Odette

4

" W ell, what did you think of your first week?"

It's the first question out of Vanessa's mouth when I slide into the booth opposite her at a trendy bar a few blocks from the school. It's my type of place and looks like it could be a setting in Peaky Blinders . The drink menu has an impressive array of handcrafted cocktails. After a quick perusal, I settle on one called the Spumoni Negroni.

"It was great," I say, flipping the page to the dinner side of the menu. "You've picked an impressive group of students."

"I'm glad you think so," she says with a wide smile. "We have special plans here, and it starts with them."

"They're all talented, but there are a few that have potential to make substantial changes in the industry," I say. Vanessa said she picked this place because they have a decent gluten-free menu, something she knows I'm struggling with. I love bread and I miss it daily. I could live off croissants and coffee, two things I'm not supposed to be consuming now.

I've become a tea drinker. It's not so bad, but it's not coffee.

"A friend is meeting us here; I hope that's okay."

"Of course," I say, dismissing her concern. "What friend?"

"One of the professors at Seattle U, Preston Wyatt."

"If ever there were a professor's name," I tease, and she laughs.

"Am I missing the fun already," a deep voice asks. He's tall, attractive, with dark hair, a strong jaw, friendly eyes, and who looks like a professor, dressed in a tweed jacket. But it's tailored to perfection, and he wears it so well that he doesn't look outdated or stuffy. Quite the opposite. In fact, he looks…appealing.

"Hello, Preston. Glad you could make it," Vanessa greets him. "This is Quinn."

"Lovely to meet you," I say, sliding farther into the booth, allowing him room to sit.

"Likewise. Vanessa has spoken quite highly of you."

"All lies." I laugh. "I promise I'm much more of a stubborn twat than she's let on."

"That's nearly verbatim what she said you'd say," he tells me with a smile that's just slightly lopsided. A small, faded scar sits at the upper corner of his mouth, and I wonder how this pretty man could have possibly gotten it. It reminds me of Gavin Vaughn, whose body had many marks from years of hockey.

Truthfully, the short time I spent with Gavin has been wreaking minor havoc on me all week since meeting his daughter. It was a formidable time in my life, and he had a larger impact on me than I like to admit. But I shake those thoughts away in favor of the man currently sitting beside me and eyeing me with the same appreciation I have for him.

"I may not see much of her, but I know her well enough," Vanessa says. "Preston teaches art history."

"Really? Are you only into the history or do you have an eye for it, as well?"

"I have a meager appreciation for it."

"Now that's a lie," Vanessa says. "Preston has an amazing eye for talent. I'm jealous of a few pieces he's managed to acquire for his personal collection."

Preston holds his palms out in surrender as the server arrives to take our orders.

"Maybe you could come by my new home and help me find some pieces. I'm only barely settled and there are a handful of spaces that need artful attention," I tell him.

"Ode bought the Denny mansion," Vanessa adds.

"No shit? Do you know the history of the place?"

"Very little," I confess. "I was told the original owner was a descendant of one of Seattle's founding fathers, and it's been owned by a corporation since the seventies and only occasionally used."

That was obvious in my first walkthrough of the home. It felt sterile and impersonable, nothing in it felt handpicked with care to an overall aesthetic or personal feeling. It made it an even more appealing property for me to buy. It's a bit of a clean slate inside an amazing historical shell. Something I can give renewed life with my personal taste and style.

My mother says I'm replacing my clients with the house. I can't argue it, she's probably right. An outlet for my own creativity has always been something I need. Only so much of that can happen through my own wardrobe.

The house is massive, it's going to take me the better part of a year to give it the life it deserves, but I'm up for the challenge.

"The corporation was the Unification Church," Preston says.

"The Moonies," Vanessa asks, and Preston hums in acknowledgement.

"Wait, wasn't that the church with AR-15s?" I can't hide the shock, nor the humor in my voice. Of course, the agent I worked with left out that "minor" detail.

"That was the Sanctuary Church, which was an offshoot started by Moon's son. Unification Church was most notorious for its mass weddings in South Korea."

"Hmm, well, I guess it adds some spice and history to the house," I say, shrugging it off. It does explain a few things about my new home. "Maybe I'll sage a little, though."

"The historian in me would love to take you up on the offer, if you wouldn't mind me poking around your house."

"Oh, not at all. The place is fabulous and deserves more than just my attention," I say. "I was thinking about hosting a welcoming party for the students. I want them to see me as more of a peer than an instructor of any kind. Perhaps a casual get together will help their comfort with me."

"It's not a bad idea, if you don't mind them knowing where you live," Vanessa says.

"I'm in one of the most famous houses in the city, I'm not sure I could hide it even if I tried."

