Full download test bank at ebookmeta.

com

The Physical Attraction Seminar Meg Reading

For dowload this book click LINK or Button below

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-physical-
attraction-seminar-meg-reading/

OR CLICK BUTTON

DOWLOAD EBOOK

Download More ebooks from https://ebookmeta.com

More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

The Red Zone An Enemies with Benefits Sports Romance

Meg Reading

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-red-zone-an-enemies-with-
benefits-sports-romance-meg-reading/

Lalangue Sinthome Jouissance and Nomination A Reading

Companion and Commentary on Lacan s Seminar XXIII on
the Sinthome 1st Edition Raul Moncayo

https://ebookmeta.com/product/lalangue-sinthome-jouissance-and-
nomination-a-reading-companion-and-commentary-on-lacan-s-seminar-
xxiii-on-the-sinthome-1st-edition-raul-moncayo/

Wine Meg Bernhard

https://ebookmeta.com/product/wine-meg-bernhard/

The Liar s Lullaby Meg Gardiner

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-liar-s-lullaby-meg-gardiner/
The Lonely Book 1st Edition Meg Grehan

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-lonely-book-1st-edition-meg-
grehan/

Attraction Triggers 1st Edition James Bauer

https://ebookmeta.com/product/attraction-triggers-1st-edition-
james-bauer/

Understand Attraction 1st Edition Adam Lyons

https://ebookmeta.com/product/understand-attraction-1st-edition-
adam-lyons/

Baby Teeth 1st Edition Meg Grehan

https://ebookmeta.com/product/baby-teeth-1st-edition-meg-grehan/

A Duke In Disguise Meg Osborne

https://ebookmeta.com/product/a-duke-in-disguise-meg-osborne/
Copyright © 2022 by Meg Reading
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names of persons, places, businesses, or events
are either a product of the authors imagination 0r are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Illustration by Chloe Friedlan
Cover Typography by Sarah Kil Creative Studio
To anyone who has fucked a coworker they probably shouldn’t have
 CONTENTS

Authors Note
1. Lyla
2. Barrett
3. Lyla
4. Barrett
5. Lyla
6. Barrett
7. Lyla
8. Barrett
9. Lyla
10. Lyla
11. Barrett
12. Lyla
13. Barrett
14. Lyla
15. Lyla
16. Barrett
17. Lyla
18. Barrett
19. Lyla
20. Barrett
21. Lyla
22. Barrett
23. Lyla

Epilogue
The Fantasy League Preview
More From Meg
Acknowledgments
About the Author
 AUTHORS NOTE

Hi reader!
Thank you for considering The Physical Attraction Seminar as
your next read.
In an effort to protect your mental well-being, please checkout
the content warnings here.

