Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

I'm a total romantic. Flowers, chocolates, kissing in the rain—bring on the clichés! I pretty much spend all of December watching those made for TV movies about Christmas. The cheesier, the better.

 

 

"Wait, he's picking you up?" Bridget yells from her room. "What does that even mean?"

We've both spent the past hour speaking through the wall, comparing and contrasting outfits while we ready ourselves for our dates. I've settled on a curve-hugging midnight blue dress, obviously stolen from Bridget's closet, and even broke out my old push-up bra for the occasion. And the ladies look fantastic, if I do say so myself.

"I don't know," I shout while staring into the mirror. Do I like these pearl earrings? Or how about these gold ones? Though silver makes the grayish blue in my eyes stand out… "He just said to text him my address and he'd come pick me up at eight."

"Like, in a car?" Bridget is really stuck on this idea. "Or in a cab? Or are you walking? I just, I've never even heard of someone picking someone up for a first date in this city."

"I think it's sort of sweet," I say.

"Well, however he's picking you up, he'll be here any minute."

Crap!

I jerk away from the mirror, deciding on the silver earrings, and take a step back, pulling my dress down to smooth out the wrinkles, doing a little twirl, you know, surveying. According to Skylar standards, I went all out tonight. Wedges—the closest thing to heels that I can safely manage. Full makeup covering the spatter of freckles that span my cream cheeks. A little pouf in my hardly ever styled hair.

I look good.

"You look hot," Bridget says, echoing my thoughts as she peeks her head through the door. "How about me?"

"Gorgeous!" And I mean it. Soft curls lighten her thick red hair. The evergreen skinny jeans look fantastic against her natural coloring, especially paired with that black sparkly top. And next time, I need to borrow whatever eyeliner she's wearing because her eyes pop—in a good way!

The phone on my desk vibrates.

I freeze as nerves surge up my spine.

He's here.

Suddenly I can't breathe. My eyes go wide.

"Uh, Skye?" Bridge says.

I shake my head. I can't speak. My voice has run away. It's in hiding.

He's here.

Oh my god, what was I thinking saying yes! He's so far out of my league it's laughable. So attractive. So good-looking. So going to break my heart.

"Skye!" Bridge runs over and grabs my shoulder. "Stop freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," I squeak. My hands are shaking. I might be hyperventilating. Is the room starting to spin?

"Come on," Bridget nudges, grabbing my purse before taking my hands and tugging me from my room. I think she's going to let go when we make it into the living room, but she doesn't. She just keeps pulling me past our kitchen and right to the front door.

"Bridge, really, it's okay," I protest, but she just shakes her head, letting one hand go to open the apartment door.

"As if I'll believe you. The last time I saw you this nervous was junior year in high school when Chris asked you on a date. You told me you didn’t need me to come over and help you get ready, then I find out from everyone later that night that you totally bailed on him. Well, if this guy is so chivalrous that he's picking you up outside of our apartment, no way am I letting you blow it by hiding in the emergency staircase or something ridiculous like that until he gives up and leaves."

"I wouldn't hide in the staircase…" Though I admit, now that she said it, the idea doesn't sound half bad.

Ignoring me, she continues to yank on my arm, practically pulling it out of its socket—which when you think about it really wouldn’t be the ideal way to start my date. But a few minutes later, I'm in the elevator, purse in hand, watching in horror as the doors close, leaving me by myself.

"Bridge!" I shout, banging on the metal just as it seals shut.

How could she leave me like this?

I swallow. Heat rises under my skin. Suffocating. The walls start to close in. I watch as the numbers click lower and lower, butterflies zipping around my stomach. And not in that cute anticipating way, but in this painful, terror inducing way. And then suddenly, I visualize my escape—the perfect excuse for retreat.

My jacket!

I forgot my jacket! I have to go back. I have to!

Futilely, I press on the button for my floor over and over again, but the number won't light up. I've got a one-way ticket—down. And a few seconds later, the elevator stops. I'm just going to stay here and go back up. Just stay and go back up, and get my jacket, and then hide in my room until I can forget this night ever happened.

The door cracks open and I want to close my eyes.

But he's there. Patrick. Almost the same as when I last saw him, but this time, a perfect red rose rests in his hand. When our eyes meet, all of my nerves melt away, vanish in a split second. Instead, I feel warm and tingly all over, excitement tangible, an energy that crackles the air around me.

"Skylar," he says.

I shiver. My name has never sounded so good.

"Patrick," I sigh.

Then the elevator door starts to close, because I, like a star-struck idiot, forgot to get off. I reach out to catch it, but Patrick beats me, stopping the metal with his hand and pushing it back.

"For you," he says, and hands me the rose.

And even though I know this could easily be some move he does with every girl, a carefully crafted gesture to put me right where he wants me, I can't help it. I accept, bringing the flower to my nose and sniffing gently as a shy smile curves my lips.

