Girl Most Likely To

by Barbara Elsborg

  “Interesting accent,” Adam said and walked off.

  Fuck.

  Tomas couldn’t believe how careless he’d been to let Adam hear him speak in his normal voice. When he heard his apartment door slam, he didn’t follow. What could he say? He couldn’t tell Adam the truth.

  He let his pants fall and stepped out of them, then unfastened the harness and yanked it off. Under the shower, he rested his forehead against the wall. He didn’t have a clue what he could do to fix this without endangering Adam. Maybe it was best he was pissed off with him, but regardless, he’d still want answers. The guy was a complication he didn’t need in more ways than one.

  Yeah, right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wren walked up the road toward Ezispeke, determined to keep the smile on her face. She might feel like shit but no way would she show it. Coloring her hair had been exactly the right thing to do, though it had taken her ages to heat enough water with the electric kettle. Now when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone different. Her light-brown hair shone all-over silver, and after she’d hacked at it around her ears with scissors, it was even more pixie-like.

  Though she wasn’t stupid. She might have made herself look different, not so easy to change the way she felt. The heavy weight in her chest remained, insecurity still churned her gut. But this was the start of the rest of her life and she wouldn’t waste it regretting a thing.

  Except maybe the scissors.

  She pulled at her hair. Oh yeah, that’s going to work.

  Adam had what he wanted and no matter what she might think she’d seen in his eyes or heard in his voice, in less than three weeks he’d be nowhere near Leeds. And if she had her way, she’d be nowhere near Leeds either. During today’s break, she’d use one of Ezispeke’s computers to hunt for another job. What did it matter if she was caught?

  She wasn’t angry with Adam, more disappointed with herself. Last night, she’d been as up for it as him, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t enjoyed what they’d done. But it ended now. The bottom of the slope beckoned and Wren didn’t want to end up there as a blubbering heap. Much as she might like the idea of being some cool chick who could walk away from a sexual encounter without a backward glance, in real life that wasn’t her. She wasn’t the type to have sex with a guy without opening her heart. She’d already blabbed too much to Adam, but she felt as if she’d known him forever.

  Wren sighed. She wasn’t naïve enough to think this would end like a romance novel. No happy-ever-after here and she really needed a happy ending. But her life wouldn’t get better unless she did something about it and she had to stop telling herself that and make it happen.

  No more Adam. Fin. El final. Koniec. Einde. The end in every language.

  Oh God. The thought alone was enough to make her smile slip. She dragged it into place as she walked through the doors of Ezispeke. Well, she probably wouldn’t see him today. No Italian conversation until tomorrow. On her way to the staffroom, she checked the list for the following evening’s cookery class. Tomas’ name was scrawled below Adam’s.

  Bloody hell. When had they signed up? Were they playing with her? She clenched her teeth. Forget the risotto she’d planned, she knew just what to get them to cook.

  Once she was in the staffroom, she took out the sheet she’d photocopied with the extra names and went round those she’d not spoken to yesterday to see if any remembered the students. None did, but she had a lot of compliments about her hair. Though how likely was it someone would say, “Your hair’s awful”?

  “My God, what the hell have you done to your hair?” Leo blurted behind her.

  Ah, she’d forgotten about Mr. Tactful.

  “Seen a ghost?” He sniggered.

  God, what did I ever see in him?

  She showed him the list of names. “Any of those last four ring a bell?”

  He scanned it and handed it back. “Nope.”

  Wren stuffed the list in her pocket. She could let this go, but she didn’t want to.

  “You had it cut as well?” Leo asked. “Actually, it suits you.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Belinda heading their way and smiled brightly at Leo. “Thanks for noticing I had it cut. No one else has.”

  “Of course he noticed your hair.” Belinda tucked her arm in Leo’s. “You look like you’ve stuck your head in a bag of flour.” She giggled.

  “Leo spotted it had been cut as well,” Wren said. “Not by much. He has a really sharp eye to see the difference.” And a sharp tongue.