xo,
Meg
 ONE
LYLA

“I t ’ s okay , L yla . Y ou ’ re not getting fired for being fifteen minutes

late. No one is going to notice this time,” I mumble under my breath
while rushing through the lobby doors.
My heels shuffle against the marble floors while I round the
vacant reception desk in a hurry, and my heart drops to my stomach
as the four-cup coffee tray I’m holding tilts backward. Time slows as
the paper coffee cups teeter back and forth until scorching dribbles
spew from the lids. I tense, anticipating the ruin of my white dress,
but somehow, the tray straightens out just in time for me to make a
beeline down the hall.
The last time I was late to a meeting, I went home and cried
myself to sleep for two days straight. Mortifying is the only word I
can use to describe the humiliating side glances and muffled snickers
from coworkers when I came bursting through the doors of the
theater-style conference room and stumbled down the first stairs.
It’s been two years, and the image stays etched in the forefront of
my mind. It doesn’t help that my coworkers won’t let me forget
about it either.
I’ve lost count of how many times coworkers have walked past
my desk and said, “Hey, Lyla, meeting in an hour. Don’t be late.”
 Without fail, a sarcastic wink accompanies the comment, which
never fails to send a rush of color to the apples of my cheeks. Since
that day, I vowed to myself that I’d do everything in my power to
never be late for another meeting again.
This morning, I was on schedule to show up twenty minutes
early. Even after my boss sent an eleventh-hour text asking me to
pick up coffee on the way into the office.
Then the unspeakable happened.
Something so embarrassing that I’ve spent my ten-minute mad
dash to the office coming up with excuses to explain my tardiness.
The mere idea of admitting the truth out loud and recounting the
details to my coworkers makes me break out into a cold sweat.
What happened was without a doubt the most humiliating
experience of my twenty-six years on this planet, and I can still feel
the embarrassment lingering as I slow down, struggling to catch the
breath I lost three blocks ago. The tick tick tick of the analog clock
sitting above the double doors to the conference room mocks me
with each passing second.
As I reach for the cool metal door handle, my breath ceases,
trapped within my lungs as I slip through the opening with my back
turned to the crowd.
Please don’t be staring. Please, please don’t be staring.
My hand trembles involuntarily as I carefully press the push bar
and ease the door shut. In silent desperation, I plead for no one to
turn around and notice me. I stand there, shoulders tense and eyes
squeezed shut, straining to hear the faint click of the latch over the
thundering of my heartbeat before finally releasing my grip.
Please, please, please don’t be staring.
Braving for the worst, I twist over my shoulder and peel open an
eyelid. A handful of unfamiliar faces near the back briefly look my
way before quickly refocusing their attention on Elliot, who is
speaking at the front of the room. His even-toned voice bounces off
the walls as he says, “Life as you know it is about to change…”
When I turn my body toward the front of the room, the tension
in my shoulders dissolves.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
 Over the last few years, Solus Commercial Realty’s team has
grown tenfold. Our once quaint, cozy office with familiar faces and a
warm, family-style atmosphere now feels unrecognizable. As of late,
all-staff meetings have become so packed that finding an open seat
is challenging. I quickly scope out the room until I spot familiar dark
brown eyes glaring at me.
In the second to last row of the auditorium, Camila, my closest
friend, coworker, and roommate, nods toward the empty seat beside
her.
“What did I miss?” I mumble, slightly out of breath, as I hand
her a lavender oat milk latte before slipping into the seat. After
grabbing my paper cup, I carefully set the tray with my boss's coffee
on the floor and draw my focus to the front.
“Nothing yet,” she whispers back between sips. “Elliot’s been on
edge all morning. He’s playing it off well, but he’s about to make his
big announcement…”
“Do you think we’re getting raises?” I ask optimistically, taking in
Elliot’s clean-shaven jawline and thick brown hair. The smell of
anticipation lingers in the air as he strides around the open space in
front of the podium with his shoulders drawn back. “Last time he
wore that blue sweater, we got four percent raises and a Christmas
bonus, remember?”
On Monday, Elliot, my direct boss and Solus’ chief executive
officer, sent out an all-staff meeting invitation with a vague note
saying he has a big announcement to share with everyone. All week,
I’ve been trying to pry the details out of him, but he’s refused to
budge—claiming there were “legalities” preventing him from sharing
the details.
She doesn’t say a word, but her shoulder-length hair sways
rhythmically as she nods.
“Raises… it’s definitely raises.”
It’s a little-known fact in the office that Elliot only wears his blue
sweater when something exciting is happening. A long-sleeved cable
knit in late-May is an unexpected fashion statement, especially when
the heatwave we’ve been facing has had temperatures in the mid-
eighties.
 “When I set out to start this company eighteen years ago…”
Elliot’s voice booms through the room, confident yet relaxed.
Eight years ago, I was a bright-eyed high school graduate who
had a desperate desire to flee from small-town Connecticut.
Somehow, I managed to convince a friend to let me stay on her
couch in the city for the summer, giving me a place to stay while I
tirelessly applied for jobs and attended interviews. After two months
of rejections and only pennies left in my savings, a glimmer of hope
appeared when I discovered an online listing for a personal assistant
job.
The pay was abysmal. The hours were long. I didn’t have an
ounce of experience. Despite all of that, I barreled through the front
door of the Solus office building with all the confidence I could
muster and all but demanded to speak with the CEO.
I thought I charmed Elliot with my confidence, but it turns out he
was just as desperate to hire someone as I was for a job.
Regardless, the guy took a chance on me, and now, I can’t imagine
working anywhere else. There have been countless changes
throughout the years, but this place exudes a sense of familiarity
that keeps me in place.
“It is with great honor I announce that…” his voice trails off, and
I give Camila a knowing look while bumping our coffee cups
together.
My breath bottles up in my chest as anticipation hums
throughout the room. People in front of us lean forward in their
seats, eagerly waiting for Elliot to finish his sentence. With my cup
to my lips, I draw in a long swig of coffee to soothe my growing
restlessness and watch as a flurry of hopeful glances and optimistic
smiles break out across the room.
“After nearly two decades, I am stepping down as chief executive
officer of Solus Commercial Realty effective tomorrow afternoon.”
Gasps erupt around the room, camouflaging the sound of my
coffee-induced choking.
Between short-winded coughs, my gaze shifts to Camila, but her
poker face reveals nothing. Subconsciously, she reaches over and
delivers a few sharp strikes between my shoulder blades.
 Resigning.
My immediate boss is resigning… which means I’m out of a job.
“I know, I know.” He motions for the crowd to settle down. “The
timing is less than ideal, considering there’s still a month until the
end of the quarter. But I’m here to assure you that you are being left
in excellent hands because not only will I be stepping down as
CEO…”
“There’s more?” someone’s voice bursts out over the buzz of
murmurs.
I rarely let my imagination wander when it comes to envisioning
a different career path, but over the last few months, that daydream
has become more frequent. Sure, I’ve heard people talk about the
“seven-year itch” in reference to marriage before, but I never
considered it could apply to jobs, too.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my job. As the years have gone
on, the pay has grown substantially, and the hours have become
more reasonable. I could probably use some more vacation time, but
working at Solus has rarely felt like “work.” Every day, I get to come
to work with my best friend, and Elliot has become somewhat of an
older brother to Camila and me over the last few years.
Despite it all, there is a little red devil on my shoulder urging me
to keep my options open. From time to time, curiosity pulls at my
thoughts, leaving me to wonder if there is a job out there that could
offer me a greater sense of purpose and fulfillment than my
monotonous day-to-day assistant tasks.
The fact that Elliot is leaving unexpectedly like this means I’ll be
jobless. Regret washes over me like a tidal wave, and suddenly, I
wish I hadn’t stayed complacent in a job simply because it offered a
steady, comfortable paycheck and decent work-life balance.
Maybe I should’ve applied to a few jobs. Taken some interviews.
At the very least, kept an updated resume.
Oh god, when was the last time I updated my resume?
It had to have been… I don’t know, eight years ago.
As my heart plummets, a coiling sensation tightens around my
lungs like a snake constricting its prey, making it difficult to take a
full breath.
 As my coworkers turn to gauge my reaction to the news, the
weight of a couple hundred pairs of eyes rests heavily on me.
Silence sweeps across the room, and the dumbfounded expressions
of my coworkers gradually transform into frowns of pity as our eyes
meet. Some offer their condolences with soft-spoken words, while
others show their compassion by placing a hand over their heart,
accompanied by sympathetic smiles.
I want to run. To bolt out of the room and not stop until I sought
refuge in my apartment, where I could nestle under a mountain of
blankets. The only thing I can do is force myself to suppress the
queasiness in my stomach and concentrate on the sight of Elliot’s
grin-plastered face.
He looks so happy. So proud.
And I look like a fool.
“Solus Commercial has been acquired by⁠—”
“An acquisition?” Donna, from marketing, who is seated opposite
Camila, takes a sharp breath, then swallows. “We’re being… bought
out?”
The thumping of my heart echoes in my ears, and Elliot’s words
fade into the background. I can’t believe that after nearly a decade
of working side by side, being blindsided with unemployment was
how this was ending.
“Does that mean your job…” Donna trails off.
“No longer exists?” I bob my head with a gulp. “I think so.”
My gaze shifts to Camila, who is fixed on the front, her face still
devoid of any emotion. It’s only when she twists to face me that I
catch a glimpse of guilt swirling in her eyes. She opens her mouth
like she’s about to say something, then presses her lips back
together.
I gasp, staring at her like I’ve seen a ghost. “You knew about
this, didn’t you?”
“You got run over by a hot dog cart?” Camila and Elliot both ask with
teary-eyed laughter.
“Oh, you guys cannot be laughing at me right now,” I groan,
sinking further into the upholstered wingback chair opposite his
desk. “Not after I just got publicly fired. No thanks to you, might I
add.” I glare at my boss, who is leaning back in his seat, taking a
long sip of the hazelnut latte I brought him.
How could he be smiling at a time like this?
“Elliot, please tell Lyla she’s not being let go. I’ve been trying to
calm her down for the past twenty minutes, but she just doesn’t
trust me.”
Of course, I don’t buy what she’s saying. She’s kept me in the
dark for months about this acquisition, never letting on that my
world was about to be shaken to its core. The rational part of my
brain knows that her position in the acquisitions and mergers
department prevents her from telling anything or else she could lose
her job. But it still hurts knowing that while we’ve been living under
the same roof, she’s been harboring a life-altering secret.
What I don’t understand, though, is how and why Elliot hid this
from me. I know Elliot’s routine like the back of my hand. His
schedule is fully booked from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. every day except
Sunday. If there had been any important meetings or phone calls,
surely I would’ve known about them, right?
“Don’t stress, Lyla. You’re not losing your job.”
Don’t stress, Lyla, I mock his happy-go-lucky tone in my head.
Didn’t he know that saying that only made me more stressed?
“All you have to do is pass an interview for a new one,” Camila
adds with a straight face.
My vision blurs, my limbs start to tingle, and I barely manage to
mumble a quick, “Excuse me?”
“Breathe,” he instructs with a chuckle like I shouldn’t be on the
verge of blacking out right now. “It’s just a technical interview for
HR. Banks’ assistant retired last month, and there won’t be any
other candidates interviewing,” he assures me. “As long as you don't
do anything stupid during the interview, the job is yours.”
His last sentence makes my heart plummet into my stomach.
 “What— How— Since when was selling Solus even on the table?”
I shake my head, trying to process the conversation.
Elliot sighs, and for the first time all morning, his face turns soft.
“It’s time, Ly. I’ve been building this business for half my life. Every
milestone I set out to accomplish, I’ve achieved… some more than
once.”
I give him an understanding nod.
“I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, and now I…
I guess I just want my time back.” The weight of sadness in his
voice lingers, and a dull ache tugs at my heart. “The last thing I
want is to spend another eighteen years chained behind this desk.”
Over the years, Elliot had become like a brother to me. He and
Camila have been my listening ears after every terrible date.
Whenever the company hit a milestone, the three of us would
eagerly head to the bar across the street the second the workday
ended. We’d savor the taste of victory while toasting drinks that
were paid for by the company credit card, neither of us daring to
leave until we forgot the reason we came to celebrate.
Despite the ache in my heart, a bittersweet understanding settles
in, and I can’t ignore the truth in his words. If anyone deserves a
graceful retirement, it’s him.
I shake my head, trying to suppress the tears that threaten to
escape before mustering a weak smile for Elliot. I extend my hand
across the desk and gently cover mine over his. “It’s time.”
We lock eyes and share a meaningful nod before letting go of
each other’s hands, but the tender moment disintegrates when
Camila clears her throat. “Now that our little heart-to-heart is over,
can you tell us about getting trampled by a hot dog cart?”
“Don’t spare any details,” Elliot adds with a growing smile.
“I already told you that story is going to my grave with me. The
only reason I blurted out the truth was because I was too shell-
shocked from the meeting to remember the lie I practiced in my
head.” My hands flail in the air as I speak. “But can the two of you
explain to me how this slipped under the radar without me
noticing?”
 “A lot of late nights,” Elliot laughs to himself. “We chose to handle
the matter privately in case the deal fell through at the last minute,
so the legal and financial matters were taken care of behind closed
doors. Starting Monday, we’ll begin integrating the offices until
everyone at Solus is settled into the new office.”
“Mhmm,” I hum offhandedly while sagging back into my chair.
Any other day, I would pester Elliot with questions until my mind
was at ease. But after being force-fed a mix of emotions this
morning, I think I’m starting to prefer the idea of remaining
oblivious.
“Wait… hold on.” I tilt my head to the side with pursed lips. “Did
you just say… Monday?”
I turn to Camila for confirmation, and she offers me a clipped
nod.
“If today is Thursday, and we’re switching offices on Monday…
when exactly is my interview?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” I croak out the word, practically choking on my
saliva. “Have you lost your mind? How am I going to prepare for an
interview that’s in twenty-four hours?”
“Twenty-two if we’re being technical,” Camila replies calmly.
“Oh, my god!” I jump out of my chair, bringing a shaky hand to
my forehead. My heels clank loudly against the marble floor as I
pace the small space between the desk and chairs.
“Look, Lyla, obviously, this morning has been a lot for you. Maybe
it would be best for you to get out of the office and work from home
instead?”
I stop mid-stride and give him a silent nod, with my fingers
pinching the bridge of my nose.
“Like I said earlier, you’re the only candidate interviewing for the
position. It’ll be hard to mess up, but I want you to feel prepared.
Banks isn’t stern by any means, but he is the CEO of a multi-billion-
dollar company.”
Elliot’s confidence in me was admirable, but I wasn’t as trusting
of myself. It’s been nearly a decade since my last job interview, and
tomorrow morning, I’ll be sitting face-to-face with who I assume is
one of the richest people in the city. I didn’t hear the name of the
company when Elliot mentioned it, but it doesn’t matter. All I need is
for the CEO to like me enough to hire me.
“Since you won’t be joining Cam and me for drinks tonight, how
about you pick up dinner from that Thai place you like and expense
it to the company card?”
“What if she wants a hot dog instead?” A playful grin spreads
across Camila’s typically stoic face, and the scowl I shoot over to her
is instinctive.
“Everything will be fine, Ly, I promise,” Elliot soothes, trying to
take some of the edge off, but the knot in my stomach only seems
to curl further. “And on the off chance he doesn’t hire you, I’ve got a
million other connections in the city. I can assure you that I won’t
leave the best assistant I’ve ever had without a job.”
The three of us let out huffed laughs, knowing that I’m the only
assistant he’s ever had.
I want to believe Elliot.
I truly do.
Yet, the little red devil who once kept urging me to keep my
options open has returned. Only now, she’s warning me not to drop
my guard too soon.
 TWO
BARRETT

