The Bride Wore Size 12 (Heather Wells 5)

“What about Cory, Lisa’s husband?” I ask.

“He works in investment banking.” Sarah gives a mock shudder. “And anyway, we hardly ever see him. The jury is still out on him.”

“What about Gavin?”

Sarah throws me a sarcastic look.

“Okay, he still has some growing up to do,” I admit, “but under our tutelage—”

“Face it, Heather: guys are scum.”

It’s kind of ironic that as she says this, Kyle Cheeseman, one of the new RAs—the one with the Justin Bieber hair, who also wears jeans that droop so low below his waistline that I’m able to read the band on his underwear, especially since his shirt is completely unbuttoned, revealing his hairless chest and stone-hard abs—saunters off the elevator and into the office to check his staff mailbox (all the RAs are required to do so at least twice a day).

“Hey, sexy ladies,” Kyle says. “Wow, Heather, nice flowers.”

“I believe I’ve told you to stop calling us sexy ladies, Kyle,” Sarah snaps from her desk. “We’re your supervisors.”

“Whoa,” Kyle says. “Never mind. You aren’t sexy. You’re both mad pimpin’.”

Behind Kyle is Rajiv—who’d worked as an RA last year and also through the summer—and Howard Chen, looking considerably healthier than when I’d last seen him vomiting into the fourteenth-floor trash chute the day before.

“It’s physically impossible for us to be pimps,” Sarah says. “Pimps are men who control prostitutes, taking a large portion of their earnings in return for providing them with their clients. Do either Heather or I resemble men who procure clients for prostitutes to you?”

“No.” Howard Chen looks furious on behalf of both Sarah and me. “What is wrong with you, Kyle?” Howard is wearing a hoodie from Harvard, where his parents wish he’d gone. They’d had to settle for Howard’s safety school, New York College, instead.

“Shut up, Howard,” Kyle says. “Jesus Christ, I was only trying to pay them a compliment!”

“Kyle,” Rajiv says calmly. “Has anyone ever told you before that you’re an imbecile? Why is your shirt unbuttoned? Are you expecting to be mobbed by Beliebers later?”

Kyle pouts. He’s felt inside his staff mailbox, which I knew without a glance would be empty. The termination letters won’t be delivered until just before five o’clock so the president and his cronies can arrange to be long gone when the RAs receive them, and therefore not have to field their—or more likely, their parents’—complaints.

“How about simply asking us how our day is going,” Sarah says. “That’s the customary way of greeting one’s coworkers.”

Kyle looks a little lost, but asks gamely, “How is your day going?,” swallowing so hard I can see his Adam’s apple bob.

I’m starting to wonder if maybe Sarah is right: could it be that there aren’t any decent guys left?

As if on cue, the door to Lisa’s office is thrown open, and she stands there with a clipboard in hand, looking paler than usual, some of her dark hair slipping out of the clip into which she’s attempted to tuck it, but otherwise seeming like her normal self.

“Hi, guys,” she says, moving aside to make room for someone who’s been inside her office to pass through the doorway. “I’d like you to meet our newest staff member, Dave Fernandez.”

As soon as Sarah lays eyes on Dave Fernandez, who waves amiably in the general direction of everyone in the office, she begins to choke on the fry she’s just swallowed.

I don’t blame her.

“Dave will be moving onto the fourteenth floor,” Lisa goes on, ignoring Sarah’s sputters, “just as soon as Jasmine’s room becomes available.”

“Hi,” Dave says. His voice is deeply melodic, his manner easygoing. “Lisa’s told me a lot of nice things about you guys, and Jasmine too. Wish I could have known her. Sorry to be meeting all of you under these circumstances, but I’m glad to have the privilege, just the same.”

He’s several years older than the other boys—older than Sarah, and possibly even Lisa—which might explain his self-assured nonchalance, but I think there’s something more than that. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, though. Possibly it’s the fact that he’s wearing well-scuffed cowboy boots beneath his jeans. Cowboy boots, in New York City! His underwear isn’t showing either, and he’s wearing a shirt that’s properly buttoned.

He still manages to look cool, however. So cool that in comparison to him, Kyle looks like a middle schooler. Maybe it’s because the cowboy boots give Dave an extra couple inches in height over everyone else in the room.

“It’s great to have you here, Dave,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, assistant hall director. When you figure out what day you’re moving in, let me know. I can make sure the room is clean and ready for you.”

Dave nods in my direction. “Thanks, Heather,” he says with a smile.

Sarah has swigged some water from her New York College stainless-steel water bottle to wash down the fry, and now she nearly gags on it. I suspect that’s because Dave’s smile is so dazzling and his biceps so defined, they put even Prince Rashid’s to shame.

Sarah very badly wants to introduce herself to him, but she can’t quite seem to get the words out.

“Unh,” Sarah says.

“I need someone to show Dave over to the Housing Office so we can get his paperwork in order,” Lisa says. “Anyone care to volunteer?”

“Gurk,” Sarah chokes, eagerly waving an arm to volunteer. “Murg.”

“Not you, Sarah,” Lisa says. “I need you to stay here.”

Dave’s dark eyebrows lower with concern. “You all right over there, Sarah?”

“Oh, um,” Sarah says. She chokes some more, her face turning a delicate shade of magenta. “Yes, thanks, I just, ahem, swallowed wrong.”

“I hate when that happens,” Dave says with another one of his amazing smiles.

“Howard, Kyle, would one of you mind?” Lisa asks.

Kyle whips out his cell phone and glances at it. “Ooo, can’t, Lisa, I’m late to meet my trainer.”

“I c-can’t either, Lisa,” Howard stammers. “I have to study.”