“Has my brother called you?” Meredith asks as we walk to class.

 “No, not yet.” The white lie stumbles out, as my chest constricts.

“Good.”

“You’re serious? You really don’t want me talking to your brother?”

“Olivia, you play with men like cats play with a mouse. This is my brother we’re talking about. I might have issues with him, but he doesn’t need to be turned pathetic like Max.”

“Max gets something out of it.”

“Not what he wants. I’m just saying, hands off my brother.”

“I hear you, Meredith.”

Shit!

***

Sometimes I find that the least distracting place to study is in the center of a lot of people, for me it’s the Student Union. Sitting at a table by myself, working hard on an assignment, I stare into space as I ponder what to write next. My eye catches a strikingly handsome Arab looking guy, checking me out. He’s in his early twenties and built like an athlete. All the American guys dress typical college casual, T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops. This guy is dressed GQ casual; designer jeans and an expensive button down. He must be an international student; he reeks of wealth, power, and entitlement.

My curiosity is piqued. Who is he?

I make sure to catch his eye and give him a flirty smile before going back to my work. It takes about a minute before he comes over.

“Hi,” he croons with the smile and cockiness of a true player. “I’m Rashad, can I join you?” I nod. “I saw you from across the room, you look Middle Eastern.”

I raise an eyebrow as I check him out at close range. I’m not quite sure if he’s someone I’d date. He has that clean cut, well-polished metrosexual look Jennifer goes for, along with a cultured British accent. Being half Jewish – half Coptic, it’s not like this Muslim guy would ever take me seriously. At twenty-one, the last thing I’m interested in, is that kind of serious.

 “Yes, you picked up fast that I’m Middle Eastern,” I purr in Arabic. “Where are you from?”

“Syrian, Damascus?” he responds.

 “That’s where you’re from?” I continue in Arabic. Even though I know he’s commenting on my accent.

“No,” he emphatically states. “I’m Saudi.”

“What’s a British-educated Saudi doing here?”

He leans back in his chair in an attempt to look relaxed, as if he’s taking control of our conversation. Good luck with that, I’m getting his background without giving him anything on myself.

“I’m a law student.”

 “Really? Why law? You can’t use American law in Brittan or Saudi Arabia.”

“Yes, but my family has many holdings in this country. We need people who understand these laws to assure proper care of our property.”

Now this is getting interesting. He must be at least tangentially related to the House of Saud. “Do you think you may stay in the US after school?”

“Yes, I like California, though I’d move down south after I graduate. LA is much more interesting than here.”

It’s time to real him in and show who’s in control of this conversation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rashad. I’ll see you around school.”

Then I make it clear I’m dismissing him as I go back to studying. I can tell I’ve unsettled him. I know he’s used to taking the upper hand in any relationship. I keep a passive look on my face, count to ten then look at him perplexed, as if I’m saying, why are you still here? A momentarily flustered expression crosses his face, as he realizes he’s been dismissed without my name or major. I raise an eyebrow as if I’m saying, what’s your problem? Then I control my face from smiling as I watch the wheels turn in his head. Now he thinks I’m some kind of mysterious Syrian. I figure I’ve almost got him hooked. I look back down at my book as I count. I wonder how long it will take for him to make the next move.

“Yes, but I don’t have your name.”

Less than ten seconds. I look back up as if it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him.

“And why would you need that?”

He clears his throat, Bingo! He’s snared.

“I was wondering if I could see you again. I have a car; there’re some nicer places we could go. I understand Palo Alto has a two-star Michelin restaurant. I’ve been meaning to try it out.”

“Rashad, are you asking me out on a date?” I exclaim in English.

“Why yes, of course…you’re American?”

“I’m Olivia, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He looks at my hand and then uncomfortable takes it in his.

“Yes, a pleasure. I’ll need more than your first name to find you again.”

“What’s your number?” He gives it to me, I type it in then call him. “Now you know how to get a hold of me. I prefer texts over phone conversations.”

Dismissing him with a wink, I go back to my work. He gets up and stands for a minute, uncomfortably looking at me.

“Goodbye, I’ll be looking forward to my invite,” I usher him away.

After he takes off, I let myself enjoy a real smile. My good friend Kelly loves folksy expressions. She would say, Now that was like catching a fish in a barrel.