Page 34 of The Frog Prince

“You haven’t returned any of my calls,” he says.

“It’s been frantic around here.”

“The market’s been worse.”

I’m sure it was. I hunch my shoulders, attempting to stretch. “Bad week?”

“You didn’t return my calls.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How sorry?”

Not that sorry. I grit my teeth. Close my eyes.Be strong, Holly. Just get rid of him. Tell him you’re not interested. Tell him good-bye and be done with it.

I don’t, which gives him a chance to talk next. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Working late,” I answer.

“After work?”

“Going to bed.”

“Sounds like fun.”

I shudder. I should know better than to use a word like “bed” or “night” around him. “Alone.”

“You’d like me in your bed. I’m a big cuddler. Love to spoon.”

I nearly hang up. The verb “spoon” has always turned me off. There’s something unsavory about two people calling themselves silverware. “Tom, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got to go; I’ve got another call holding.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Who?”

“A reporter from the paper,” I fib, but it’s a good fib.

“Which paper?”

“TheChronicle.”

Tom’s quiet now, and I want to get off the phone before he asks me out for tomorrow night. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I say, trying to sound cheerful but not too encouraging.

But he jumps on it, like a dog on a stick. “When?”

Never. “Next week.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

I’ve no doubt. I hang up. I still have Tom to deal with, but at least I’m off the hook for now.

Josh appears at my desk. He’s attractive in a nearly invisible sort of way. Slender frame, about six feet, lightish eyes, light brown hair. He probably was a very sweet child.

I can’t imagine him attending Beckett. Beckett has more than money. It’s been investigated twice in the past ten years for its “history of hazing.”

I don’t know if Josh is gay. He might be; he might not be. But I can’t imagine him wild in high school, pumped by testosterone surges.

“You’re leaving,” I say, seeing he’s got his brown leather barn coat on.

“Going to meet friends for drinks.”