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something?”
                “No, it’s not that. I was going to ask if you’d join me for lunch. Buy you a beer.”
                “A beer, eh?” I sigh, making my chest heave and the top button of my blouse rub against his shirt. He doesn’t move away and I hold my ground. He smiles and takes a half step back.
                I give him the once-over and he reciprocates. Unashamed, his focus starts between my legs and travels up over my midriff, then lingers on the prominent overhang of my chest before meeting my gaze.
                “You make a tempting offer.” I say and his already-confident grin swells. If he thinks he can flirt with me, I’m willing to spar with him a little bit. “But I don’t think so.”
                “Aw, teach,” he chides. “There’s nothing that says students can’t buy their instructors a beer.”
    I lean back against the edge of my desk and look at him over the top of my glasses. He’s waiting for me to accept his invite. I decide to throw him a bone.
    “Tell you what. I’ll take a rain check on your offer until the end of term. Then,” and I give him a wink. “I’ll drink you under the table. My treat.”
                “You got a date . . . teach.” He smiles and walks out of the classroom.
                My skin is hotter than before. Neil is only posing but he’s tempting, which isn’t good considering my state of mind.
    This is Jared Delaney’s fault for making me so hot and bothered. I don’t like being attracted to someone. It’s messy and it keeps me from thinking clearly. I’ll probably never run into Jared again, but the thought of giving Neil Hollister private lessons has a risk I don’t care to take. 
     
    * * * *
               
    My best friend, Ana, and I sit on the patio in front of The Market in Larimer Square watching yuppies and college students compete to appear trendy. It’s become an unwritten rule among my friends that we take advantage of restaurants with outdoor seating during the summertime. While I pride myself on never having called in sick to work, it wasn’t hard to convince Ana to play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.
                Friends since elementary school, Ana-Marie “The Scarlet Woman” Scarletti and I met while serving detention together. I was there after being told for the third time not to chew gum in class. Ana was there after being caught showing her panties to Donny Nichols during recess. My early act of defiance for not wanting to waste my last stick of Juicy Fruit got me into trouble at school and at home, while Ana became a legend on the playground.
                We once shared the same dream of artistic scholarship. I said we should’ve been artist’s models: her, Erté; me, Reubens. Now she’s Dr. Ana Benedetto and a curator at the Denver Art Museum. “I’m one of the DAMned,” she likes to say.
                Fanning the heat away, Ana looks delicate and elegant. Her willowy figure and porcelain complexion complement anything she wears. Right now, it’s a cream-colored Donna Karan suit. As usual, our conversation quickly drifts to the subject of men.
                “Eva, men have been waiting for you to open up like junkies outside a crack house. Why are you playing so hard to get?”
                I haven’t told her about Jared. Even so, I make a sound of disgust.
                “Most of those men waiting look like junkies outside a crack house, Ana. My track record with men isn’t impressive. Besides, most of them are incredibly boring.”
                “What about David Reese, the art instructor? You and he got along well.”
                “That man had no clue about art. He doesn’t know his Asselyn from a Holbein.”
                Ana crosses her legs and the movement sends a subtle hint of musk-tinged perfume into the