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    Summary

    "Just to be absolutely clear," Grace says, bowling over whatever smug bullshit was about to come out of Ortiz's mouth, "I'm not going to be the other woman, and I'm not looking to sleep my way to tenure."

    He's quite possibly still too drunk for this. Or maybe he's not drunk enough.

    "I'm a grown man with a doctorate and I can make my own decisions," he tells Ortiz. "So, if you think I'm even considering it because I'm some—some sugar baby or—or you're looking for an easy lay because you're conveniently in another country, then you can take your napkin and room number shove them right up your ass."

    It's not the most persuasive as far as warnings go. Grace stutters his way through it and he's moving his hands too much, but Ortiz at the very least doesn't try to interrupt him this time. He is smirking, however, the lift of it caught in the rim of his glass he takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving Grace's.

    "Is that what you've been thinking about all these hours?" Ortiz asks him, conversational, like they're discussing bike lanes and Copenhagen's public transit system. "My ass?"

    A week at the UNESCO conference in Copenhagen, Denmark.

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