  Even Belinda wasn’t too thick to get the implication of Wren’s comment, that Leo had been staring at her, and she glared.

  On the other side of the room, Sylvie mimed drinking a coffee. Wren shot her a regretful look and left. She wanted to stop by the office before her class started.

  Jolene was dealing with a tearful teenager when Wren went in. Her eyes widened when she took in Wren’s hair.

  “I need to check some test results,” Wren said.

  “Bottom drawer.” Jolene nodded toward the filing cabinet.

  She was lucky Jolene was busy. She crouched down and flicked through the folders until she came to the first name on her list. Ardita Chani. Five teachers, including Wren, were supposed to have taught her. She’d already spoken to those other four teachers and they hadn’t recognized the names. She scribbled down the woman’s contact phone number and stood. The teenager had stopped crying and Jolene furiously tapped her fingers on her desk while she listened to a garbled excuse about a payment bouncing.

  Hoping Jolene wouldn’t notice, Wren sidled over to the registers and searched for her folder. The blank sheets she’d signed yesterday had been filled in. The extra four students were back on the list. What the fuck? There was a loud cough behind her. She twisted round to see Olive, dressed head to toe in sludge brown.

  Do not blush. Do not look guilty. She went for a smile. Olive had a matching hat pinned to the side of her head and she resembled a huge chocolate in the process of melting. Wren smiled harder.

  “What are you doing?” Olive asked. “And what on earth have you done to your hair?”

  “Dyed it. I love it.” For once, Wren met Olive’s gaze and didn’t back down. “As for what I’m doing, I had a sudden worry I might not have signed off the registers for the previous term.”

  “You did. I have those filed.”

  “Oh great. That takes a load off my mind.”

  Olive glowered. “That all?” She stared straight at her and Wren forced herself not to wriggle like a worm on a hook.

  “Actually no.” She took a deep breath and opened her mouth.

  “It’s no use asking for more hours. I can barely afford to run the place as it is. If you can come up with some profitable extracurricular activities, I’ll think about it.”

  “Right. I’ll do that.” No, I won’t. But Wren took the chance to escape and headed for the stairs.

  What benefit could there be in making Ezispeke appear as though it taught more pupils than it actually did? Some tax fiddle? Wouldn’t it be better to pretend there were fewer pupils so you could pocket their fees without paying tax? Or was she making more of this than she needed to and these four names had just somehow gotten into the system accidentally?

  She tapped Ardita’s number into her phone and listened to a voice tell her the number was no longer in service. Damn.

  When she entered the classroom, her five English conversation students were waiting. Tomas lounged right in front of her, his chair tipped back, a graze across his cheekbone. He crashed the chair back to the ground when she walked in.

  Oh God, had Adam told him about last night? Her cheeks flooded with heat. Maybe Sylvie had been right and they’d been competing over who could bed her first. Bile rose into her throat. Adam wouldn’t have done that, would he?

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said and put her folder on the desk.

  “Good morning,” the class answered. They sounded bored even before the
lesson had started.

  Her gaze fell on the ravishing Monique, who could have been attending a photo shoot. Even though Wren was wearing her best red dress—she was not going to think about why she’d put that on—she instantly felt as attractive as a dead cow.

  “Right, we’ll pick up from yesterday. Things you like to do in your spare time. Cycling, dancing, reading, cooking. Who’d like to go first?”

  Silence. All eyes but Tomas’ were down and Wren didn’t want to ask him. She had a horrible feeling his hobby would be finding the G-spot.

  “Benoit?” she asked. “What’s your favorite pastime?”

  “I collect models of the Eiffel Tower.”

  “That’s…er fascinating.” Not. “Can anyone think of something to ask Benoit about his hobby?”

  “How many steps you believe?” Georg asked.

  “How many steps do you think there are,” Wren corrected.

  “I know how many,” Benoit said. “One thousand, six hundred and fifty-two. But it is not possible to walk all the way to the top.”