T here are reasons I prefer to arrive at the office before sunrise and
only leave after half the city has gone to sleep. Avoiding increased
foot traffic during rush hour happens to be at the top of that list.
I didn’t expect to leave the office before midnight, so I didn’t
hesitate to let my driver, Lionel, go home early to enjoy dinner with
his wife and kids. Now the crowded sidewalks and sweltering late
spring air are causing me to second-guess my choice.
I barely hear the faint chime of my phone coming from my suit
jacket pocket through the sound of honking cars and bustling city
traffic.
“Banks,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear without looking
at the caller ID.
“Hello, big brother.” Even from three thousand miles away, I can
sense the smirk pulling at the corner of Harrison’s mouth. His tone,
much like that of an old serpent, drips with sin and a trace of charm,
even in everyday conversation.
My brother’s cleverness and devious nature are only matched by
his ability to adapt his personality to his surroundings, making him a
remarkable businessman. Which is why I hope he’s calling to
formally accept the Head of Mergers and Acquisitions role that our
father offered him this morning.
 “We’re triplets, Harrison. I’m hardly older than you.”
“Hardly?” He sucks in a sharp breath, pretending to take offense.
“Two minutes has to count for something, or else I lost my virginity
much later in life than I originally thought.”
I almost laugh, but even his poor attempt at a joke isn’t enough
to snap me out of the daze that I’m trapped in. As it stands, I’m
surviving off of four hours of sleep and the dwindling fumes of a
stale afternoon coffee. Normally, I try to power through the
exhaustion, but all the late nights at the office are starting to add up
and wear me down.
For the last six months, I’ve been working tirelessly on the
acquisition of Solus Commercial Realty—a relatively small but
flourishing brokerage that I’ve had my eye on for a couple of years.
When Elliot Peters, the CEO, approached me last winter and
shared his desire to sell the company, my interest was piqued.
Purchasing a company like Solus was one of those once-in-a-lifetime
opportunities that fell directly into my lap and almost felt too good to
be true. Knowing that, I extended Elliot an offer that was impossible
to refuse.
Despite my generous proposal, I’ve anxiously waited for a bomb
to detonate and wipe the deal out from under me. Considering the
unorthodox nature of our contract, I was right to be on edge. Most
of the deal has been handled in hushed tones behind closed doors,
but as of two days ago, the final papers were signed, confirming that
Solus has been obtained by Banks Brothers Enterprise.
I’m drained, but vacation is out of reach for now. As an
alternative, I cut my workday short to grab a celebratory drink with
a friend, hoping it would help ease my nerves about tomorrow’s
presentation.
“What do you want?” Juggling the phone and my balance, I
grumble into the receiver, narrowly avoiding a collision with a man
transporting a nightstand on a dolly. Car horns blare at each other
like dueling pianos, and the chaos of the street only adds to my
headache.
“What’s that tone for? Can’t a guy call and see what his brother
is up to?”
 “If you weren’t so caught up in your frat boy charades, you’d
know what’s going on in my life.” The jab was subtle yet intentional.
“Dad told me you haven’t accepted the offer yet?”
“Going right for the hard-hitting questions, huh?”
As I approach a street corner, the walk sign illuminates, and my
footsteps fall into pace with the crowd.
“As surprising as it might sound, running a multi-billion-dollar
company and overseeing the acquisitions department is quite taxing.
Meanwhile, you’re out in Los Angeles doing fuck all with god knows
who,” I scold. “Even Dad has crawled out of retirement to help while
I’ve been handling the Solus deal.”
Harrison hums on the other end of the line, which is the telltale
sign he’s tuning out everything I’m saying.
“Since you haven’t accepted the job offer yet, that means you’re
going to give me your inheritance as a consolation, right?” I ask to
test his alertness.
“Exactly.”
Of course, he wasn’t listening.
“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight… you’re completely fine
giving up billions of dollars and giving them to me instead?”
“Sure,” he draws, feigning attentiveness, but his bullshit is clear
as glass.
“Harrison,” I grit between my teeth.
“Sorry, B. I’m a bit… preoccupied at the moment. My good
friend… what’s your name, sweetheart?” His voice grows distant, like
he’s pulling the phone away, before coming back at full volume in my
ear. “My good friend, Amanda, is releasing some of the tension in my
neck.”
“Harrison. Who are you talking to?” The faint voice of another
woman’s distant voice comes from his end of the line.
“How many women are in your room right now?”
“Let’s see… one, two, three.” He rattles off the numbers like he’s
counting cars passing on the street. “Three, wait, make that four.”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“What can I say? I’m a man who enjoys the simple pleasures of
life.”
 “You consider an orgy with four women a simple pleasure?”
There’s no hiding the bewilderment coating my tone.
“Anything less would be modest for my taste.”
I hum into the speaker, silently contemplating the configurations
of five bodies in one bed. Did they even use a bed? The living area
felt like a more dynamic option—couches, chairs, coffee tables. More
room to play. And ample space for side quests.
I brush off the thought with a quick shake of my head.
You see, my brother has led a somewhat… heedless lifestyle
since my mother’s affair imploded our family.
Our other triplet, Reid, and I concealed our bitterness by
throwing ourselves head-first into work. For years, we’ve been
gearing up to take over the family business from our father and
uncle. We have such tight knots in our necks that it would require
masseurs weeks to alleviate them, whereas Harrison is being happily
pampered with massages by numerous women.
The only problem with his grieving process, you ask? Well,
Harrison has a hard time keeping his extracurricular activities out of
the press. Meaning he repeatedly brings shame to the Banks name
with every front-page spread on Page Six.
It’s not every day you wake up to a photo of your brother’s
blurred ass on the landing page of every major media outlet. Or an
accompanying article dissecting every detail of his hour-long sex
tape.
My brother’s recent termination from his job can be attributed to
the morning talk show hosts’ comments about his stamina in bed.
And it’s also why his reign as Los Angeles’ premiere playboy is
coming to an end.
I don’t envy his lifestyle, but there is a pang of jealousy that
courses through me every time I’m reminded of his ability to throw
caution to the wind and live without constraints.
Occasionally, late at night, I’ll sit on the edge of my desk and
look out at the New York skyline, observing unlit office buildings and
lights flickering off in apartments as people retire to bed. Every time,
there is a nagging pull in my chest that makes me question whether
or not devoting the last five years of my life to continuing the family
legacy has been worth it.
I rarely allow myself to admit it, but there is a part of me that
desires to have a partner that makes me want to go to the office
late and rush home at the end of the day or hear kids squealing and
footsteps padding against the hardwood when I open the door.
I let the image roll through my mind, and I can practically hear
my grandmother’s frail voice saying, “There’s more to life than
growing this business, boys.”
But lately, that seems easier said than done.
I like to believe I’ll make more time for life outside of work now
that I’ve settled in as CEO and the Solus purchase is complete. But
I’ve spent so many years holed up behind my desk that I’m not
entirely sure I know where to begin.
I pick up bits and pieces of Harrison babbling in my ear about his
last conversation with Dad, humming at all the right times so he
thinks I’m listening.
“Barrett, are you listening to me?” My brother’s voice pulls me
from my train of thought.
“Nope,” I reply with a deep exhale. “Tuned you out a couple of
blocks ago.”
“I said that I wasn’t sure if I’ll be able to make my flight on
Sunday. Looks like there’s a pretty bad storm brewing on the coast
of Florida. And you know how Heath is… the guy doesn’t like to fly in
inclement weather.”
“If you want to lie your way out of this, you’re going to have to
try harder,” I laugh.
“I’m not⁠—”
“The flight path from Los Angeles to New York doesn’t go over
Florida. Try again.”
“You must not have heard about the snowstorm that’s⁠—”
“It’s May,” I deadpan. “Look, Harrison. No one is forcing you to
stay in this position forever, but now that you’re unemployed, you
need stability… something to work toward.”
“You aren’t my boss until Monday, so I’d appreciate it if you’d
hold off on belittling me with your CEO talk until then.” I don’t have
to see my brother to know he’s rolling his eyes right now. “You and I
both know I’m not cut out for this.”
“Stop that,” I scoff, weaving between gaps of people on the
sidewalk. “You were the top performer at your last company for five
years in a row. You’ve had multi-page spreads in every business
magazine on the market. And have some of the most influential
people in the industry on speed dial. Saying you aren’t ‘cut out for
this’ is a blatant lie.”
My brothers and I made the decision to separate for college,
craving the opportunity to live separate lives before eventually
reuniting at B.B.E. While Harrison and Reid fled to the West Coast,
immersing themselves in the bustling cities of Los Angeles and
Seattle, I remained in New York, immersing myself in the family
business under my father’s guidance. Reid moved back three years
ago after selling a start-up he founded with his buddy, Jack.
Harrison, on the other hand, has been reluctant to return to New
York.
He’s not the type to be tied down, but the fact that he hasn’t
returned home once in the past twelve years raises suspicions that
he’s hiding something.
“True, but I don’t appreciate you diminishing the three summers
I spent as a golf caddy at Greenwich Hills Country Club. Where is the
mention of my back-to-back Caddy of the Year awards?”
“We just turned thirty. Accolades from high school jobs no longer
count.” I pull a face, appalled I even have to make that clarification.
He groans, his tone laced with irritation.
“Let’s circle back to the part where you said you don’t start work
until Monday. Does that mean you’re accepting the job?”
The air is thick with anticipation as I wait for his answer. Then,
out of nowhere, the breath is knocked from my lungs when a head
slams directly into the center of my sternum.
Fuck me.
A feminine voice gasps, and thick brown hair clouds my line of
sight. Out of instinct, I wrap an arm around the woman’s waist and
pull her toward me. I try to fight gravity and keep us upright, but
the force of our collision catapults us toward the ground.
 I’m not sure whether the breath gets knocked from my lungs
before or after hitting the ground, but it burns all the same. Then,
the woman’s head smacks against my chest in a final blow,
immediately followed by a muffled “ow” that breaks through the
ringing in my ears.
As I lay on the sidewalk gasping for breath, the first thought in
my mind is how badly I hope to avoid dealing with a personal injury
lawsuit. The second detail that stands out comes the moment I open
my eyes and find a pair of stunning hazel eyes staring directly at me,
mere inches from my face.
Even with brown bangs ruffled on her forehead, I’m in awe. Time
stops when the brunette lying on top of me inhales a gulp of air and
then drops her gaze to my lips.
I’m not sure how long the two of us stay like this, but it’s the
sound of her howling laughter that pulls me from whatever trace
she’s trapped me in and catapults me back to reality.
 THREE
LYLA

