The Dean’s List Read online

  It took David minutes to disassemble his equipment and disappear. When Sandra said she had to take pictures, I was thinking nudes. I almost downed a glass of wine to bolster my courage before I came over.

  “That wasn’t too bad, right?” Sandra pulled two diet sodas from her hidden bar area and walked to the sofa. “Your phone will start ringing in a few hours. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Yes. Jade told me I would be a shiny new penny. Is that how it always is? Do all the men want the new girl?”

  The reality of being passed around several men never crossed my mind. Somewhere in my fantasy, I imagined a few regulars calling me. It was too late to have second thoughts, but I should have asked more questions. Questions I couldn’t think of now.

  “There are many men who like something fresh and new. You certainly will find them among your callers. We call them connoisseurs.”

  Connoisseurs? Aren’t they normally experts in their field? I’m not certain I like that thought, being passed from connoisseur to connoisseur. Would I once again feel not good enough?

  Unaware of my internal debate, Sandra continued. “However, there are many who simply want a regular companion. The choice will be yours.”

  “How did you get involved in this? How does a concierge become a facilitator of the flesh?”

  She turned her head and in a direct no-nonsense fashion told me, “I created The Dean’s List. I saw a need, and I filled it. The Dean’s List has been around for over twenty years. I am one of the many alumni of the University. I needed things that only men could provide at the time. You see, the world is getting better, but don’t fool yourself, River. It’s still a man’s world, and you have to learn to play in their sandbox.”

  The realization that Sandra started as an escort shocked me. The woman was so refined and put together. “Wow.” I stared at her. It was as if we now shared a small secret. I felt better knowing that this amazing, successful woman had been just like me twenty years ago. “So, my phone will start ringing. I’ll meet these mentors for a meal. How do I know what happens after that?”

  “That’s the easy part. You log on to your account, check a yes or a no next to their name after the first meeting. No means you have no chemistry and it’s not a good fit. I recommend seeing several people in the weeks that follow so you can make some good connections. Remember, the first meeting is neutral. It’s simply a meal. What you do after that is up to you. As I explained earlier, I am a facilitator, nothing more. I make the introductions, you decide how far they go.”

  She made it sound like a dating service. I imagined that was how this business flew under the radar. “Thanks for my new wardrobe. I’m shocked at how many items you purchased for me.”

  She dismissed my thanks with a wave of her hand. “It’s a perk—one of many you’ll come to appreciate. On the other side of that coin, there are some things you’ll have to learn to navigate. Secrecy, loneliness, and guilt to name a few. The good ones always manage to find a balance.”

  “Is there any advice you want to give me?” I hoped she had a few words of wisdom that would help tame the nervousness in my stomach.

  She tilted her head back and forth in contemplation. Her tongue darted out to lick her cherry-red lips. “Be yourself. I’m told you have a wicked sense of humor. Men don’t want to be fooled; rather, they want to have an authentic experience. You don’t have to act. Some will like you, and some won’t. Isn’t that the way life is anyway?”

  “That’s it? Be myself? You buy me a wardrobe fit for a princess and expect me to be authentic?” I wanted to roll my eyes but refrained.

  “Did you purchase anything today you wouldn’t have if given an unlimited budget?” My mind shouted, Hell no. She must have seen the answer in my eyes. “There you go. I just gave you the resources to dress the way you always dreamed you should. You came into contact with your authentic self. Embrace her. My only other bit of advice is to never let anyone take nude pictures of you. They always show up somewhere.”

  Her warning seemed to come from a place of experience. I logged that bit of information into my personal rulebook. It seemed like common sense, but at this point my life was anything but common.

  Chapter 6

  Packages from Bloomingdales lined the hallway. Tiffany looked at the parcels and walked away saying something about the lottery and making my rent. Her abrupt demeanor made it difficult to embrace her. She sublet a room to me, and that was the extent of our relationship. In New York, who could afford a place of their own?