  “I know one thousand, six hundred and seventy-one.” Georg spoke very slowly. “Nine steps to ticket office, three hundred and twenty-eight steps to level one, three hundred and forty steps to level two, eighteen steps to elevator and then rest to top, but Benoit is correct. Not allowed to walk to top. Number of stairs changed over years as alternations made to tower.”

  Bloody hell. Duscha and Monique stared at Georg in amazement.

  “Not counting antenna, tower is nine hundred and eighty-four feet tall,” Georg said.

  Benoit raised his head. “On cold days it is six inches shorter.”

  “I have that problem too,” Tomas said.

  Wren snorted and tried to pretend it was a cough. Failed. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “How many models you have?” Georg asked.

  “How many models do you have,” Wren corrected.

  “Four hundred and forty-six,” Benoit said.

  Oh my God. “That’s amazing, Benoit.” She smiled at him. “Anyone have any questions?”

  “How big is biggest?” Tomas asked.

  Benoit gestured with his hand. “Two meter. I blow it up.”

  “I inflated it,” Wren said. “And the smallest?”

  He brought his thumb and forefinger close together. “Very small.”

  “Miniature,” Wren said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you start collecting them?” she asked.

  “My father proposed to my mother at the top of the tower.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely, Benoit. How romantic. Do they go back there on their anniversary?”

  “They are now divorced.”

  Monique and Duscha sniggered. Bitches.

  “Monique, do you have a hobby?” Wren hoped it was something weird Benoit would laugh at.

  “I like shopping.” She inspected her perfect red nails.

  “I too,” Duscha said.

  “I do too,” Wren corrected.

  “We all go shopping now?” Tomas asked.

  Monique perked up. “We can talk and walk, and have coffee.”

  Wren checked the clock. This week or next week, what did it matter?

  “Would you all like to do that?” she asked.

  Monique was already on her feet, putting on her coat.

  The others mumbled agreement and Wren sighed. “I need to tell the office where we’re going. I’ll meet you outside on the steps.”

  “Shopping?” Jolene asked. “You have three guys in your group.”

  Wren gritted her teeth. “I’ll take them to a sports shop.”

  “Where’s the profit in that?”

  “The students will be learning while they’re doing something enjoyable. Not everything is about money.”

  Jolene narrowed her eyes. “Are you using this as an excuse to do your errands?”

  “No.” Wren bristled.

  “Don’t be late back.”

  Wren hurried outside. Tomas wore a dark-gray pea coat with the collar turned up and the buttons undone. With his grazed cheek, he looked like a character out of a gangster film. Had he been in a fight?

  “I’ll chat to each of you as we walk,” she said. “Practice with each other.” As Tomas headed in her direction, she sidestepped and opted for the safety of Georg. “What’s your hobby?”

  “I am climber.”

  “What mountains have you climbed?”

  “Not mountains. Stairs. I climb the stairs.”

  Wren frowned. “Er…you’ll have to explain, Georg.”

  “I belong to club and we climb the stairs all over Europe. Always arguments about number of floors. I climb seventy-six floors of Moscow Tower, fifty-four floors Sapphire Tower in Istanbul, fifty-eight floors Commerzbank in Frankfurt with two below ground, sixty-three floors Messeturm in Frankfurt, fif—”

  “That’s amazing,” Wren said. “So do you race?”

  “Race?”

  “Run fast. Try to be the first to the top. Is it a competition?”

  “Ah.” He paused. “No.”

  “You do it for fun?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh God. This was hard work. “What do you do when you get to the top?”

  “Turn around and walk down.” He looked at her as though she was stupid.

  Wren guided them across the road. The bookshop was in sight. Thank God.

  “You don’t linger?” Tomas asked behind them.

  “Linger?” Georg repeated.

  “Stay for a little while,” Wren said. “Admire the view? Get your breath back?” Hold hands? Kiss?

  “No. We have schnapps when we finish.”