He grabs my hand, easily taking charge in a way I'm not used to. John and I were dating for months before he finally felt comfortable enough to hold my hand, but Patrick does it effortlessly, a little too smoothly. But I don't care, because his hand is warm and where our fingers touch, a little fire ignites beneath my skin.

Oh yeah, this is bad. Two seconds into the date and I can already feel myself falling, hard. But if he's playing a game, then I'm pretty much guaranteed to lose, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.

"I have a car waiting outside," he says, making for the door.

"A car?" I ask, sort of giggling.

"Well, if I work on weekends the company pays for a car service back to my apartment, so I figured I would take advantage tonight." He looks back at me and grins. I melt a little more.

Definitely bad…but in the best way possible.

True to his word, waiting outside is a black town car. I sort of feel like a celebrity when he jumps ahead and opens the door for me, letting me scoot in first. The seats are soft leather and there's a divider halfway up giving us privacy. I've never felt quite so fancy before. I mean, I grew up in Pennsylvania just a few miles east of farm country. We didn't exactly take limos around. I'm about to comment when I remember that Patrick, born and raised on the Upper East Side, probably did.

I close my mouth, biting my lip. We're definitely from different worlds, but tonight I get to be Cinderella—and I don't want to ruin the magic before it really even begins.

"So, where are we going?" I ask as the car eases away from the curb. I've crossed my hands on my lap, unsure of where to put them. Patrick stretches his arm over the back of my seat, and I'm hyper aware of the inch between our skin.

"One of my favorite restaurants in the city, I go with my family all of the time. It's an Asian fusion restaurant in Columbus Circle, gorgeous views of the park."

It takes me a second to realize he's talking about Central Park, and my anxiety creeps back in—any restaurant with great views of that park is a restaurant that is far out of my price range. But—I sigh—Cinderella. That's going to be my mantra for the evening, because, well, if the prince fits… I peek to the side, taking in Patrick's strong profile, and oh, he fits all right.

Now, what to say, what to say… I want to be charming and cute, maybe with a splash of sexy and a hint of mystery. That's easy enough, right? But I think and think, and lick my lips, and nervously smile in his direction, and after a few seconds I'm still drawing a complete blank. My mind is utterly empty. My tongue starts to feel fat and useless. An awkward chill creeps across my skin. This is so the opposite of the effect I was going for.

"So." Patrick finally breaks the silence. "When did you start working for the newspaper with Blythe?"

"Well, I started with an internship for the editors of the book review—"

"Ah, a smart girl," he interrupts, which normally bugs the crap out of me, but I can't help but smile at the admiration in his tone.

"I guess," I admit a little shyly, not really used to bragging about that sort of thing. "But a few weeks ago right around the middle of August, a position opened up in the lifestyle section and they wanted me."

"To be the…" He pauses. "Dating columnist?"

My face goes a little pink. Thank god he didn’t say sex columnist—we'd have a full-on tomato situation here. "Sort of. I do most of the normal assistant stuff too, but I also have a weekly column talking about the average sort of dating life for, you know, recent grads and girls in their twenties. That sort of thing."

"So," he leads and then turns to me, warm eyes narrowing, corners of his lips picking up just a little bit. "Will I be in this column?"

Okay—tomato situation might be happening after all. I look away, suddenly smoldering in the tiny space of the car. "Maybe…"

"Maybe?" he challenges.

I feed off the humor in his tone, using it to push my nerves away. "Yeah, that's right, maybe. I mean, we only just started the date, I need to wait and see if it's newsworthy."

He nods, pursing his lips, pretending to be very serious. I squeeze mine together to keep from laughing—I don't want to ruin the game! "So what would one need to do to be newsworthy? I've already got the fancy ride."

"And the rose," I add.

"Right, and the rose."

"No chocolates though," I gently accuse, frowning.

Patrick shakes his head, face full of remorse. "I'm clearly off my game tonight."

"Clearly," I concede. And though he's trying really hard to remain stone-faced, I hear a sharp exhale of air, the barest hint of humor escaping, and grin. "Don't worry, you could make up for it. Tell me something strange about yourself, something that would make my readers remember you."

"Hmm." He furrows his brows, thinking. "I slept with my baby blanket until I was twelve."

My heart melts picturing him as a little boy—for some reason I imagine a soft blue blanket with teddy bears on it. Ooh and maybe spaceships. Adorable! But this is too fun to let him know that. "Or how about something bad? Break any laws recently?"

"I did!" he says really animatedly.

I lean in, truthfully intrigued. "You did? What?"

He leans in too—this is top-secret information after all—whispering, "I jaywalk all the time. Really. I'm a serial jaywalker."

I press my lips together forcefully, presenting the best solemn face I can manage. "I should arrest you right now."

"Well, I imagine that would certainly make for a good column."

"So, I have your permission then?"

He holds his hands out in front of me, palms up. I search through my purse for a second before pouting. "Shoot, I must have left my handcuffs in my other bag."