I’ m not a skeptic , but I’ m starting to think that I should be because

I’d never thought much of the phrase “bad things come in threes”
until it was too late. Because here I am, on the gritty sidewalk, with
perhaps the most handsome man in all of New York lying beneath
me. The tofu pad thai I’ve been daydreaming about all afternoon is
sprawled on the pavement by his head, and my basil fried rice bears
the mark of a shoe print from a passerby trampling over it.
In less than twelve hours, I've experienced three separate
mortifying experiences, and each one is replaying in my mind like a
cringe-worthy movie. For a moment, I consider curling up into the
fetal position on the street, but the single ounce of dignity I have left
won’t let me go through with it.
Before I can even comprehend what’s happening, a burst of
uncontrollable laughter spills out of me. I can’t help it. Murphy’s law
has outdone itself today. I knew I was due for a stroke of bad luck,
considering how peaceful my life had been for the last few months. I
just didn’t expect the impending setbacks to ambush me all at once.
Just as my sides start aching, I hear a throat clear below me, and
I snap back to the present. In a matter of seconds, I scramble off of
the poor man, feeling the rough texture of the pavement on my
hands as I push myself up to my feet.
 The man moves to stand almost as quickly, and the surrounding
sidewalk suddenly feels suffocatingly narrow. As I glance up from his
leather Oxford dress shoes, my attention is drawn to the smooth
fabric and crisp lines of his navy-blue suit. It’s perfectly tailored, and
the fine stitching is similar to Elliot’s, which leaves no doubt in my
mind that this guy is well-off.
When he extends his large hand between the two of us, my heart
skips a beat. I expected him to make a snide remark, laced with
annoyance, and tied together with a condescending tone, before
stomping off. Not for him to outstretch his hand, ready to introduce
himself.
A small voice inside me whispers to spin around and take off
running down the street. Crashing into each other was already
embarrassing enough, and the last thing I want to do is stand here
and rehash the details. Then, the more rational side of my
subconscious reminds me that apologizing is the least I can do, so I
stay put.
With a gulp, I reach out and slip my palm into his. Between the
fall and my fit of laughter, I only got a glimpse of his good looks.
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the clean-shaven jaw and rich,
brown eyes.
As he straightens out his suit jacket, I catch him roaming his
gaze over my figure, and his shameless gaze makes my knees turn
to jelly.
Stranger. This is a stranger.
Get it together, Lyla. You’re never going to see him again.
At least, that’s what I tell myself until his lips turn up into a smile
that nearly knocks me out cold against the sidewalk. “Forgive me. I
should’ve been paying more attention to my surroundings.”
I fight a gasp, trying to mask the effect this man is having on
me. My last boyfriend could never elicit even a fraction of the
butterflies that are currently taking flight in my stomach right now.
While I don’t possess the same level of boldness as Camila, men
rarely intimidate me. However, the sight of this man’s mouth turning
up into a bashful smile as he shakes his head is making my brain
short-circuit. I’m a gawking mess, and to be honest, it’s almost as
humiliating as accidentally barreling into him and sending him
crashing to the ground.
On the other hand, the chances of seeing him again are slim,
which means I should make the most of these final moments and
take in the view.
When I don’t respond, a wave of concern washes over his
expression. “Are you hurt?”
His eyes sweep over the bare areas of my arms and legs,
checking for scrapes and bruises that don’t exist. If anyone were to
bear the brunt of injuries, it would surely be him, considering he so
graciously broke my fall.
I shake my head, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine. Thank
you, though.”
Assuming that is the last of our pleasantries, I crouch down with
a sigh and mourn the loss of my beloved pad thai. Grilled cheese
and tomato soup for the third night in a row doesn’t seem nearly as
enticing as takeout, but I’ll manage.
Above me, the man’s words are indistinct as he mumbles
something into his phone. Drowning him out, I almost miss it when
he speaks to me again. “Why don’t you grab us a table while I take
care of this?”
He tips his head toward the Italian restaurant a couple of yards
down from where we’re standing. My face twists as I look up at him
and point at my chest, then his, trying to confirm whether I heard
him right.
He wipes his thumb over his lips to brush off his laugh as he
nods, and my lungs feel like they’re imploding on themselves. He’s
got to stop doing that whole pretty-boy-smiling thing because my
resolve is fading fast, and I can’t keep adding humiliating moments
to today’s recap.
“The least I could do is buy you dinner.”
"Oh, no." I quickly push myself up off my knees and wave a
dismissive hand. “You—You really don’t have to do that. This is all
my fault, anyway. I grabbed my roommate’s sandals on the way out
the door. I should’ve known they’d be a tripping hazard.”
 “If I hadn’t been preoccupied with the phone call, I would’ve had
the chance to move out of the way, and you’d be enjoying your meal
right now,” he counters back. Our eyes lock, and a sudden warmth
spreads across my cheeks. “Please. I insist.”
He might be attractive and wealthy, but after the day I’ve had, I
don’t have the emotional capacity to add another name to my ever-
expanding catalog of disastrous dates.
Would this even be classified as a date?
For all I know, he could use this dinner as a scheme to gather
information before blindsiding me with a personal injury lawsuit.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. Camila and Elliot would be upset if
they found out I went out on my own instead of grabbing a
celebratory drink together, and I have an interview tomorrow that I
can’t afford to mess up.
After Elliot sent me home, I opted for a five-hour nap instead of
preparing, which has put me behind schedule. My confidence is
already shaken, and not knowing the name of the company we were
acquired by only adds to my uncertainty. In hindsight, I knew I
should’ve asked before leaving the office, but the thought of rushing
back home and crawling into bed clouded my judgment.
Somehow, all the rationale seems to have evaporated from my
brain because my feet have a mind of their own, guiding me into the
restaurant.
It doesn’t stop there because even the sound of chatter and
clinking cutlery filling the air doesn’t stop me from asking the
middle-aged hostess for a table for two.
I follow her as she leads me over to a cozy booth in the back
corner that’s tucked away from the main dining area. The sensation
of a hand on the small of my back, followed by the aroma of amber
and woody cologne, serves as a wake-up call.
“You really don’t have to do this, you know? I don’t mind going
back home and making my own⁠—”
“I wanted to,” he cuts me off mid-sentence.
I pause. Maybe it’s his smooth-talking or the fact that I’m already
in too deep, but with a spontaneous choice, I slide into the booth
across from him. The hostess places menus in front of us and gives
us the usual spiel, saying a server would be right with us. All the
while, I’m just hoping that Elliot was serious when he said I’m a
shoo-in for the job.
As soon as she leaves, a heavy silence lingers between us. None
of the conversation starters that came to mind seem worthy enough
to blurt out loud, so I stay silent for a few minutes as the deafening
silence seems to stretch on forever.
“So, are you—” I begin to ask at the same time he blurts out his
own question, “What’s your⁠—”
“You first,” I insist.
“I was going to ask your name.”
I pause, feeling a rush of panic flood my thoughts because the
idea of giving a stranger my full legal name makes me uneasy—no
matter how hot he may be. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again, so if I
indulge in a little white lie, he’ll never even know.
“Camila,” I reply after a beat. “You can call me Camila.”
“Camila,” he echoes the name back to me. His voice has a
silkiness that sends shivers down my spine. It’s professional yet
sincere and almost as mesmerizing as his presence.
An enthusiastic young waiter approaches our table, his smile
reaching from ear to ear as he greets us. “Can I get you and your
wife started with something to drink?”
I go slack-jawed for all of a second before I forcefully snap my
lips shut so hard that my teeth clank together.
Oh, god. He thinks I’m this man's wife.
“I’ll take a glass of your oldest Lafite Rothschild, and my wife will
have…” He nods to me with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
There was something about the way the word “wife” rolled off his
tongue that sounded effortless. It’s almost like he’s called me by the
name a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Just thinking
about it makes my stomach do somersaults.
I’ve always pictured myself getting married, but I guess I always
imagined that the first time someone would call me their wife, it’d be
the man I'd marry.
“I'll have the same.” I give the young man a weak smile, and he
nods as we share our thanks, then weaves through the tables before
disappearing to the back.
“Your wife?” My eyes grow wide as the word slips out of my
mouth. I struggle to hide the humor that tinges on my tone.
“I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I thought I’d just go along
with it.”
I could’ve dropped it and left it at that, but at this point, if I don’t
find amusement in how absurd this day keeps getting, I’ll teeter on
the edge of tears. So, when the mischievous voice in my head urges
me to run the idea, I do it. Because I could really use a healthy dose
of fun right now.
I prop my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my fists, and
peer at him through narrowed eyes. “Remind me… where was our
wedding?”
“Sunset ceremony in Santorini. It was summer, and all of our
close friends and family were there. Big reception afterward. Don’t
you remember?”
“Must be a mild case of amnesia from our fall earlier.”
His seat creaks slightly as he leans back, and a mischievous
smirk spreads across his face as he fastens his eyes on me. “And
how are you feeling after that, by the way?”
“Amnesia aside, I’ll probably survive.” I crack a smile. “The doctor
suggested trying to jog my memory. Maybe you should start with
more details from our wedding?”
“Well, you wore white…”
“How virginal,” I joke with a straight face, and the two of us
share a knowing smile before I press further. “How long have we
been married?”
“Two years next month.”
“And are we happily married?”
His expression softens. “Extremely.”
“Interesting,” I hum. “Any kids?”
“Not yet.” One corner of his lips curls upward, and I swear my
ovaries explode. “Do you still want four kids?”
I accidentally choke on my saliva, and I accidentally choke on my
saliva, and a cough gets caught in my lungs. “Four?”
 “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just obeying the doctor’s
orders.” He holds his hands up to show a clear sign of his innocence.
He’s hot. He’s rich. He’s funny.
When are the red flags going to start waving?
“If we’re husband and wife, you should probably tell me your
name.”
“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask.” His voice is
confident and warm as he extends his hand over the table. “Call me
Harrison.”
“Last name?” As I slip my hand into his, noticing a spark of
electricity coursing through our intertwined fingers.
“I’ll tell you mine when you tell me yours.”
Without uttering a single word, our eyes meet, and the unspoken
connection between us becomes impossible to ignore.
I don’t want to be presumptuous in assuming that this attraction
will progress beyond this table, but on the off chance it does, it will
only be a one-time thing. If I’m going to focus on climbing the
corporate ladder at this new company, I need to eliminate any
outside distractions.
“No last names.”
A slow smile creeps over his face as he says, “Deal.” Then we
exchange a firm handshake, sealing our agreement.
 FOUR
BARRETT

