask.

“Faculty. Students. That TA from Kirkpatrick’s office. I ran into him last week and I swear he was flirting.” Blake finally looks up and waggles his eyebrows at me.

“Why don’t you give him your cell number?”

“I need to make him work for it, you know? This way, if he wants to call, he’ll have to use the directory and call here so…” His voice fades as I narrow my eyes at him and, for a moment, he looks genuinely confused. “What, do you want to talk about actual work or something?”

How this man already has a clerkship lined up with a federal judge for after graduation, I have no idea.

“Go away, Blake.”

He shrugs as he pushes off the doorframe, pausing just long enough to say, “By the way, Frank’s looking for you.”

I snap my laptop shut as I shoo him away and head upstairs.

Frank Landry’s office is on the floor above mine, a cave-like room at the end of the hall piled high with papers and books and journals.

Some people might find it claustrophobic, but I don’t.

Despite the harsh fluorescent lights, the piles of books, along with the smell of sandalwood from the cologne Frank has probably been wearing since the ’70s, makes it feel oddly homey, like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.

That is, until the old man behind the desk opens his mouth.

“Where the hell have you been?” he bellows before I’ve even reached the doorway.

“It’s called class, Frank,” I say with a smile, walking in and letting myself collapse into one of the two armchairs parked in front of his desk. “I’m a student here, too, remember? I have the loan statements to prove it.”

“You shouldn’t be in class. You should be looking for a job,” he barks.

I scrunch up my nose. “I feel like maybe that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to tell me.”

He waves his hand indiscriminately in the air, as if such details aren’t important.

There’s a running joke among the students that Frank Landry has been teaching here since the law school opened in 1835, and right now, I can almost believe it. His back is bent at an awkward angle, his glasses askew on a wrinkled face that’s pinched like he’s ready for a fight.

He mumbles something under his breath, then shifts in his seat to grab a folder from the bookshelf behind him. The movement is slow, and when he turns back to face me, I can see the grimace on his face.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I need to get a hip replaced. How do you think I’m feeling?”

He settles back in his seat, struggling to find a comfortable position. I could be sympathetic. I could offer support. But I know that the only thing Frank hates more than discomfort is pity, so I decide to change the subject instead.

“Blake said you were looking for me.”

He grunts in agreement. “I need you to send me the syllabus for Alternative Conflict Resolution. And get materials together for the next few weeks.”

Alarm bells go off in my head. I’m the TA for Frank’s Alternative Conflict Resolution seminar, just as I was in the fall.

I wrote the syllabus in August, and he’s already told me we didn’t need to change it this semester.

I had assumed that meant everything else would be the same, too: each week I would meet with Frank to go over reading materials and graded papers before heading to class with him and taking notes.

Together, we are a well-oiled machine. “Why do you need all that?”

“Because they finally scheduled my surgery, so I’ll be out on medical leave soon.”

Something heavy drops in my stomach. It’s no secret that Frank needs a new hip.

He complains about it regularly to anyone within earshot.

It had also been one of the first things he told me when I came to speak with him about the TA position.

Partly because my concentration is healthcare law and it offered him the perfect opportunity to bitch about the American healthcare system, and partly because a potential surgery would require him to take substantial medical leave, and pass off the supervision of his teaching assistants to one of the school’s adjunct professors.

But as much as I hate the idea of having to acclimate to a new professor midyear, I also never really weighed it as a possibility. From all accounts, Frank had been complaining about his hip for years. Any concern that it would happen during my tenure always seemed negligible.

“When are you going in?” I ask.

“Couple of weeks,” he says. I frown and he notices. “Don’t look so depressed. You’re not the one getting a new hip.”

“Yeah, but I am the one who’s going to have to help some clueless adjunct get up to speed on your classes.”

He bows his head down just enough to look at me over the rim of his glasses. “You cover one class.”

“On top of going to my actual classes. And, you know, maintaining a social life.”

He chuckles as if he knows as well as I do that “social life” is used here in the broadest sense of the term. “Speaking of which, one of my former students invited me to this reception thing on Friday for the New York City Bar Association.”

“And?”

He continues to glare at me from under his white bushy eyebrows.

I know that glare and I groan, letting my head fall back in defeat. “Are you going to make me do a work thing?”

“You got plans or something?”

I could be honest. I could say, Yes, Frank, I have Friday nights carved out for three hours of dedicated study time down at the laundromat between the wash cycle and folding. Instead, I just mumble, “Maybe.”

“I can ask Blake to come instead, but that kid is so far up his own ass I don’t think he’s seen daylight since preschool.”

I can’t help but laugh.

“You need a job after graduation, Bea,” he continues. “This will have a room full of lawyers who might be able to help with that.”

I know he’s right. And the fact that he knows he’s right only makes it worse.

While it’s no secret that I’m about to graduate, only a select few know the details.

Despite a position on the Law Review masthead last year, an internship with a prestigious nonprofit last summer, and a coveted TA position my final year, I still flail at the one extracurricular activity that’s required to actually secure a job: networking.

And when I say “select few,” I mean Frank.

“Come on, it won’t be so bad,” he continues, reading my expression. “Make some small talk, enjoy some of their expensive champagne, then head home.”

It sounds easy. And if it were anything like the usual professional events Frank drags me to, it will be.

At least this one is off campus, which means there’s a chance that an attorney from one of the law firms I applied to might show up.

Maybe even someone from Land and Associates.

My heart does an odd flop at the thought, even as I scowl at its naive optimism.

Because really, what are the chances? There are only a handful of firms in the city that deal with healthcare law, and even fewer on the ethical side of it.

If you narrow that list down to the firms run by women, you’re left with only one: Land and Associates.

They’re small, but they’re also the best. That’s why scoring an interview with them is akin to winning the lottery on the same day scientists announce the discovery of the weeklong orgasm.

So, the odds that one of the associates, even Marcie Land herself, might attend this event? Close to impossible.

Then again, if they show up and I miss the opportunity…

I huff, sending a stray curl away from my face. “Forward me the info.”

Frank snorts. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”

“Excuse me. Excuse me!” a panicked voice calls out from behind me.

I turn enough to see a young man leaning through the doorway.

His oxford shirt is light blue and starched so thoroughly that it sticks up into his neck as he bends forward to speak to Frank.

“Are you still available for office hours?”

“Depends,” Frank answers, his tone even and bored. “What’s your question about?”

“The outline for Contracts.”

“Then no,” he replies, turning his attention back to me. “The event starts at eight. Be there on time.”

I scrunch up my nose. “Why? No one ever shows up on time for these things.”

“Because I want to introduce you to a few people and I’m not staying late, that’s why.”

I am about to make the completely unfounded claim that I’m perfectly capable of introducing myself when Oxford Shirt Guy leans in further, now almost horizontal in the doorframe. “But it’s only 2:57!”

Frank leans an elbow on the desk. “So?”

“Your office hours are until three!”

“Then get here earlier next time.”

“But… but…” The student huffs. “I don’t even know when the summary is due!”

“Then read the syllabus like a normal person!” Frank bellows, somehow managing the thunderous tone while barely moving a muscle.

The guy blanches, and I think he might be close to tears as he scurries back down the hallway.

Frank nods to me. “You in?”

I roll my eyes as I stand. “Yeah, fine.”

“Be there at eight,” he calls after me as I head out the door.

“I heard you the first time,” I reply, but then a bit of guilt hitches in my chest and I add, “Want me to bring you up some lunch?”

“Depends. You buying?” he replies.

I don’t look back, just flip him the bird and smile as his laughter echoes down the hall after me.