Page 8 of Power Play

I’m not sure if you remember me. I met you the other day at TeaLicious for the bachelorette party?

The coffee beeps its timely arrival and I pour myself a mug of the hot brew. I’ll need a stop by Dunkins’ on the way to work this morning if I ever want to function like a normal human being. It’s part of my regular routine. A routine I love. If only I could bring my career up to par.

As if working on similar brainwaves, my phone chimes with an incoming message and I launch myself at it.

“Breathe, Charlie,” I order myself, “breathe.”

He’s responded.

Thank you, Jesus.

Cautiously, I tap in my cell phone’s password, flick my finger to the right to bring up the Twitter page and—

I remember you. The answer is still no.

What. The. Hell.

I gulp down some coffee, only to belatedly realize that it isscalding hot. “Crap!” I shout at my empty apartment, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to soothe the sudden throbbing.

And then I’m back at my cell phone because what type of answer is that? Is he even capable of writing complex sentences?

It’s a syntax travesty, I tell you.

May I ask why not?I tap out. Hit send. Make a silent prayer to the hockey gods to be on my side today.

His answer arrives in seconds.No.

My teeth clench.Is it because I called you overrated?

Thanks for the reminder.Now the answer is definitely a no.

The deepening urge to hurl my phone across the room has me actually going so far as to lift my arm and aim for the window.

“Get a hold of yourself,” I mutter. “You’re a professional journalist.”

That’s right. I may work for a dead-beat publication with a circulation of perhaps 1,000—peryear—but that doesn’t mean I don’t hold any leverage in this situation. I stare at the last message he’s sent me. I type something out and then delete it.

Ultimately, I go for the pathetic route.Five questions. You can answer here on Twitter.

Not interested.

Three questions. I’ll throw in dinner.

Realizing that he could interpret that as an invitation for a date, I quickly send off another message:What I mean is, I’ll give you a gift card for dinner. Dinner does not include me.

My cheeks heat at the flirtatious undertone, but it’s too late to retract the words now. I quickly glance at the clock above the stove. I need to get ready for work. Only, I’m glued to my barstool.

Glued to the possibility that Duke Harrison might answer me back.

He does, and I can practically hear his husky baritone reverberate through the words.That’s too bad. Dinner with you sounds more interesting . . .

I wait impatiently.

More interesting than . . .what? More interesting than conducting an interview? More interesting than undergoing a prostrate exam? There are endless possibilities, and I’m dying to know exactly what he means by that cryptic message.

Before I even have the chance to formulate a response, I receive another message:But the answer to your request is still no. Have a good day, Charlie.

Damn it.

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