I like her more thanI care to admit .

From what I can tell, she doesn’t know who I am. Which isn’t
much of a surprise considering how much effort I put into keeping
my name out of the press. Unlike my brother, whose name and
photo are splattered all over magazines, I prefer to keep my life as
private as possible.
Sure, a few of my headshots circulate from time to time when
company news is publicized, but you won’t find much about me on
the internet aside from that unless you go digging.
Not only that, but she didn’t flinch when I ordered a bottle of
wine equivalent to most people’s monthly salary. That can only mean
one of two things—she’s accustomed to an affluent lifestyle, or she’s
blissfully unaware. My bets are on the latter.
The restaurant has a romantic ambiance, with the melodic
clinking of cutlery and the gentle hum of conversations filling the air.
Lanterns overhead emit a soft, golden light that bathes the tables in
a warm glow. I can’t help but notice the couples sitting around us
exchange flirtatious glances and playful banter, which adds a touch
of tension to the atmosphere.
Our server arrives with the wine but is quickly interrupted by
another table, leaving us to wait to give our orders. I turn my
attention back to my date and narrow my eyes at her, leaning
forward with a hushed voice that only she can hear. “Do you plan on
telling me your real name, or do you want to stick with the alias
you’ve invented?”
She inhales sharply, her eyes darting down to the table, as a
deep blush spreads across her cheeks. She thought she got away
with a harmless lie, but the way she nervously stuttered her name
and shifted her gaze to avoid eye contact gave away her guilt. The
average person may not have recognized it, but the countless
meetings I’ve attended with shady business executives over the
years have honed my ability to detect subtle lies.
When my date finally meets my eyes, I’m the first to break the
silence. “Who’s Camila?”
“Roommate. Best Friend. Coworker.” She rattles off the list, her
dark bangs framing her face as she toys with the stem of her wine
glass.
“Funny. I have a colleague who shares that name,” I mention
casually, as if it’s just a minor coincidence. “What do you do for
work? If you don’t mind me asking.”
A soft groan escapes her lips like a weary sigh. “I guess I should
call her my former coworker now. My role was eliminated this
morning. It’s all a bit…” she trails off.
“Complicated?” I finish her sentence for her.
With a barely noticeable nod, her eyes flicker downward, fixated
on the table. “I have another job lined up, but I’m not sure that it
will work out.”
“Ahh, so you’re telling me the only reason you said yes to a date
with me was so that you could get a free meal?” I lean back in my
chair with a playful smile. Truthfully, I wouldn’t care, even if that was
the case. I’m thankful she accepted the invitation so I didn’t end up
in a scenario where I was left on the sidewalk with a bruised ego.
“There’s nothing humorous about being between jobs, and this is
not a date.” With a slight tilt of her head, she lets out a light-hearted
scoff. “If anything, it’s a pity dinner.”
I try to hide my sympathy for her, pretending like I’m not the one
feeling sorry for her. Despite everything going on, it’s nice to see
that she can laugh at a playful joke.
Part of me wants to offer her a job, but the increased number of
people coming over from the Solus acquisition means we have no
vacancies. If the girl interviewing for my executive assistant position
tomorrow turns out to be a disappointment, I could consider offering
it to her. Elliot seemed adamant that his former assistant was more
than capable, though, and I had full confidence in his judgment.
If I mention it to her, then she might get her hopes up, and I
don’t want to be the one to disappoint her.
“Well, now that I know this isn’t a date, let me be blunt in asking
whether you’re going to keep sidestepping my question? We already
settled on no last names, and I intend on sticking to our agreement,
but we can add first names to the list if you’d like to keep yours a
secret.”
A soft sigh escapes her lips, and a smile slowly spreads across
mine. “Lyla.”
As she stretches her hand across the table, I meet her halfway,
the warmth of her touch sending a comforting sensation through my
fingertips. “Barrett.”
“I thought your name was…”
I raise my shoulders before quickly opening my menu, using it as
a shield to hide my incoming laughter.
With a quick motion, she pulls down my menu, and when our
eyes connect, hers are widened in disbelief. “You’re a liar.”
“You’re one to talk, Camila,” I taunt. “All’s fair in love and war.”
Lyla’s laughter echoes in the air. She’s got a good laugh. The kind
that is so captivating it makes you want to blurt out every senseless
thought just to experience hearing it again.
We share a belly laugh; the sound of our mixed laughter echoes
through the air, making heads turn at the nearby tables. We receive
tight-lipped smiles from a few people, which only seems to make us
laugh harder.
The casual observer would never suspect that we had just
bumped into each other on the street half an hour ago. The ease of
our conversation and comfortable dispositions masked any trace that
we were any different from the other couples here on dates.
 I take a moment to scan the restaurant, hoping to catch sight of
our waiter. We haven’t looked at our menus yet, but the hunger is
gradually settling in. When my search comes up short, I redirect my
attention to Lyla, who appears lost in thought as she stares down at
the table.
“All jokes aside, life must be stressful for you right now, huh?”
“They say a little stress can be good for you.”
“A little, sure,” I argue, my eyes roaming over her face to detect
any subtle shifts in expression. “But it seems like you have a lot
more than a little.”
She lets out a huffed laugh and shakes her head.
“Are you doing anything to manage your stress?” I ask, partly out
of curiosity and partly to gain some insight for myself.
Ever since becoming CEO, I’ve been overwhelmed by stress, and
I’ve done a shit job at managing it. I’m hoping that bringing on a
new executive assistant will allow me to delegate tasks and help me
better manage my time. It’s clear that the girl working for Elliot is a
force to be reckoned with, considering the impressive growth of
Solus in recent years. Without the meticulous organization and
optimization of Elliot’s work life, that kind of success wouldn’t have
been possible.
“Hmm, not really.” Lyla sinks back into her seat, observing the
rhythmic motion of her wine as she swirls her glass. “However, I did
read a magazine article once that said a one-night stand can be like
a pressure valve release. It makes all the built-up stress and tension
just… dissipate.”
I chose the worst moment to take a sip of wine because now it’s
searing my throat and threatening to linger into my lungs. “Are you
suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
I didn’t have any expectations when I invited Lyla to join me for
dinner or expect anything would progress beyond that.
From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she was beautiful
and felt an instant draw toward her. I also can’t deny that I’ve been
flirting with her, but even so, I never assume that asking a woman
out on a date guarantees any kind of sexual encounter.
 If all I craved was sex, it would be simple to find without the
need to fabricate anything. I didn’t see the point in leading someone
on, giving them false hope, leading them to believe it could become
something more. That’s cruel.
When Lyla said she didn’t want to share her last name, I felt a
wave of relief wash over me. I might try to keep myself out of the
tabloids as much as possible, but one simple Google search of my
name would unveil the true extent of my family’s wealth.
It’s astonishing how people’s perception of you can change once
they discover your billionaire pedigree. The way they treat you
speaks volumes about their true nature. Most resort to schmoozing
and sucking up as a means to remain on your good side. There are
moments when I can almost taste the desperation in the air,
particularly from women who think they have a shot at becoming
Mrs. Barrett Banks.
It’s refreshing to meet someone who is completely unaware of
my identity or my family background and has no desire to pry about
it. On the other hand, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of
disappointment that she wanted to keep her last name to herself.
She didn’t want me looking her up after this, which led me to believe
that she didn’t see our connection progressing.
“Unless I’ve been imagining things?” She pauses, the weight of
her words hanging in the air as she waves her hand between the
two of us.
“Flirting.”
“Yes,” she confirms with a nod. “And right now, I’m not looking
for anything serious.”
“Neither am I.”
“Not to mention, we wouldn’t be compatible in real life because,
well, I’m unemployed, and you’re obviously…” She gestures at my
suit.
“Far from it?” I taunt with a smirk, adding an air of amusement
to my words.
As she rolls her eyes at me, I can’t help but imagine how that
exact expression would look if she were naked in my bed instead.
 It’s clear that she’s subtly hinting at having a one-night stand
without explicitly stating it, and it’s tempting. The only thing that
would make it more attractive would be hearing the words come
from her pretty pink lips, boldly and without hesitation.
Lyla leans forward, almost as if she could read my thoughts, and
places her elbows on the table. Our eyes meet, and I can sense the
determination in her stare. “Look. We don’t know each other’s last
names. We know nothing about each other’s jobs. Or really about
each other in general.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she lifts a hand to silence me.
“One night. No expectation. No stress. No exchanging phone
numbers. No feelings to deal with tomorrow.”
Her eyes sweep across my face, searching for any sign of
emotion, while I attempt to conceal the surge of desire coursing
through my veins with a poker face.
“We’d just be two strangers enjoying each other’s company for
one night.”
A moment of charged silence hangs between us. My mind raced,
considering the proposal with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. Nearly
an hour ago, I was thinking about how envious I was of Harrison’s
carefree lifestyle, and now the opportunity to take part is sitting right
in front of me.
The temptation is becoming more and more alluring, like a siren’s
song.
A slow smile creeps over her lips, and I nearly throw in my cards
right then. “Plus, since we’re apparently married, I think it’s only
right that we consummate our marriage.”
“We already consummated our marriage in Santorini after the
wedding. How could you forget?”
“Amnesia. Can’t remember it, so it doesn’t count.”
I shouldn’t do this, but she’s making it hard to resist.
Tomorrow’s presentation is a monumental moment in my
professional life. I should do the responsible thing and head home,
ensuring I get a restful night’s sleep so I can wake up refreshed
tomorrow.
 I could almost picture the consequences that would follow if I
didn’t go through with it, though. Countless nights at the office
would be filled with restless thoughts, the smell of stale coffee
lingering in the air, and questioning what would have happened if I’d
said yes.
As I stare at the enormous hazel eyes holding my gaze with an
equal level of desire, all the nagging thoughts warning against it
vanish from my mind.
“Say it, Lyla. I want to hear you say the words.”
“Have a one-night stand with me.”
There was no hesitation in her voice. No hint of doubt.
With unwavering eye contact, I reach into my pocket and retrieve
my wallet, swiftly emptying all the cash I possess and placing it on
the table.
Our waiter seemed to have vanished into thin air, and the
restaurant was devoid of any sign of other staff members.
Lyla’s breath catches softly as she watches me. “Is it safe to carry
around that much cash?”
The thought crosses my mind to admit that I’ve never known
anything different, but I quickly silence the impulse. “Let’s go.”
We shuffle out of our seats, and as we weave our way through
the tables, my hand instinctively rests on the small of her back.
Reid’s driver has been waiting outside, patiently idling in the car.
While walking into the restaurant, I quickly texted my friend to
cancel our celebratory drink, as well as Reid’s driver, asking if he’d
come and wait outside until we were done. Reid is reclusive by
nature and hardly leaves his apartment, so it isn’t like he would need
Richard tonight.
The scent of leather fills the air as I open the door of the
blacked-out SUV, inviting Lyla to shuffle in. “Hi, Richard. How’s it
going?”
“Evening, sir.”
“Whose car is this?” Lyla asks with a hushed whisper that’s barely
audible as I silently slide in behind her.
“My brother’s.”
 “Your brother is rich enough to have a chauffeur that comes on
such short notice?” Her mouth drops open as she speaks.
I hear Richard’s subtle chuckle escape quietly from the front seat,
but all I can focus on is Lyla’s parted mouth and what it’s going to
look like with my dick inside it.
“Heading to your home on East 88th, sir?”
I give Richard a clipped nod through the rearview mirror as he
rolls up the partition. With a gentle tug, Lyla moves to my lap, her
legs on either side of me. The warmth of her body against mine
makes my pants grow tight.
“That’s only a couple of blocks away. We could’ve just walked.”
“If we walked, we wouldn’t have been able to do this.”
I grip her ass, pulling her close, tracing the outline of her lips
with my own. A soft moan spills from her lips, and I immediately
close the distance, taking control of the kiss by cradling the back of
her head with my other hand. The instant our lips collide, a
whirlwind of desire engulfs me, leaving me desperate for another
kiss.
This might just be for one night, but I have a bad feeling that the
soft touch of her lips against mine will replay in my mind for years to
come.
 FIVE
LYLA

