Triplets Make Five

I flicked my eyes down to the low neckline of my black silk blouse, an item I borrowed from Raven’s closet when my own wardrobe failed to provide anything suitable for my not-a-date with Caleb.

He took a coy sip of champagne, reveling in watching my nerves simmer.

“Why di

d you agree to meet me tonight?”

“I was under the impression that we could clear the air, Mr. Preston, share a professional meal and discuss how this transition is going to impact Emmy’s performance at Bellamy.”

I hated the sound of those words as they came out of my mouth. It was the same kind of canned, generic phrasing that the administration at Bellamy just loved to use when discussing a “problem child.” I hated that kind of talk, and it was obvious from the disdain on Caleb’s face that he hated it too.

“Drop the act, Daisy,” Caleb said sharply. “If I wanted a parent-teacher conference, I would have barged into the headmaster’s office already. We both know that I’m not here to play the role of whiney Upper East Side parent, alongside the fact that you’re not here to play the mousy little teacher.”

I gulped on my champagne, forcing myself to swallow and breathe. If anyone else spoke to me that way, I’d be furious. Growing up in Brooklyn, I learned early on to stand my ground. But I did not feel an ounce of anger then, simmering in the heat of Caleb’s stare. I felt wildly turned on, like my entire body was engulfed in the energy between us. And while every instinct I had told me to resist, my brain could not stop my panties from growing wetter or my heart from hammering harder.

Caleb Preston was different tonight. This was not the same Caleb that sat in my office a few days ago, or the one that served Ramen noodles and watched a Disney movie with his niece. He was in his element. Powerful.

“So why are we here?” I asked, forcing myself to match the intensity of his tone.

“You already know the answer to that, too.” He moistened his lips with a quick flick of his tongue, and I remembered how he tasted that night.

“You should know that I don’t date,” I said firmly.

“Good,” he smiled. “Neither do I.”

“And I don’t do,” I paused, struggling to find the right word, before finally settling on, “whatever this is.”

“This is just dinner,” Caleb said, flashing an innocent smile.

Before I had a chance to protest, the waiter intruded to take our order. I hadn’t even opened my menu yet, but Caleb ordered for us both, and my mind was racing with so many flustered, conflicting thoughts that I barely listened as he did.

“I’m surprised that you picked this place.”

“Why?” Even with one word, one syllable, his voice had a way of challenging me. Issuing an unspoken dare. He had made his point loud and clear. We were on his territory now, and he was the one in charge.

“It’s a hotel,” I said, taking a sip of champagne and making a mental note to pace myself. My body already feels drunk on Caleb’s presence. I did not need my head to go, too.

“Isn’t a hotel the perfect place for a d-” he paused, for dramatic effect, eyeing me coyly before finishing: “Dinner?”

I don’t bother pointing out that my usual dinner selections are limited to microwave meals and PB&J sandwiches. I certainly did not frequent five-star hotels and restaurants.

“Maybe it’s because I grew up in hotels,” he speculated, his eyes wandering around the moody little restaurant now. “But I’ve always found something so sensual and exciting about them.”

“Really?”

“People aren’t themselves in hotels. They’re strangers exploring a foreign land, and that somehow inspires them to become someone better, a more exciting version of themselves. They dress up, they order room service, they upgrade to the junior suite, they pay extra for a bottle of champagne instead of prosecco. And the best part is, that if two of these fascinating strangers meet and the mood strikes, pure bliss is just a room key away.”

“I thought only junkies rented hotel rooms by the hour,” I said defiantly.

I know what you’re trying to do, Caleb Preston. But I was not falling for it.

“Besides,” I added, pausing for a sip of champagne, “What you’re describing isn’t sensual. It’s just so empty.”

“How so?” he frowned.

“Fake people having fake conversations with other fake people in a hotel bar, until they’ve mustered enough fake intimacy to have some fake sex in a fake hotel room?” I scoffed. “It sounds completely contrived and meaningless.”

“Life is contrived and meaningless,” Caleb said deeply. “And you want to talk about fake? Relationships are fake. Intimacy is a lie. Love dies, marriages break apart, people cheat, people hurt each other, people abandon their families. But connecting with another human, even if it’s a stranger, even if it’s only for a few fleeting moments of passion in a hotel room, that’s real.”