  My mind immediately screamed me. Given my new circumstances, I might just be able to afford something nicer than a sublet room in a substandard neighborhood.

  Three hours later, my work phone began to ring non-stop. After several brief conversations, I had my weekend completely booked for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I certainly wouldn’t be hungry now.

  My first meeting was tonight with Jonathan Ferris. He offered to send a car that I readily accepted. Until next Friday, when I got paid for the first time, I was living on a shoestring, basically the forty dollars in tips and my last paltry paycheck.

  My outfit from today would have been appropriate for dinner at Per Se, but changing clothes was a necessity. I couldn’t wear the same outfit my photos were taken in.

  When Mr. Ferris told me we’d be dining at the exclusive restaurant, I almost fainted. I’d heard of people waiting months to eat there. He obviously had some clout.

  I googled his name to find out that Mr. Ferris owned Integrity Financial Services. His company catered to the top tier of society. They offered wealth management and estate planning services. He was forty-two years old, a widower, and lived on Center Island.

  After finding a picture from a recent golf tournament, my heart did a little happy dance when I realized he was pleasant looking. His hair was dark like mine, only his was peppered with silver. Having to endure an evening with a man who gave me the creeps was perhaps my biggest fear. No risk of that tonight. Jonathan Ferris seemed to be a dream come true as far as clients went.

  Hmmm. What would the handsome Mr. Ferris like? My eyes took in the clothes laid across my bed. More clothes than I’d ever had or could imagine having, and yet, they were mine.

  Lucky to have a small waist and abundant chest, the purple sheath dress I chose accentuated my hourglass shape. It hugged my body perfectly, highlighting my curves. I used to be embarrassed by my breasts and hips. I thought men wanted waif-like models who sipped broth and exercised like Olympians. I was so wrong. Men wanted women whose hips were perfect for grabbing and whose breasts spilled over into the palms of their hands.

  I embraced my shape and my love of food. To be a waif, I’d never be able to enjoy restaurants like Per Se. To be a waif, I would never rock this dress.

  I put on the black stilettos and freshened my makeup. With fifteen minutes to go before my ride arrived, I let my nerves get the best of me. My mind began to race through the evening. Would he be staring at me all night like a predator getting ready for his next meal? Would I feel like the prize turkey in the window of the butcher shop in a Dickens’ novel? Would he look at me and dismiss me, causing me to feel inadequate in every way? All that confidence I had surrounding my curves vanished. Maybe he preferred waif-like women.

  I scolded myself for allowing my self-esteem to be rocked without reason. The man obviously saw my picture and decided to call. That in and of itself showed he was interested. He was only one of ten men who would fill my calendar over the next few days. As part of my get-through-the-night plan, I poured a glass of last month’s chardonnay and gulped it down. One glass was just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to get me drunk.

  Hearing the doorbell, I pressed the intercom and said, “Hello?”

  “Car for Ms. Roberts.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Showtime. He was early. I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevator. My driver was a kindly, elderly man who opened my door and helped me inside. He knew ex
actly where we were going, so the thirty-minute drive passed in silence. I watched the city float by, street by street. With Central Park on my left, we were only blocks away from Columbus Circle and the restaurant.

  My shaking fingers searched my bag, feeling around in the dark for a mint. The taste of peppermint always seemed to ease a queasy stomach. The strong mint floated in my mouth, drawing moisture to its suddenly dry surface. As the car slowed to a crawl, I pulled out my lipstick and reapplied the soft pink shimmer. I was as ready as I’d ever be.

  The driver opened the door in front of the Time Warner building. The restaurant was tucked inside the piece of real estate gold that stood in front of me. I unfolded my legs one at a time and rose to my heel-enhanced, five-foot-ten-inch height. A man approached the driver and handed him a wad of folded bills.

  “Thanks, Howard. I’ll call when we’re finished.” The driver nodded and headed for the car.

  My eyes took in the man who stood in front of me. Dressed in a tailored blue suit was none other than Jonathan Ferris. This gig was getting better by the minute.