  “I need coffee,” Monique announced. “It’s me who pay for everyone.”

  “That’s very kind,” Wren said. “We’d use the expression ‘my treat’.”

  Monique nodded. “My treat. Where we going?”

  “We can go into Waterstones. I have an exercise you can all do.” Wren had planned this for next week and prepared enough cards for them to find two books each. With Tomas here, one would have to do. “I want you to find a book.” She handed them slips of paper from her folder as they stood outside the store.

  “Easy,” said Duscha.

  No, it isn’t, thought Wren. There was something wrong with either the title or the author. They’d have to ask for help, which was the whole point.

  “There is a café here. You buy coffee and biscotti.” Monique handed Wren three ten-pound notes. “Cappuccino for me.”

  The others told Wren what they wanted and she walked up to the top floor.

  She’d just been served when Tomas came up with his book. The Flat-Footed Flies of Europe by Peter J. Chandler. How the hell had he managed that so fast? His piece of paper had given the author as Peter J. Handler.

  “Is right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Well done.”

  “I help with coffee.”

  “Thank you.”

  They carried the trays to two tables in the corner.

  “You look different,” he said and smiled.

  “My hair.” She sat down. God, he has a gorgeous smile.

  “Not just hair. But hair very nice.”

  “Thank you. You should say, ‘Your hair looks very nice’.”

  “Thank you.” He ran his hand over his head and gave her such a cheeky grin she couldn’t help but return it.

  His hair did look nice, dark and shiny, flopping over his face. Her gaze slipped to the slight hollows under his cheekbones, the shadows under his eyes, that graze and—stop it. She stared down at the table and hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

  Duscha rushed up with her book, clearly disappointed to see she wasn’t the first. Monique followed, then Georg. Wren handed Monique her change.

  “You all got the right books. Well done,” Wren said.

  “You made mistakes in title,” Georg said.

  “Yes, that was deliberate so you had to ask for help.”
/>   “Ah.” The German nodded.

  “What we do with them?” Monique asked.

  “We can put them back when we leave, or give them to an assistant. Or buy them if you want,” Wren said.

  “The Polar Bear’s Mating Habits.” Monique rolled her eyes, put the book aside and turned to Wren. “What languages do you speak?”

  “Italian, French, some German and a little Russian.”

  “And Elvish,” Tomas said.

  “Oh yes. I forgot that one.” She grinned.

  “So you not just a beautiful face,” he said. “Is right expression?”

  “We say, ‘You’re not just a pretty face’.” Wren caught Georg’s blank look. “It means there is more to a person than their beauty.”

  “But you don’t have to be beautiful,” Monique said.

  Wren shrugged. “No, it’s just a saying. A way of showing admiration for someone’s perhaps unexpected abilities.”

  “You are beautiful,” Tomas said.

  Wren pretended not to hear him but she couldn’t help but be flattered. She sipped her coffee.

  “I like your hair,” Duscha said. “You like snow queen.”

  Wren smiled.

  “Which salon did you use?” Monique asked.

  “I did it myself.”

  Monique’s mouth fell open. “Yourself?”

  “Wren,” someone yelled.

  Benoit ran toward their table pursued by two beefy guys. He leaped behind her chair as she reared up in shock.

  “What’s happened?” she asked.

  “We spotted him shoplifting,” said one of the men.

  Shit. “There must be some mistake.” Her heart pounded. “These are my students. They don’t speak English very well. I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding.” Please let there have been a misunderstanding. Olive would kill her. “What happened, Benoit?”

  He erupted into a flurry of French and clutched Wren’s arm.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  How to explain that although he’d put the book in his pocket, he wasn’t trying to steal it? He’d put it there for safekeeping while he wrote on his notepad. Wren tried. The circle of onlookers grew larger and Benoit appeared close to tears.

  “He had no intention of leaving the shop,” she said. “They were all supposed to bring their books to show me. The others have. We were waiting for Benoit.”