He was actually quite intimidating.

However, throughout the entire visit, business-like though he was, Quinn took special care and time to define concepts and acronyms I may not understand; describe identified weaknesses in the venue’s security; and provide context and background to purchases, personnel, and any topic which he felt related specifically to my management of the account.

By the time 5:30PM rolled around my brain felt full and my stomach was growling. We were just finishing an inspection of the site’s media-server facility; Jamal, the Guard Security liaison, led us down a narrow, low ceilinged hallway to the elevator and glanced at his cell phone.

“The gates will be opening for tonight’s concert in one hour so now is the time to eat if you’re hungry. The first act is onstage at 7:10.”

I looked imploringly from Jamal to Quinn; aside from being ravenously hungry and suffering from crippling stiletto related foot pain, I had plans with Steven and Jon at seven.

“Um, are we staying for the concert?”

Quinn nodded, his expression of impassive detachment firmly intact.

This was news to me. I chewed on my top lip during the silent ride on the elevator and debated what to do next. I was with Quinn and I didn’t particularly mind that I’d be stuck with him for several more hours, even if it would be Mr. Sullivan Quinn instead of shirtless, smiley, teasing Quinn.

The elevator reached our floor, the top floor, and Quinn placed his hand on the base of my spine to guide me from the lift. He’d been doing this all day and I was still getting the warm fuzzies each time. I was so preoccupied with Quinn’s hand I didn’t notice where we were until Jamal opened the door to a private box and motioned me inside.

“Here- we have dinner set out. I’ll be back in an hour to take you through the gate procedures and then I’ll show you the new crowd control measures we’ve instituted.” Jamal didn’t enter the room and was gone before I could turn and thank him or say goodbye.

I took three steps into the impressive box and stopped, my eyes moving over the spacious apartment with unbridled wonder. It was very large. There was a full kitchen with a bar, several high-top circular tables and stools as wells as five rows of stadium leather seats facing a large picture window overlooking the stage.

A small buffet of fruit, green salad, hot dogs, hamburgers, condiments, barbeque potato chips, and canned soda was placed on the bar; this was not fancy food by any stretch of the imagination but two of my favorites happened to be represented: hot dogs and barbeque potato chips.

Quinn crossed to the steps leading down to the picture window and scanned the floor of the arena beyond.

I glanced at my watch and fiddled with the strap. I was having what my sister Jem called a champagne problem: a champagne problem is when something good happens but it interferes with something else, usually planned, which is either very important or also good. I wasn’t really sure what to do.

Quinn must’ve noticed my disquiet because he asked, “Are you hungry?”

I nodded, eyed the food, my stomach rumbled but I didn’t move.

“Is the food ok? I can order something else.”

“It’s just-” I twisted my mouth to the side. “It’s just that I actually have dinner plans for tonight.”

“With who?”

“With Steven from work and my friend Jon.”

“Jon.” Quinn repeated the name and shifted on his feet; his eyes moving between mine, “Isn’t that the name of your ex?”

I nodded, “Yes, it’s the same person. The three of us were supposed to go out to lunch but instead we moved it to dinner because I thought I’d miss lunch due to the training today and so-” I sighed, assuming the aloofness in his expression meant I was boring him, “Sorry, I’m sorry. You probably don’t care about any of this. Anyway, I just need to call them and cancel for tonight.”

Quinn watched me for a moment; as usual his features seemed to be carefully expressionless. Then he said, “Are you and Jon back together?”

“Oh, no. We’re just friends now. But Steven wanted to see what an amiable break-up looked like so we were all going to get together for sustenance.”

“You still see this guy? Jon?”

“Mm-hm.”

“All the time?”

I unexpectedly felt like I was being interrogated. “No, not all the time. Just two or three times a week.”

Quinn’s eyebrows shot up, “Are you sure you’re not still dating this guy?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I think I would know if I were ha**ng s*x with someone.” I bit my lip as soon as the words were out of my mouth; feeling very abruptly mortified, a remarkable blush spread its warm tentacles up my neck and behind my ears. I fiddled with the zipper of the portfolio.

We stood silently for several moments and I had to continue biting my lip to stem the tide of random sex-factoids which threatened to spill forth. I was annoyed by his questioning and even more annoyed with myself for feeling the need to answer.

I didn’t like that he knew every pithy detail about my lack of a love life but I knew absolutely nothing about him, whether he was seeing someone or had a girlfriend or a fiancé… or a wife.

Without really meaning to I glanced at his left hand; his third finger was bare. When I spoke I was surprised by the sound of my voice, “You’re not married.”

“Was that a question?”

I lifted my chin and met his gaze, hoping if I appeared confident then he wouldn’t notice my unending mantle of awkwardness, “No… Yes.”

“No. I’m not married.”

His response further aggravated me. I already knew he wasn’t married. When he didn’t continue I pressed him, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What about you?” Either my empty stomach or annoyance augmented my confidence.

“What about me?”

“Are you ha**ng s*x with anyone?”

His mouth fell open in obvious shock and he actually stuttered, “Wh- what- why do you want to know?”

“Well, you now know who I’m not ha**ng s*x with. I think it’s only fair.”

He narrowed his eyes in a very hawk-like manner before answering, “I’m not dating anyone.”

I wrinkled my nose at him, “Well, that’s not an answer. I didn’t ask you if you were dating anyone, I asked you if you were ha**ng s*x with anyone.”

“Not at this moment.”

I pursed my lips and tried my very best to give him a withering glare. He responded by mirroring me, the only difference was that his stare really was withering and would have been quite effective if he hadn’t also been suppressing a smile.

It wasn’t my finest moment but I rolled my eyes and actually huffed, “Fine, don’t answer. I don’t even know why I asked.”

“No. No I am not ha**ng s*x with anyone.”

“Oh.” I shrugged non-committedly but for some reason his response filled me with, literally, glee. It was like a unicorn appeared beneath a double rainbow and started tap dancing. Despite my best efforts to maintain a neutral expression I could feel my mouth curve into a mutinous grin.

Quinn tilted his head to the side as though studying me, my reaction to his statement. Then he said, “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Yes, how many people have you had sex with?”

It was my turn: my turn to be shocked.

My jaw dropped but no sound came out for several seconds; my mind stopped and at one point I was uncertain if I’d heard him correctly. When I finally spoke my voice sounded like a squeak, “Could you repeat the question?”

He laughed and took a step closer to me, “You heard me the first time.”

“That’s not any of your business.” I took a step back.

“Oh no, you asked me-”

“You asked me first-”

He crossed his arms over his chest, “No, I didn’t. You volunteered.”

“You asked me if I was still dating-”

“But you’re the one who brought up sex.”

I opened my mouth to argue but then realized he was right. I considered the question as I glared at him. I wondered if he would reciprocate if I answered. But, I didn’t want to answer because Jon was the only guy I’d been with. I didn’t know how to feel about that, how normal or abnormal it made me to be a twenty-six year old woman with one sexual partner. And I didn’t want to give Quinn more ammunition for additional ambiguous teasing.

“Fine.” I started chewing on my lip, stalling, hoping that we’d be interrupted again by one of the managers or by a bear attack or earthquake or giant snakes.

When I waited too long he prompted, “Well?”

“So, slept with- right?”

“No, the question was: how many people have you had sex with?”

“Are we using the Bill Clinton definition?” Not that it would have mattered.

“No, the Hillary Clinton definition of sex.”

“Ok, stop saying the word ‘sex’!” I glanced around the room looking for something to save me from this conversation. I didn’t even know how we got here.

“Well?”

“So, how does this work? If I tell you will you have to tell me?”