  “River, I’m Jonathan.” He leaned in and gave me a chaste peck on the cheek. He smelled of cedar and some kind of spice, like sweet basil. “You look absolutely stunning. Your pictures don’t do you justice. You’re so much… more in person.” His warm hand took mine. Placing it in the crook of his arm, he led me to the restaurant.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jonathan. I’m at a bit of a disadvantage as far as pictures go. I haven’t had the opportunity to see what was chosen for my profile.”

  He stopped and looked at me with a look of surprise. Pulling out his phone, he began to tap away. “We’ll have to remedy that.” Dexterous fingers flew over the keyboard until he found what he wanted. “You had three pictures posted by Sandra. This is by far my favorite.”

  He showed me the picture where I was laughing. I remembered the exact moment it was taken. It was when David told me to be sexy and Sandra told him I was sex. I have to admit, the picture captured my free spirit. It was fun and without pretense. It was authentic.

  “It’s hard to believe that was only a few hours ago. It seems like a lifetime has passed.”

  My hand found itself locked around his arm again. We made our way to the front of the restaurant. Jonathan didn’t have to say a word. The maître d' intercepted us as we walked through the door. He looked at me in that way people do when they’re judging you. I knew the minute I had his approval. The corners of his lips rose, and his eyes lit up, telling me I passed. Is this how it would always be?

  We were escorted to an out-of-the-way booth where the din of the restaurant was muted. The candlelit table held a vase of miniature roses. A glance around the room showed this was the only table with such flowers. This table was made special for me. A warm heat suffused my body. I was forced to remind myself this wasn’t a date. It was a contract negotiation, and the flowers were merely a sign-on bonus.

  Soft, plush fabric caressed my thighs as I scooted around the booth. Jonathan slid in next to me. He wasn’t too close, but close enough to exchange intimate conversation. The maître d' waited for Jonathan to acknowledge him.

  “Mr. Ferris, should I tell the sommelier to bring the white you selected, or the red?”

  Jonathan looked at me and talked in a melted chocolate voice—hot, smooth, and sweet. “River, I’ve taken the liberty to select two wines that will pair well with tonight’s tasting menu. As you are probably aware, Per Se serves a nine-course tasting menu. You can choose between their regular menu and their vegetarian menu. Both have items that will pair beautifully with the wine. We can choose red, white, or both. Your choice.”

  His eyes searched mine; I wondered what he was searching for? Was it merely my choice in wine, or was it my ability to choose at all? I felt like this was my first test. I looked at the maître d' and asked him what meat would be offered most frequently during the meal. He informed me tonight’s tasting menu consisted mostly of fish and shellfish.

  “Why don’t we start with white? If we feel we need something with more body, we’ll let you know.” The maître d' nodded, looked to Jonathan for confirmation, then left. “I like a woman who knows what she wants. Confidence is incredibly sexy. What do you want, River?”

  He pulled my napkin from the table, snapped it open, and handed it to me. He repeated the action and laid his napkin on his lap. In seconds, the sommelier was at our table, explaining the highlights of the wine chosen. He poured. Jonathan swirled, smelled, tasted, and nodded before our wine was poured and we were left alone.

  All the while, I thought about his question. What do I want? “I want a lot of things, Jonathan. First and foremost, I want to have an enjoyable evening.”

  He handed me my glass of wine and raised his own in a toast. “To a wonderful evening.”

  We tapped glasses. Our eyes met over the rim of our drinks. Neither of us hurried to put our glass down. It was as if looking over the rim provided insights into the other person. I studied his eyes. They were the color of Turkish coffee, with flecks of amber spread throughout. His skin was smooth, with the exception of the shadow on the lower third of his face. I was tempted to reach up and run my hand across his chin to see if the slight growth was rough to the touch or if the shadow only created that illusion. My eyes fell to his lips, which looked soft and succulent.

  Lost in my inspection, I didn’t realize he had tabled his glass of wine. He sat silently, letting me inspect his features. Blushing, I took another sip and set my glass in front of me.