"True," she agrees.

"You live there alone?" Preston raises one eyebrow. They are neatly trimmed, as is his matching short beard. He's a well-manicured man from what I can see. While he's without the signs of someone who's worked with their hands their entire life, he's not necessarily soft, either. His hands are large, shoulders wide, and his burnished hair is styled in a way that suggests he's done little more than run his fingers through it as it air-dried. I bet his students love his lectures.

"I do."

" is the consummate single," Vanessa says, taking a sip of her drink that has just arrived. "I've never seen her in a relationship."

Side-eyeing her, I see the spark in her eye. The one that says she's up to something. In this case, matchmaking. It's not her first attempt. This is a regular habit of hers. I love her, but it's misplaced.

A relationship gal I am not.

"Never," he asks.

"Not since I've known Vanessa anyway," I confirm.

"And you met in college?"

"We did." I nod, taking a big sip of my drink. It's good, hits like a balm to my most vulnerable spot that feels just slightly exposed right now. "The last relationship I was in ended right before I moved to New York City for college. It hasn't been a priority since."

"That's a long time to be single," he says.

"Maybe," I say, shrugging. "I have had seven different men ask me to marry them, if that counts for anything."

"Seven?" Preston throws his head back in laughter. He has a nice throat, a prominent Adam's apple below his strong jawline.

"And I turned down every single one. What about you? Family?"

"I have a son, Victor. He's twenty-four and living his best life on the East Coast."

"Married?"

"Separated." He says it with a slight shrug, but there's a pursing at his lips that tells me it might not be a safe topic to explore just yet.

Interesting.

Besides not being interested in relationships, I'm not entirely a good woman, either. I don't fuck with men who are available. Which, of course, leaves me with a long line of narcissistic assholes and men in dire need of therapy.

If you're an emotionally unavailable guy, pull up a chair and let's get to know one another for a night. On the other hand, if you're healthy and looking for love…no thank you. I don't make time for men that might get attached, because I won't reciprocate and then things get messy.

I'm not on the prowl for love or commitment, only a good time and a better goodbye.

From a young age, my father taught me that anything a man could do, I could do better…while bleeding. Men should fear me, he said, and I shouldn't ever forget it. He probably didn't expect me to embrace that motto in my sexual endeavors, though he's never chided me for it, so maybe he did. My parents were never conventional thinkers, really. They're quite progressive, which is likely why I've ended up the way I am. I have never bowed to societal norms. Not even when choosing my bed partners.

Preston is my type of man in many ways. Smart, handsome, well-built, and most importantly, not entirely available. I don't care that he's still married, that's his business, not my vagina's.

"Where's George," he asks Vanessa, a clear attempt at changing the subject away from his marriage.

"Beijing. For another few days."

Vanessa has been married to her very distinguished and much older partner for over a decade. George is in some sort of finance that bores me to death, so I've never much cared to learn the ins and outs of his specific career. It takes him to every part of the world. Vanessa used to travel with him more, but she's become more discerning over the years. Choosing to go only to new or favorite places.

They're complete opposites, but you couldn't find two people more enamored with one another.

"If I plan the party for next weekend, will he be home? I've missed my friend," I say. George and I have always gotten on well. He's French and says I should have been born there because my outlook and lifestyle are more European. He once said I was never destined for a "stodgy, prudish American life".

Criticism of how I live isn't strange to me, so I loved George instantly for his lack of judgment.

"You know he'd change his schedule to accommodate anything you ask for," she says with a playful eyeroll. "The man loves you almost as much as he loves me."

"Hardly." I laugh.

"He likes you?" Preston asks me. "I'm convinced George hates me."

"Oh no, why do you think that?"

"He gives me that look. Do you know the one?"

"I do," I say, giving Vanessa a wink.

"He gives that look to every pretty man. George likes to pretend I'll leave him for a younger man," she explains.

"George thinks I'm pretty?"

"Do you avoid mirrors, Preston?" I ask.

"You think I'm pretty?"

"That's not the word I'd use," I purr before finishing my drink in one large swallow.

Everything is ready. Thanks to the caterer I hired and has handled nearly every detail for me. We've kept it simple enough, hors d'oeuvres and canapes. We opted out of a bar since all the students are underage, but there will be fancy non-alcoholic drinks being passed around.

I'm giving myself a once-over, making sure my Halston pantsuit is still wrinkle free and the double-stick tape is holding the plunging neckline where it should be. I want the students to see me as "one of them", in a sense, but I don't need to be flashing them the goods.

