So she rose and followed Joey, darting fast glances at a den full of furniture chosen for comfort rather than to impress. Which made perfect sense if students were running in and out.
They passed the kitchen, where she glimpsed trays of pastries waiting to be served, then came to a book-lined study. She averted her gaze lest she be seen snooping at titles—she loved looking at people’s bookshelves. What they bought said so much about them, beginning of course with the fact that they were readers.
Joey was clearly a reader. Did they like any of the same books—
No. She stood in the doorway as though she’d run into a wall of ice.
“Here it is,” he said, reaching into the printer tray. “I didn’t want to bring it out in case the lunch was a dismal failure,” he said ruefully, and handed her the sheet of paper.
She took it without reading anything, intensely aware of him standing within arm’s reach. She stared down at the paper, struggling to shut out the dizzying mix of scents—a clean masculine smell mixed with the fragrance of the ginger root he’d cut. That spot behind her belly button—lower—pulsed.
She turned away and walked stiff-legged into the hall.
Joey followed, his voice easy and warm as he said, “If you like, I know so many more promising recipes. Cuisine all over China has astonishing variety. If you have an evening free, I could share some of them?”
He hadn’t said lunch. He said evening. She bit down hard on her lip to keep herself from blurting, “Like a date?”
She knew it wasn’t ‘like’ a date. He was asking her out. Which was the essential definition of a date.
So far in her life, the safest men had been book and movie boyfriends—Zorro when she was twelve, the Scarlet Pimpernel in high school, Han Solo when she was in college. Handsome men who did good things with their lives, who had ideals, who treated women well. Who didn’t have feet of clay like most of the men she knew.
Fictional boyfriends couldn’t cheat, lie, or connive.
They couldn’t hurt you.
She made herself say with her best attempt at casual, “This time of year is crammed with obligations. What with school and the upcoming semester break—during which I will be away with my family. I’m afraid the only evening I have relatively free for talking will be Saturday night, when I have to serve as a chaperone for my high school’s Valentine’s Day dance. They badly need extra bodies—”
“I’d be happy to volunteer,” he said with that warm, sunny smile.
“—and . . . what?” She blinked.
“I said, I would be happy to help as a chaperone. I’ve done similar duty on exchange student field trips and the like—they can check my credentials at the university. I enjoy young people. And as you say, there would be plenty of time for conversation as we stand watch.”
“Unless,” she said dryly, “they stick you with boys’ restroom patrol.”
But she knew they wouldn’t. Not a college professor.
They rejoined the others—the pastry was served, consumed (it was delicious), and they left. As she drove home, Doris’s mind kept jerking back, like the needle over a scratched LP on her dad’s old stereo: she had a . . . sort-of date.
The broken record played that same phrase Thursday, as she turned in his name and address at the admin office to be added to the chaperone list, half-hoping there was some new rule against university people. But sure enough, he was hailed with relief.
The broken record continued Friday—the writers’ group was small, Linette did great, and Joey Hu was there, but he didn’t speak this time, nor did he single Doris out until the very end, when he said, “See you tomorrow.”
And it continued all day Saturday, until she found herself once more standing in a moat of clothes as she dressed for chaperone duty. Exasperated with herself, she ended up falling back on her old reliable black skirt and powder blue top with fringes along the hem, one she’d designed and made herself. But she added a delicate gold chain that one of her great-aunts had given her for her Bat Mitzvah so many years ago, and only worn a few times since—usually for all those family weddings.
Weddings. She almost threw the chain back in her jewelry box, but turned away from the mirror defiantly. She was being ridiculous, making mountains out of molehills. She and Joey would be surrounded by teenagers, many of them bent on trouble. There would be no opportunity for anything to… happen… between them.
She hesitated over the necklace still, then decided to take a small notebook and pen in her evening clutch, for writing down recipes. There. That wouldn’t make her look too date-ish.
When she arrived at the high school, she found Joey already there, looking understatedly elegant in a long black coat, white shirt, and gray slacks. His shirt had a standing collar, Chinese style. He was surrounded by several faculty members. She noted the women using those bright smiles and high laughs that only seemed to come out when an attractive male swam into their orbit.
And she couldn’t prevent a swoop of fierce enjoyment when at her approach, he turned his head, and lit the room with his blinding smile. “Doris!”
“I’m here,” she said. “Everyone have your metaphorical combat gear on?”
Joey fell in step beside her, as if was the most natural thing in the world, and she led the way to their station.
“I was talking to Xi Yong about what young people bring from their homes, recipe-wise,” he said—an easy topic. And an interesting topic.