O ur kisses started softly , then grew more passionate as we rode

through the dimly lit streets. Now we’re stumbling up the steps of
his townhouse, unable to break our lips apart long enough for him to
unlock the front door.
The second we step inside, I run my fingers over the smooth
texture of his suit jacket as I peeled it off. There’s an equal level of
urgency in his touch as he tangles his hands in my hair.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Or why I propositioned a
random stranger, of all people, to have a one-night stand. Deep
down, I know that my actions are fueled by a deep-rooted need to
take control of something, anything, in my life. A flight attendant
friend once told me that passengers often act out during flights as a
way to regain a sense of control in a situation where they feel
powerless. That’s exactly what I’m doing right now. I’m rebelling,
doing something out of character, as a way to convince myself that I
am still the one in charge of some aspects of my life. It helps that
this hook-up doubles as a welcome distraction from tomorrow’s
interview.
A smart person would go back home, gather their thoughts, then
meticulously prepare for the interview. But I never claimed to be the
sharpest tool in the shed, especially when wine and handsome men
are involved. I’m just a girl. I can’t help it.
Barrett breaks our kiss, and the sound of his voice pulls me from
my thoughts. “Do you want me to make you dinner before or after I
make you come?”
Dinner? He wants to make me dinner?
I thought the dinner portion of our evening was already over.
Granted, we didn’t eat anything, but it wasn’t like I was staying
overnight. Oh God, does he think I’m planning on spending the night
here?
I originally planned to stay here for an hour, maybe two at most,
because there’s no way I can risk being late for work again
tomorrow morning. Plus, I don’t want to make this situation more
confusing than it needs to be. We agreed that there would be no
feelings and no contact afterward. Sleeping over and curling up in
bed next to him will only complicate things. The last thing I want
right now is more chaos added to my plate.
“After,” I moan breathlessly against his lips.
We fumble our way through the entry, clumsily bumping into a
side table and nearly toppling a lamp in the process. With his hands
firmly clasped around my waist, he leads me into another room. Our
bodies are pressed tightly against each other, and a comforting heat
builds between us. His large hands are commanding as they glide to
my backside, swiftly lifting my dress over my ass before caressing
my bare skin. Barrett tightens his grip on me, silently signaling for
me to stop my backward steps once we enter the living room.
I expect him to pull away, but his lips linger on mine. He changes
the pace so our kiss is no longer frantic and sloppy. Instead, the
intensity of it deepens with each passing second. He slowly drags his
hands back up my body until he is cupping my face. The softness of
his touch sends a shiver down my spine.
When he finally pulls away, I find myself already craving the taste
of mint and red wine to return to my lips. The house is still. The only
sounds are the hum of the refrigerator and our breaths
intermingling. Barrett’s soft lips gently graze against mine,
accompanied by the subtle curve of his smile. A puddle of heat
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “A trusty servant’s portrait would you see,
This figure well survey, whoe’er you be;
The porker’s snout not nice in diet shows;
The padlock shut, no secret he’ll disclose.
Patient, to angry lords the ass gives ear;
Swiftness on errand the stag’s feet declare;
Laden his left hand, apt to labour saith;
The coat, his neatness; the open hand, his faith:
Girt with his sword, his shield upon his arm,
Himself and master he’ll protect from harm.”

Here may generally be seen a row of huge leather jugs about two
feet high, (“Jacks,”) made of hippopotamus hide, and peculiar to
Winchester, I believe; at any rate, a relative of mine who lived in one
of the midland counties purchased a pair here every year, and he
used to give me the commission, which I had the greatest pleasure
in executing, as he always sent me a five-pound note to pay for them
with, and could never be induced to take any change.
The Kitchen is a spacious apartment with a vaulted roof,
occupying the entire height of the building on the west side of the
quadrangle, and at least half its length; here we might see a few
Fags endeavouring to coax Jem Sims, John Coward, Bill Bright, or
mother Mariner, (the cooks,) for an extra supply of mashed potatoes,
till Kitchen is cleared by the exasperated Manciple, who has just
detected a delinquent in the act of secreting under his gown an
armful of the small faggots used for lighting the kitchen fires, (called
“Bill Brighters,”) an opportunity for purloining which was never
allowed to slip by a Junior of a properly regulated mind.
It may be asked how the Fags managed to dine at all, and it would
be difficult to answer; but somehow or other we did manage to eat at
odd times, and plenty too, I suppose; at any rate we were always in
excellent condition; there was ample food supplied by College, the
opportunity of eating it only failed. The entire system is now
completely changed; the boys dine at one o’clock, their dinner is as
plentiful as ever, and properly served, with good cookery, plates, and
knives and forks, and no Fagging whatever is allowed, the Choristers
waiting, and a Master being present.
 CHAPTER VII.
THE JUNIOR IN CHAPEL.

The Late Warden—The Antechapel—The Crimean Memorial

—The New Tower—Hours of Service—The Oath—
Cloisters.