Preston might get a peek if things go well, but he's the only exception. We exchanged numbers the night we met. He's texted me a few times this week, mostly to ask how my day was. There was some implied intent on wanting to see me again. I'm not looking for exclusivity, so I've been cagey on the subject. At least until I understand where his head is at. Though I did reiterate my invitation to him for tonight's gathering.

Preston Wyatt, though he's caught my eye, is not my focus tonight, however. The kids are. This past week was another great one. While they haven't been let loose in the workroom yet, they've been sketching like mad and it's amped up my excitement. I've been missing this for too long; the birth of so many new ideas and the feeling of just starting on the path of something life-altering. It hasn't been a big part of my life since I first hired Fallon and he had that same wide-eyed enthusiasm.

Before that, it was when I first started college, everything between the two events is a blur of long days and sleepless nights repeated over and over for so many years. It's no wonder my body rebelled.

I fasten on a fine gold chain and make my way down the sweeping staircase to the foyer. I've been here nearly six weeks now and am still not used to the space and grandeur of this house. I can already hear George's laughter before I make it to the front door.

", my second love," he greets me with air kisses. "What in the world have you gotten yourself into here?"

"It's large, but she's the classiest house in this city. You, shoosh!" I raise on my toes and wrap my arms around him. "It's good to see you, friend."

"You, as well. It will be good to have you so close. Vanessa needs the company when I'm away."

"I do just fine alone, thank you," she says, pushing him aside to enter the house. "There are cars pulling in right behind us, so you're going to have to let me explore this place on my own."

"Of course, enjoy yourself."

"We'll catch up when you have a moment to breathe," George promises.

They wander off and leave me to greet the students and their dates. I issued invites with a plus-one option, not wanting anyone to suffer from the anxiety of showing up alone. Benji has his girlfriend with him, Jun-Li is accompanied by her girlfriend, and Celine is alone. I expected that from her, she's a bit like me, I think. Confident, independent. I show them all to the dining room where the libations are set up.

"This house is amazing, Ms. Quinn," Celine says, spinning in a slow circle to take in the ornate ceiling. Her skirt, an array of black angles, twirls around her.

"How many times do I have to tell you to call me ?"

"A few more, I guess," she answers. "It doesn't feel right."

"We'll work on that," I tell her, patting her shoulder. "And yes, she is an amazing house."

"This is the dream, though. Right?"

"For some of us, it is, sure. It's taken me all this time to realize that, though. Dreams change, Celine. Don't ever stop chasing them."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, darling, that's even worse." I laugh.

"Sorry," Celine says with a surprising giggle of her own. "Your outfit is fabulous, too. That's Halston, isn't it?"

"You know your fashion history, Celine. Enjoy yourself," I tell her, as the doorbell rings again.

Opening it, I find a few more students and Preston. Greeting the younger ones first, I send them in to find their cohorts before I turn to Preston.

"Hi, I'm glad you could make it."

"Thanks for inviting me," he says, placing his hand on my waist and leaning down to kiss my cheek. His cologne permeates the air around us—it's neither strong nor unpleasant. Though I prefer the smell of a man.

The faint hint of sweat, or dirt, or oil. A sign that says they've been physical at something. I don't meet many men like that in my line of work, unfortunately. My memory fails me on the last time I had that in life, something other than posh and clean.

"Of course. I hardly have any friends in this city, it was nice to meet someone new. And I would really like help to find some art pieces. Especially if you know of any great local artists."

"Sure," he says, his face falling slightly. I didn't invite him strictly for the help, but I don't mind that he's hanging on that hook a bit. "Any style in particular?"

"No, as long as it's as fabulous as this house. Feel free to look around. Every place there is a blank space, needs to be filled. This house needs life again. Especially the primary bedroom," I say with a flirtatious smile, pumping his ego back up again. It's not a ploy though, my bedroom has been something of an afterthought in the design sense. It was painted a yellowish-white when I moved in. I had the painters cover that with a peacock blue, but that's where the work stopped.

"I'll let you play hostess and catch up with you later," he says, winking before he walks away as another few people walk through my front door.

I lose myself to the crowd for a time, mingling, meeting all my students' partners or friends, and answering the variety of questions about this house. What made me buy it? What are my plans for it? How do you even fill so much space? A few of the students know some of its history and ask me about that, too.

She's a great conversation starter. Luckily, the weather has been pleasant today, and many of my guests are enjoying the large yard that overlooks the water. Watching from the windows, I smile as I see George talking to Preston, giving him that look.

"?" I recognize Tori's voice from behind me. She still carries a hint of New York with her. Turning to greet her, I freeze. An unfamiliar tingle races up my spine as I come eye to eye with her father.

Gavin Vaughn, as I live and fucking die all over again.