Adrian Lessons Read Online Free PDF Page A

thinks he is. Mommy issues, most likely. I type out a quick response— The time is never, the place is nowhere —and turn back to my neglected tacos.
    He retorts with:
    Tomorrow night at Bernie’s sounds infinitely more appealing. 7?
    Is he seriously asking me out when he has no idea what I look like?
    Is this how you pick up girls? Piss them off enough with your responses on your little column that they email you, and then ask them out? Please. I know your type. You sniff out girls with recent breakups hoping that you’ll be the rebound, because otherwise you have no chance of getting any. Nice try.
    I’ve set sail from the Island of Harsh and charted a course to the Coast of Straight Up Mean. I should stop emailing this guy before he gets another faceful of my financial-aid stress.
    My phone buzzes with a new email.
    I just figured it might be fun to hang out with a girl who writes erotica for a living. I do like creative spirits.
    I laugh, in spite of myself.
    And I can guarantee that I’d provide you with fresh material.
    Damn it, Marie. This was probably what she was planning all along. Have the campus sex advisor help me come up with writing ideas.
    Not gonna happen , I write back. Sorry.
    One taco later, the response comes. Ah, well. Good luck with your writer’s block, then.
    I smile and close the email without replying. Normally, the fact that I write smut is the only thing about me that most people don’t know. It’s interesting to talk to someone when that’s all they know about me.
    And that little fact was enough to make him ask me out. A total stranger. I guess people make assumptions about girls who write erotica—that we’re all experienced nymphomaniacs.
    But the truth is…
    My phone rings, and I jump, nearly dropping a precious taco. For a split second, I’m convinced it’s the Sex King. But there’s no way he has my number. The number lighting up onscreen is, in fact, unfamiliar. Fundraisers, probably.
    I answer. “I do love the whales, but I’m a poor-ass college student who can’t spare the ten bucks to help save them. Sorry.”
    “Somewhere, Shamu just shed a tear.”
    The voice doesn’t sound much like an over-eager fundraiser volunteer. It’s a deep, amused, familiar voice. Uh-oh.
    “This is Cleo, right?” the way way too familiar voice says again. “I wasn’t totally sure if that last digit was a two or a six.”
    “You got it right. It was a six.” I swallow, my stomach vacillating between overjoyed and overwhelmed. Considering this is the guy I volunteered to taste this morning. And then proceeded to taste. As well as the guy who saw my boobs on Friday. “Hi, Adrian.”
    “I’m surprised you remembered my name.” His voice is so rich. Like honey and mahogany. And some sunset thrown in. “You seemed pretty out of it this morning.”
    “Oh, I was—” I could explain that my friend accidentally drugged me, and I could be relegated to the category of weirdo forever. “Really sick. I had a bad fever. Sorry if I acted at all insane.”
    “It’s okay. I’m used to insane.” He chuckles. “I’m sorry you’re ill.”
    “Actually, I’m feeling a lot better. It’s just a cold, and my friend gave me her allergy meds, so now I feel fine.”
    “Actually, Professor Newbury asked me to check up on you. He figured I knew you, since we were partners. And I just so happened to have your phone number on my hand.”
    “Sorry about that,” I mutter, imagining increasingly creative ways to decapitate myself. Why can’t this inventive side kick in when I write sex?
    “It’s okay. It’s probably the least inappropriate part of my body a girl’s written her number on.”
    I’m immediately picturing the most inappropriate part. Holy moly.
    “And I was walking back from Spring Café and I was bored, so I figured I’d do Newbury a solid and call you up.”
    “Glad to hear boredom trumps actual concern,” I laugh, and then I stop. “Wait. Spring Café? How far