Murder on K Street - Margaret Truman [30]
Jeannette laughed and grabbed his hand. “You don’t have to apologize, Philip. I’ve heard all the four-letter words, and three-letter ones, too.”
“He shouldn’t have said it in front of you,” he countered.
“It’s okay. I’ve heard worse. Want to dance?”
Despite being a skilled and graceful athlete, Rotondi knew he was a clumsy dancer, and told her that. His protestation went unheeded: “There you go being modest again,” Jeannette said. “Come on, just move with me.”
A slow tune came through the speakers, “Close to You” by the Carpenters. He was self-conscious not only because of his perceived shortcomings as a dancer, but also because he was in front of his fraternity brothers. He moved awkwardly to the strains of the music, enjoying the soft feel of her, her cheek against his, the sound of her humming along with the tune. When he developed the telltale sign that he’d become aroused, he pulled slightly away. She pulled him back, and he no longer fought the pleasure.
They left the party shortly after that dance, and he walked her home.
“Thanks for a nice evening, Philip,” she said.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he said.
“I really like you,” she said.
“I, ah—I really like you, too, Jeannette.”
She pulled him close and their kiss lasted for what seemed an eternity to him. When they disengaged, she asked, “When will I see you again?”
He caught his breath. “In class and—”
“I mean like this, silly, on a date.”
He grinned. He was in control of his senses again. “As soon as possible,” he said. “Next week?”
“Sure.”
“How about dinner? I think I can borrow a car.”
“Whatever you say.”
He floated back to the fraternity house. But once there, a set of conflicting emotions gripped him. There was euphoria. There was also a vague sense of dread. Jeannette Boynton was out of his league. She was from Greenwich, Connecticut, which a fraternity brother told him was one of the most expensive zip codes in America. Another classmate, also from Greenwich, knew of the Boynton family whose father, Charles Monroe Boynton, founded and was CEO of a New York City venture capital firm. Rotondi’s stomach tightened when hearing these things. This was never going to work, and he practiced what to say when telling her that it wasn’t a good idea for them to see each other again outside of class. He was certain that he’d come off the way he’d felt all evening, unworthy, bumbling, old-fashioned—yet she’d encouraged him to ask her out again. He was supremely confident on the basketball court and during track meets, and carried that confidence into his classes. But with her…
“I was wondering if tomorrow night would be good for you,” he told her when political science class ended on Monday.
“Sure.”
“I’ll see if I can borrow a car. Otherwise—”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “If you can’t, we’ll grab a bite at the Union.”
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight.”
At noon, he went to the fraternity house, where he found Lyle Simmons in their room hunkering down with a textbook.
“Nice sight, if rare,” Rotondi said. “Got a minute?”
“This is all gobbledygook,” Simmons said, closing the book.
“I was wondering whether I could borrow your car tomorrow night, Lyle.”
“Tomorrow night? Sorry, pal, but I’ll need it. I’ve got a date. Hey, are you taking out that beauty—what’s her name?—Benson?”
“Boynton,” Rotondi said. “Jeannette Boynton.”
“How about this?” Simmons said. “We’ll double-date.”
“I don’t know, Lyle, I—”
“Cynthia and I thought we’d catch dinner