Let us tread more gently as we pass through the gates of the

beautiful chapel. Here at any rate our Junior finds some rest and
quiet, and is for a period beyond the reach of the weary call of
“Junior, Junior.” I feel that it is a subject that cannot worthily be
treated of by my trivial pen. The most indifferent stranger cannot
enter its sacred precincts without being struck by the air of peaceful
solemnity that pervades it throughout; how much more, then, must
he be affected who revisits, for the first time after many years, the
spot where as a boy he so often listened to the swelling tones of the
organ, or eloquent words of wisdom—often, alas! but too little
heeded! What crowds of reflections are called forth as he gazes on
the scene! How many resolutions have here been formed, and how
have they been kept? Can he flatter himself that he is really more
advanced on the narrow path than when he sat on those benches
years and years ago?
I will not attempt to describe the edifice. Let the reader imagine a
noble choir lighted with large windows of rich painted glass, through
which the slanting rays of the sun throw a many-coloured glow over
the wainscot and stalls of polished oak. How well I know every
feature of those quaint figures of prophets and apostles; and as I sit
in my stall and see the boys trooping in, it is difficult to realise that I
am no longer one of them.
But time has made many changes in the upper ranks; the clear
ring of the melodious tones of the accomplished Head-master’s
voice may still be heard, but he alone remains. In vain we look for
the stalwart form and genial countenance of the late beloved
Warden, Barter, who, having filled his responsible office full thirty
years, has gone to his rest. In the long list of his predecessors there
has been none who was more universally beloved in life, and whose
death has been more unfeignedly regretted.
On our way from Chapel we pass through Antechapel, now
somewhat curtailed in its dimensions, the screen which separates it
from Chapel having been moved in order to give room for the
increased number of boys. The beautiful font, presented by the
Head-master, and some mural tablets, (which formerly stood
beneath the Tower,) have been removed to a small side chapel, the
entrance to which is under the organ; one of these, erected to the
memory of a young and lovely wife by her sorrowing husband, bears
the following beautiful inscription:—
“I nimium dilecta, vocat Deus, I bona nostræ”
“Pars animæ, mærens altera disce sequi.”

In the vestibule leading to Cloisters, immediately opposite to the

door of Antechapel, is the memorial erected by Wykehamists in
memory of their brethren who fell in the Crimean war; it is worthy of
its object, being beautifully executed in variegated marble. I have
stood by their graves in the dreary Russian Chersonese, yet it
seems but yesterday that I heard some of them answering their
names at this very door.
THE CRIMEAN MEMORIAL.
 INSCRIPTION ON THE CRIMEAN MEMORIAL.

The beautiful Tower attached to the Chapel had long been in

rather a dilapidated condition, owing to its having been built on a
very insecure foundation; it had inclined considerably to one side, a
great crack had appeared on the contiguous wall of Chapel, which
indeed it threatened to drag down, and it was considered unsafe to
ring the bells. For these reasons the authorities determined to pull it
down and rebuild it, stone for stone, with the old materials; this was
commenced in 1860, and the work is now fully completed. It is called
the “Tower of the Two Wardens,” in memory of the late Dr Williams,
who was (many years Head-master of Winchester, and afterwards)
Warden of New College, Oxford, and of Mr Barter, the late Warden of
Winchester; while the work of reconstruction was going on, the
opportunity was seized of enlarging the chapel by taking in part of
the Antechapel, as described in a previous page. If the school
continues to increase as it has done lately, this enlargement must, I
think, be carried on further, and the whole of Antechapel be added to
the main aisle. Beneath the Tower, on the southern side of the
Antechapel, is the following inscription:—
 In Memoriam,
DAVID WILLIAMS, I.C.D.,
hujus collegii
xiv. annos hostiarii: xii. informatoris
coll. b.m. winton in oxon
xx. annos custodis,
viri consilio dignitate doctrinâ,
humanitate munificentia,
candore morum, et integritate vitæ,
si quis alius insignis.
In Memoriam,
ROBERT SPECKOTT BARTER,
I.C.B.,
hujus collegii
xxix. annos custodis,
viri
ob benevolentiam cordis et largitatem
constantiam animi et fidem,
suavitatem liberalitatem pietatem,
nemini non dilectum.
Utriusque geminorum horum Collegiorum decoris tutelæ columnæ
Utriusque intra unius anni spatium ad immortalia avocati
Hanc Turrim vetustate diu labantem denuo exædificandam, ab nomine
Duorum Custodum
Perpetuo appellandum censuerunt Wiccamici sui A.S. MDCCCLXIII.
posterorum causa
Id scilicet in animis habentes ut in ipsa acerbissimi desiderii
recordatione manifestum facerent
Non in quibuslibet viris magnis nec in brevem aliquam hominum
ætatem
Sed in omne tempus et in perpetua serie virorum ad horum
exemplar
Sub his penetralibus ad omnia bona fortia fidelia enutriendorum

stare rem wiccamicam.

 The hours of worship (now, I believe, somewhat altered) used to
be as follows:—At six a.m. in summer, at a quarter before seven in
winter, at eight and at half-past ten a.m., and at five p.m., on
Sundays,[6] Saints’-days, and Founder’s Anniversaries. On Fridays
at eleven a.m., and on Saturdays at five p.m. the boys might be seen
trooping across the quadrangle on their way to Chapel—on Sundays
and on Saints’-days clad in white surplices. Besides this, every
evening at nine prayers used to be read by the junior Præfect in
Antechapel, who stood on the top of the steps leading up to one of
the curtained and barred pews reserved for ladies, one of which was
placed on each side of Antechapel; the fair occupants, not being
allowed to enter the body of the chapel, were obliged to content
themselves with looking and listening through the grating.
Once a year all the boys who had passed the age of fifteen, (and
who had not previously gone through the same ceremony,) were
marshalled into Chapel, and, under the inspection of “Semper
Testis,” (the legal aide-de-camp of the College authorities,) went
through the form of taking an oath. I have no distinct recollection of
the form of the proceeding, (it is now abolished,) but I think the
official above-mentioned read out a Latin document, and we were
supposed to say Amen. I believe the gist of it was that we were to
defend and befriend the college to the best of our ability, and never
tell anybody what went on within its walls. I am sure I should require
no compulsion to carry out the former obligation, should the occasion
occur, and I had any possible means of fulfilling my duty, and if I
have done no more harm in writing this little sketch of our
proceedings at Winchester than infringing the latter, my conscience
will not be much troubled. Although the making a number of
thoughtless boys go through a ceremony of this kind may seem
objectionable, yet it is not the part of a Wykehamist to exclaim
against it, as, according to well authenticated tradition, Cromwell
would have destroyed the College, had he not yielded to the urgent
representations of one of his officers, who was a Wykehamist, and,
mindful of his oath, succeeded in saving the noble establishment
from its impending fate.
 I must not take leave of Chapel without noticing the beautiful
Cloisters, with a little gem of a chapel standing in the middle,
surrounded by smooth green turf. It is now used as the Fellows’
library. I think it a pity that the Cloisters are so little seen, as they are
very beautiful. The Fellows, in general, do not reside at Winchester,
and I do not imagine that those who do spend any very great part of
their time in such absorbing study that the movements of the
Præfects in Cloisters on week days, and of the others on Sundays,
would disturb them very much; to such an extent I think the boys
might be admitted without danger of their injuring the building or the
tablets on the walls. At present the extreme stillness of the place is
somewhat overpowering.
 CHAPTER VIII.
THE JUNIOR IN SCHOOL.

Description of School—Scobs—Officers—Division of Classes

—Prizes and Medals—Long and Short Half—Easter Time
—Commoners’ Speaking—Cloisters—Latin Composition
—Flogging—Scraping and Shirking Out—Latin Verses—
Pealing.

