One week after my second episode of Three Single Guys airs, I drag myself back up the stairs of my building, utterly exhausted.
It’s nine PM, and I’ve been up working since five this morning. I’ve spent all day at the warehouse unit I use to store all of my products, doing product quality checks and packing orders. My back is burning from hunching over the label address machine. My eyes are blurry from triple-checking every receipt. My fingers are sore and smudged with pink, where the colouring came off the pink tissue paper I use to wrap smaller items.
But I am very, very happy.
My sales numbers have absolutely skyrocketed since the last episode of Three Single Guys came out. It’s amazing. I haven’t seen numbers this high since Christmas. Just yesterday, I had over two hundred orders come in, and I’ve had to mark several items as out-of-stock on the website until I can get another shipment from the suppliers. I knew that being on the podcast would be good advertising. Still, I really didn’t expect there to be such a massive response. As I climb the last flight of stairs up to my floor, I’m practically walking on air, humming under my breath.
Tonight is our second official ‘lesson’. Josh invited me over for a dinner date. Originally, he asked me to meet the guys at a restaurant, but I don’t exactly want to be seen canoodling with two men in a fancy dinner spot. Plus, I’m kind of hoping that we’ll be able to lure Luke out of his room to hang out with us tonight. Ever since he walked in on me and Josh kissing, I feel like he’s been avoiding me. I’ve barely seen him all week. When we recorded the episode on Sunday, he arrived at the studio five minutes late and left five minutes early. I think he exchanged a total of ten words with me before disappearing again.
Honestly, it’s starting to piss me off. I get it. He doesn’t approve of the experiment. But I don’t know why he’s avoiding me completely. We’re supposed to be friends. Before all of this happened, he had no problems watching movies or eating dinner with us. It’s starting to hurt my feelings.
Right as I step out onto the landing of my floor, the lift on the other end of the hall opens its doors. As if he’s been summoned by my thoughts, Luke steps out, looking ridiculously hot in a long black coat, his silvery hair ruffled. He doesn’t see me as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and heads to his flat door.
Trying to ignore my heart suddenly thumping in my throat, I go to join him. “Hey.”
He jumps so hard he almost drops his keys, spinning to face me. “Layla,” he blurts out. “What are you doing here?”
“I… live here? That’s disappointing, I thought you’d noticed.”
He blinks owlishly. “I mean. I thought you were going out for dinner.”
“Change of plan. Josh cooked instead.”
“Oh. So… you’re coming in?” He points at his flat door. I nod. He considers for a few seconds, then slips his key back into his coat pocket. “I, ah. Think I need to do some shopping.” He steps away from the door and walks past me, heading to the stairs. I stare after him.
Seriously?
“So I’m not imagining it,” I say loudly. “You are actually avoiding me, then?”
He looks flustered. “Of course not. No, I just remembered that I… I need to go shopping.”
“Right. At 9PM at night?”
“Just need some essentials. Have a good evening.” He starts to walk down the stairs. As I watch his retreating back, irritation simmering inside me, a memory sparks in the back of my head. I suddenly remember the first time I met Luke.
I was fourteen at the time. A shy, perfectionist high school student. It was a lunch break, and I’d just been brought to the headmistress’s office after one of the prefects saw that the sleeve of my blazer was fraying. At most schools, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but at a private school as posh as Emery High, I may as well have committed a crime.
Our headmistress, Mrs Martins, was an evil woman. She acted as sweet as a lamb in front of our parents, but she treated the students awfully. I hated her. After I was brought up to her office, she shouted at me for almost ten minutes straight. I was on the brink of tears when the door to her office swung open and a man stepped inside. The memory blooms in front of my eyes.
“Amy, do you want to pick up some lunch — oh.” He looks between us.
Mrs Martins straightens. “This is Layla Thompson,” she sighs. “She’s in Year Nine, and she’s apparently still incapable of dressing herself.”
