But as John charted the familiar path towards Victoria’s office, the pit in his stomach said something entirely different. Where do you take a woman like Victoria for lunch? How do you even make lunch sordid? What will she think of my beat-up truck with the door you really have to slam for the lock to catch? As he traversed the hallway with its dark reddish-brown wood flooring—probably something fancy like mahogany—his hands sweat under the potted orchid he carried. He found the plant at a downtown florist and had bought it immediately. Now, it weighed him down with its symbolism. What if she thought the gesture was corny? What if she didn’t want a visual reminder of greenhouse sex in her office? He banished the thought when he recalled their “whiskey locker” sex. They’d shared something magical in the dark, cramped space of the library basement. He really thought Victoria was loosening up and coming into her own when she knelt before him.

John needed to forget that saucy memory as well if he wanted to appear presentable at her place of work. When he came upon Victoria’s door, he shifted the orchid to one hand and knocked.

He waited and there was no answer.

He knocked again and jiggled the door knob. It was locked. Disappointment settled in his belly. Maybe she forgot, said the nagging doubt. No, Victoria doesn’t forget. She plans.

“You looking for Vicki?” asked a female voice from behind him.

John spun around and found a woman poking her head into the hallway. She wore a fashionably cropped afro with a pen stuck behind her ear. Large gold hoop earrings swung against her neck as she regarded him with a raised brow. “I am,” he said, walking towards her. “Do you know where I can find Dr. Reese?”

The woman stepped out into the hallway where he could see her better. She was dressed in a black turtle neck, blue jeans that were ripped at the knees, and bright pink Doc Martin boots. “I might,” she said with a sly grin. “Who’s asking?”

“John Donovan,” he said, sticking his hand out for a shake.

Realization lit her hazel-brown eyes as she took his hand. “Ahh, okay. You’re the Viking...”

He knew his face was turning red by the second, but he pushed past it, pretending everything about that statement was completely normal. “And you’re a friend of, uh, Victoria’s?”

She nodded with a wide grin. “I’m Paula, and Vicki’s probably still in her classroom. Her Post-Colonial Lit class is really popular; those kids usually stick around to talk about the readings.”

“Gotcha.”

Paula crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s just down the hall, and to the left, in room 155.”

John smiled, hoping he didn’t appear too desperate to see her. “Thank you,” he said, his heart kicking into a full gallop. “It was nice to meet you, Paula.”