Bixby shakes his head. “Tenure will never be offered. He’s moved on.”
“Good for him. Life is short. Do what you want.” I take a sip of the German beer, smile inside. “I’ll think about the gym membership thing.”
Bixby nods and heads to the kitchen to tell his staff about my salad. I hear some commotion behind me at the pool table between two beefy gents who just might have a bromance going on, and…
No way? I’m seeing things. My mind is playing tricks on me. I ignore the semi-argument at the pool table and my stare falls on Jory Oliver, waiting tables. He’s wearing a tight pair of jeans, a Champs black-and-red T-shirt, and a backward, Champs ball cap. He looks adorable, ten years younger than when we had our afternoon fling in a rainstorm.
It can’t be him, though. Jory’s from Canton, Ohi