  “Is purple your favorite color?” His hand slid over the shoulder of my amethyst gown.

  “No, but I like it. I like bold colors. They’re more indicative of my personality. I’ve never been a fan of pastels. They seem to be boring—uninspired colors. It’s almost as if they were trying to be the fully pigmented color but fell short.” I paused momentarily. I didn’t want to bore him. He smiled gently and tilted his head to the side, and I took that as a gesture to keep going. “I’m not one to fall short. I may fall down, fall over, or fall flat on my face, but I will never fall short. I’ll always get back up and move forward. Pastel colors are quitters. That, I’ll never be.”

  He kept his eyes forward, completely focused on me. Sandra told me to be authentic. That I could be. My answer was honest and upfront. He could read into it what he wanted, but it was the essence of who I was. He should know right away. We were forging a relationship of sorts, and those never went well if formed on pretense.

  “I like your candor. You would be surprised at how many women are afraid to be themselves. I like that you know who you are. Many women don’t, and quite honestly, I don’t have the time or inclination to help you find yourself.”

  I raised my glass and proposed a toast to authenticity. We tapped our glasses and once again studied each other over the rims. The soft wrinkles around his eyes didn’t make him look old. They made him look wise. When he smiled, they smiled with him. Those lines reinforced his emotions. The eyes rarely lied. Apparently, wrinkles didn’t either.

  The waiter brought our first course. It was a mix of pearl tapioca, oysters, and caviar. They called it Oysters and Pearls, and it was amazing. Being a fan of oysters, this little morsel was heaven on Earth.

  Jonathan watched me as I savored the pearls of tapioca and let the oysters slide down my throat. Either he was not a fan of oysters or he got more enjoyment from watching me eat than eating himself. His plate of oysters sat untouched.

  The next course came right away. It was a bay scallop on polenta. They called it Tsar’s Caviar. I took a bite of my scallop and moaned. How they got the outside crisp and kept the inside delicate showed the cook had a skillset that rivaled a Michelin Star chef. I’d never been able to cook scallops. They ended up turning into rubber pucks.

  “Are you going to eat or just watch me eat?” I asked.

  He sipped his wine and glanced over the rim. He didn’t say a word, didn’t smile, and didn’t frown. He watch
ed, and for some reason having his full attention pleased me.

  I scooped a perfect mix of scallop and polenta on my fork and lifted it to his mouth. His eyes grew wide. It dawned on me that my action was something generally shared by two people in an intimate relationship. He opened his mouth, and I slid the bite inside. His lips covered my fork and slipped slowly past the tines. My eyes focused on their ruby color. His tongue darted across them as I stared openly. Talk about chemistry. How lucky was I to feel something for the first man I met? I watched for any sign he felt the same way. He appeared to be intrigued. It was the only reason I could give for his constant staring. A warm flush raced through my body and sat between my legs. I could have sex with this man without a second thought.

  “What do you like, River?”

  His questions were always so open-ended. I liked a lot of things, like rainbows and daffodils, milk chocolate, and puppies. But again, I felt as if this were some sort of test. Jonathan Ferris wasn’t a man of many words, yet he seemed intrigued with me and seemed to want to know more. Not quite knowing how to answer, I decided to again simply be me.

  “My tastes are varied, so what do you want to know specifically?” I waited, wondering if the subject of sex would come up. Was this his way of finding out what I was into? I pushed our little plates to the side and twisted to face him. I was all in when it came to this conversation.

  “I just wanted to know what makes you tick. Why finance?” Oh, he wanted to know my career aspirations, not whether I liked it rough or from behind.

  “I come from a poor family. My father’s work required that he gave everything he had. We lived a simple life, and I always felt if my father had managed the money better, he could have provided for us better. Don’t get me wrong, we had the necessities, but I always wanted more.” There was no shame in wanting more.

  “I’m the king of wanting more,” he said. I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He watched me and waited. The way he looked at me made me feel like the third course.