Frowning, the man steps further into the room. I stare at him, a bit stunned. He’s gorgeous. Tall and young, with high cheekbones and deep grey eyes.
“Hi Layla,” he says quietly, studying me. “I’m Luke. I’m one of the English teachers.” He glances at Mrs Martins. “What’s going on?”
“I was just explaining to Layla the importance of wearing the school uniform correctly,” the headmistress bites out. “Look at her blazer. It’s disgraceful. This school has a reputation of excellence to uphold, and we can’t do that if our students are running around looking like street urchins.”
Luke steps forward, studying the frayed sleeve of my blazer. I shiver as his fingers trail lightly over the fabric, not touching me. “I see. You’ve worn this to death, haven’t you, Layla? You should get your parents to buy you a new one.”
“They can’t afford it,” I mutter, my cheeks burning. “I’m on a scholarship. It only covers tuition.”
Luke goes still. “Ah. I see.”
Mrs Martins sighs dramatically. “Seriously? We’re paying your school fees, and they can’t even shell out a few hundred for a new uniform every couple of years?”
I look down, humiliated. “I could fix it myself, if I could use the school sewing machines. I asked the textiles teacher if I could do it in class, but she said no.”
“Absolutely not!” Mrs Martins blusters. “I can’t have my students walking around in patched-up clothes. Tell your parents to pick up another shift, or put it on a credit card. This is ridiculous.”
Luke frowns. “Come on, Amy, let’s not put a family into debt over a jacket.” He studies my sleeve. “You think you could fix this yourself?”
“I’ve been hemming my clothes for years,” I say. “I’m really good at it.”
His grey eyes flash to mine, and my stomach flips. “You wear a lot of second-hand clothes?”
I flush. “They’re cheaper.”
He nods. “Very smart. You’ll do well in your economics classes, I’m sure.” He straightens. “Well, in that case, we’ll just give you permission to use the sewing machines during lunch breaks.” He picks up a piece of paper from Mrs Martins’ desk and scribbles a few words on it, handing it back to me with a smile. “There you go, Layla. If your textiles teacher asks what you’re doing, tell her Mr Martins said it was okay.”
I take the note, wide-eyed. “I… Mr Martins? You’re Mrs Martins’ husband?” I glance at the headmistress, who is scowling at me. How did such a nice man marry such an awful woman?
His eyes soften. “Yes. Amy is my wife. I really lucked out in that department.”
Mrs Martins — Amy — huffs, picking up her coat. “Whatever. Let’s get lunch, then. Layla, if I see you in here again, you’re getting a detention.” She saunters to her office door.
Luke smiles at me gently. “Ignore her, she gets crabby when she’s hungry. I guess I’ll see you in a few years, Layla. My office is in the West Wing if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay,” I croak, clutching the permission slip as he holds the door open for me to leave.
I watch Luke heading down the stairs, blinking back the memory. My throat squeezes. “Luke?” I call after him.
“Hm?” He turns back to look at me.
I nod at his flat door. “You could come eat dinner with us, if you want?”
He smiles. “Another time, sweetheart,” he says absently. “Enjoy your date.”
I glare at his back as he disappears down the stairs.
Whatever. If he wants to avoid me, he can. I’ve got enough guys to keep me busy.
I unlock my front door to dump my bag, then slouch across the hall to the guys’ flat. I’ve actually got a copy of their key — we exchanged spares a while ago in case someone got locked out — but I figure it’s slightly more polite to knock, so I lift my hand and rap my knuckles against the wood.
There’s a brief pause, and then the door swings open. Zack stands in the doorway, a grin spreading across his face. “Hey, bumblebee. C’mon in.”
I stare at him. He looks delicious. His long hair is tied back. His ring glints from the open collar of his white shirt. And best of all? He’s wearing a suit. I stare at the dark jacket hugging his broad shoulders and clinging to his thick thighs, speechless.
His smile just gets wider. “Come on,” he says again. “We got a special night planned for you.”