On descending Hall stairs, and turning sharp to the right through

Seventh Chamber passage, we enter School Court. The School is a
spacious edifice, (built in 1687,) ninety feet long, and thirty-six broad;
it may be a handsome building by itself, but, like the adjacent
Commoners, is not favourably contrasted with the venerable Gothic
buildings of the College, of which they form part. In the south-west
corner of School is the Throne of the Head, and, in the south-east,
that of the Second Master; opposite to each are seats for the Under-
Masters.
At each end of School are three tiers of benches rising gradually
one above the other,—that on the ground being called “Senior Row,”
and the others “Middle” and “Junior Row” respectively. On these the
classes sit when “up at books,”—i.e., when repeating lessons,—four
parallel double ranges of solid oak benches, intersected, at intervals
of about four feet, by others, and firmly fixed to the floor, run from
end to end of the room, except where broken by Commoners’ tables,
(two tables, at which there is room for about thirty Commoners; the
rest get places where they can,) by the fireplace, and the passage
from it to the door; between these rows of benches are three broad
passages down School. On every angle of these intersecting forms
is placed a large oak box, with a double lid. Every College boy, and
some Commoner Præfects, had one of these; and some of the
Senior Præfects have four, others three, and the rest two. One of the
lids of these boxes was generally kept up during School-time to
ensure a certain degree of privacy to the occupant, the lower lid
doing duty as a table; inside were kept the books and other
belongings of the proprietor. They were called “Scobs,”—i.e., box
phonetically spelt backwards.
High up on the wall, at the west end of the School, is a large
tablet, with a mitre, crosier, sword, inkstand, and rod painted on it,
with the words—
“Aut disce, aut discede, manet sors tertia cædi;”
which has been freely rendered—
“Work, walk, or be whopped.”
At the opposite end of School is another large tablet, on which is
painted the
“Tabula legum Pædagogicarum,”
which gives the rules to be observed by the boys in Chapel, School,
Hall, Quadrangle, Chambers, On Hills, and in All Places and Times.
 School hours, in the times I write of, were from eight to nine a.m.,
(Morning School,) from ten to twelve, (Middle School,) and from two
till six p.m., (Evening School;) at the close of which prayers were
read by the Præfect of School.
On “Remedies,” (a kind of whole holiday,) we also went into
School in the morning and afternoon for an hour or two without
masters; this was called Books Chambers; and on Sundays, from
four till a quarter to five. In “Cloister Time,” (v.i.,) Præfects, and
senior part of the Fifth, went into School on Sundays from seven to
eight, which period was called “Grotius Time.”
Order was kept during School hours by the Bible Clerk and
Ostiarius, two of the Præfects, who held these offices in rotation,—
the former lasting for a week, the latter for one day only. They
paraded School armed with sticks, and brought up to the Head and
Second Masters (who alone had the power of flogging) the names of
the delinquents which had been “ordered” for punishment; the
names of the more heinous offenders being confided to the Bible
Clerk, the others to the Ostiarius. Just before School-time, a boy was
always stationed to watch the arrival of the Master, of which he had
to give notice by emitting a loud “Hiss,” upon which there was a
general rush up to books; the previous uproar dwindled to a calm,
and work began.
The School was divided into three classes, or “Books,” as they
were called. Of these the Præfects formed one, “Sixth Book:” “Fifth
Book” was subdivided into three parts, called respectively “Senior,
Middle, and Junior part of the Fifth;” in speaking of them, the words
“of the Fifth” were generally omitted. The rest of the boys made up
“Fourth Book;” their instruction, however, was not carried on in
School, but in another building adjoining, where the Præfects had a
library, and in which the mathematics were taught. The Præfects and
senior part did not change places from day to day, but only at the
final examination in Election-week. In the other parts, the relative
positions of the boys continually fluctuated, and their numbers were
marked every day, at the beginning of Middle School, in a book
called the “Classicus (or Cuse) Paper:” the individual who had the
greatest number by the end of the half year “got the books,” (i.e.,
gained a prize.) These books were supposed to be given by the late
Duke of Buckingham; now, I believe, they are really given by Lord
Saye and Sele. The boy who had the lowest score at the end of any
week, held the office of “Classicus” for the week following,—his
duties being always to inform the other boys what was the particular
lesson for the day, and what was the subject for the next vulgus
verse or prose task. There were two gold medals for Composition,—
for Latin verse and English prose, and for English verse and Latin
prose, on alternate years; and two silver for Elocution, annually
competed for; besides prizes given by Maltby, Bishop of Durham, for
Greek verse, Latin verse, and Inferiors’ speaking; Sir William
Heathcote, of Hursley, for Scholarship; and Mr Duncan, for
Mathematics.
The School year was divided into two unequal parts. One, called
“Short Half,” commenced about the beginning of September, and
lasted till about the middle of December; the other, “Long Half,” from
the beginning of February till the middle of July. The six weeks after
Easter (“Easter-Time”) were devoted to the study of Greek Grammar,
and once in each of these weeks there was competition in speaking,
the best speakers being selected to display their oratorical powers
on the final day, which was called “Commoners’ Speaking.” During
the remaining weeks of Long Half, (“Cloister Time,”) Sixth Book and
Senior part went up to books together; when thus combined, they
were called “Pulpiteers.” Middle and Junior part were merged
together in the same way—those in Junior part having the
opportunity of rising into Middle part, and vice versâ. This
combination was called “Cloisters,” and this period of the year
“Cloister Time;” the distinguished post of “Cloister Classicus” was, I
can tell from long experience, by no means a sinecure.
Efficiency in Latin composition, especially verse, and learning lines
by heart, were (unfortunately for me) the surest means of rising in
the School. Four days a week we had to write a short copy of verses
of from four to six lines on a set subject; this was called a “Vulgus,”
and was always written on half a quarter of a sheet of foolscap, (“a
Vessel of Paper.”) Once a week, one of from ten to twenty, a “Verse
Task,” (written on a quarter of foolscap;) and, once a week, also a
“Prose Task.” We were always excused (“had Remission from”)
Vulgus when the next day was a Saint’s-day; and if one fell on a
Wednesday or Friday, our verse or prose task for the day previous
was remitted. Præfects and Senior part also were encouraged to
write, once or twice in the half-year, a copy of verses on any subject
selected by themselves, which was called a “Voluntary.” From time to
time, also, they had to write Latin criticisms on Greek plays, and the
other boys to write an analysis of some historical work; these
productions were called “Gatherings,” (or “Gags.”) In the last week
but one of “Long Half,” all the boys, except those in Sixth Book and
Senior part, had to say a number of lines; this was called ”Standing-
up Week,” concerning which and “Election Week,” (the last week of
the same half,) I will treat hereafter.
Flogging was not excessively frequent, and by no means severe.
The rod consisted of a wooden handle about two feet and a half
long, with four grooves at one end, into which were inserted four
apple twigs; these branched off from the handle at so considerable
an angle, that not more than one could touch the space of skin
exposed,—about a hand’s-breadth of the small of the back, the
waistcoat of the victim being raised to the necessary height. To
obviate this to a certain extent, the “Rod-maker”—one of the Juniors
charged with the care of these implements—had to twist them
together so as to form one combined stick; generally, however, they
separated after the second cut. I am told that these twigs are now
cut so as to lie in a straight line with the rod, without any angle,
which is a very disadvantageous change for the floggee. The
ordinary punishment consisted of four cuts, and was called “a
Scrubbing.” The individual who was to be punished was told “to
order his name,” which he did by going to the Ostiarius, and
requesting him to do so; that officer accordingly, at the end of School
time, would take his name to the Master, who would then call it out,
and the victim had to kneel down at Senior row, while two Juniors
laid bare the regulation space of his back. The first time a boy’s
name was ordered, the punishment was remitted on his pleading
“Primum tempus.” For a more serious breach of duty, a flogging of
six cuts (a “Bibler”) was administered, in which case the culprit had
to “order his name to the Bible Clerk,” and that individual, with the
help of Ostiarius, performed the office of Jack Ketch. If a boy was
detected in a lie, or any very disgraceful proceeding,—a rare
occurrence, I am happy to say,—he had to stand up in the centre of
Junior row during the whole of the School time, immediately
preceding the infliction of the flogging; this pillory process was called
a “Bibler under the nail.” I have also heard, that for a very heinous
offence a boy might be punished in Sixth Chamber, in which case
the number of stripes was not limited; but I never knew an instance
of this.
On one first of April, an impertinent boy undertook to make an
April fool of the Doctor, and accordingly marched boldly up to his
throne, and told him that he had torn his gown; and, on the rent not
being found visible to the naked eye, suggested that it was the 1st of
April; upon which he was told to order his name to the Bible Clerk.
When Middle School was over, the Doctor put on his trencher cap,
and called out, “Pincher, Bible Clerk, and Ostiarius!” (which meant
that Pincher was to advance to receive his deserts, and the others to
assist as masters of the ceremonies.) At the moment that the culprit
was expecting to feel the sting of the apple-twigs across his
backbone, the Doctor threw down the rods, saying, “Who is the fool
now?” and was walking out of School, when the undaunted Pincher
jumped up, and ejaculated, “It’s past twelve, Sir!”
Ordinary offences of a trifling character, such as being late for
Chapel, or “Shirking Hills,” (v.i.,) were punished by the infliction of an
imposition,—generally thirty lines of Virgil, English and Latin. I think I
must have written out the Æneids of Virgil and Odes of Horace half-
a-dozen times during my sojourn at Winchester. Indeed, being
naturally of a prudent disposition, whenever I had nothing particular
to do, I used to write out a few lines, and thus gradually became
possessed of a small capital of a thousand lines or so, on which I
could draw at any pressing emergency.
If a boy had occasion to speak to a Master, and while he was up at
books, the correct thing was to keep his gown buttoned at the top;
and if he wished to go out of School, he wrote his name on a slip of
paper, (or “Roll,”) with the following sentence:—“Ostiarii veniâ
potitus, tuam pariter exeundi petit;” he then asked leave of the
Ostiarius to “put up his roll,” which being granted, he deposited it on
the Master’s desk, and made his exit. When a Præfect wanted to go
out, he went to a corner Scob near the door, and “scraped” with his
feet until he attracted the Master’s attention, and obtained a nod of
consent. At one particular time of the year, (I think it was during
Saturday evening School in Easter week,) two Commoners and one
College Inferior might collectively scrape out together. Only about
half-a-dozen boys were allowed to be out at one time; but I have
known some steal out on the sly, without any preliminary formality.
On a fine summer afternoon, the Doctor might accidentally cast his
eye over School, and observing that it had rather a deserted
expression, would send out the Bible Clerk and Ostiarius to make a
foray in Meads, who would presently return with a flock of truants; it
being impossible to flog such a number, it was usual to make them
“cut in a book,”[7] to settle which half-a-dozen should be
distinguished in this manner.

SCHOOL.

The educational system at Winchester is, I believe, most excellent,

and turns out a very superior article in many cases. I am sorry that I
cannot point to myself as a brilliant example. When I was in Junior
part, I was under a Master who used to curb my ascending energies