"A common mistake, I'm sure."

"You have no idea," I say and roll my eyes.

He's about to answer when the car eases to a stop. "We're here," Patrick says and reaches for the door. And then, with his fingers still resting on the handle, he turns back to me, adding, "Oh, and Skylar?"

"Yeah?" I say, pulling my eyes away from the view of the fountain out my window. Let's be honest, his face is way more interesting anyway.

"You forgot to mention a kiss," he murmurs, vision dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes.

"What about it?" I whisper, a little entranced—caught in the force of his gaze, the heat of it.

"I think it'll make our date newsworthy." And then he's gone, opening the door and stepping out of the car.

My imagination takes over and instead of doing things like, I don't know, following, I'm picturing what it would be like to kiss him. To have those strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. To have those soft lips tease mine, pulling and pushing, slipping down to my throat, over to the soft spot below my ear, down a little more—

My face slams against the seat.

Ow.

I adjust, sitting up and rubbing my cheek, when bam! Realization hits.

I fell over.

I actually got so mesmerized just thinking about kissing him that I fell over…inside of a car. How is that even possible? My entire body still tingles from the imaginary kiss. And I have to admit—I'm a little nervous how I'll react if it happens in real life. Well, not if, when. Definitely when. Cue the heart palpitations!

"Uh, Skylar? You coming?" Patrick teases.

Shoot! Did he see me?

"Sorry!" I scramble to follow, mind not quite working right, and I bump my head on the door on my way out.

Ow. Again.

More lightheadedness is so not what I need right now.

Patrick offers his hand and I take it thankfully, leaning on him while my racing thoughts clear. We make our way to the elevator, up a whole lot of floors, and arrive at the restaurant. To my amazement, my conversational skills return and we chitchat about nonsense until we're led to our table.

The sight takes my breath away.

Oh, yeah. This date is definitely newsworthy.

Our table rests right next to a floor-to-ceiling window, and I don't think I've ever seen New York look more beautiful than it does right now. The sun just finished setting, illuminating a midnight sky with soft aquamarine light. Far above, the stars flicker to life, brightening with each passing second, and farther down, countless windows across the horizon resemble floating lanterns against the deepening dark. The park is a forest shrouded in bottomless evergreen, vivified every so often by the orange glow of a streetlight. From so high up, the city looks quieter, more peaceful.

"Patrick," I say, sighing, because I can't find any other words.

He pulls my seat out and for the first time I notice the candles in the center of the table. They're always there, I'm sure, but right now it just seems like another thing to add to the growing list of romance. And bubbling beside the flame, shimmering like liquid gold, are two glasses of champagne. Across the soft light, I meet his eyes, warm brown at the center then brightening to dazzling emerald, and I get the sense that though he's been to the restaurant a dozen times before, this time might be different, might be special for him too. We clink our glasses, neither bothering to look away. A few minutes later, we're interrupted by a waiter.

"Your first course," he says and begins describing some sort of tuna tartare dish. I look down at the spoonful of tiny maroon cubes garnished with vegetables I don’t recognize because they're in miniscule shavings.

"Um," I murmur, looking up. "I don’t think these are ours. We haven't even seen a menu yet."

He just looks at me like I'm insane.

"Thank you," Patrick interjects, dismissing him before turning an amused smile on me. "I forgot you've never been here. There's an a la carte menu, but the tasting menu is much better. Seven courses and I ordered the wine pairings too. Speaking of…"

I turn just as two quarter-filled glasses of wine are set on the table, I don't catch the full description—I'm too focused on trying to discern what food is about to go in my mouth—but I recognize the words sauvignon blanc. The wine, at least, I know I'll like.

Without hesitation, Patrick picks up his spoon and polishes off the food in one bite, taking a small sip of wine to wash it down.

I swallow, a slight sliver of dread tickling my throat, and glance back at my plate, wondering if Cinderella had to deal with raw fish for her prince charming. Somehow, I doubt it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm all for trying new foods, but I'm more of a burger and fries, spaghetti and meatballs, take-out Chinese sort of girl.

Laughter pulls my eyes away from the food. It’s Patrick, watching me watch my plate. "Aren't you going to eat it?"

"Oh, sure," I reply, reaching for the spoon, trying to act braver than I feel. "I just like to get the full aesthetic experience before I eat."

He raises his eyebrows, grin deepening as I bring the spoon to my lips.

One.

Two.

Three.

I open and swallow the contents.

Not bad, but not really my favorite either. It's a little…slimy. I reach for my wine, downing it in one sip, before looking up at Patrick with a sort of apologetic expression. And the rest of dinner passes in a somewhat similar fashion.

There's a spot in the middle where I actually recognize what I'm eating—lobster tail and then some sort of beef—but for the most part, I grin and bear it, telling myself I'm becoming more cultured with each passing second. The wine though, the wine is absolutely fantastic. And after one glass of champagne and seven miniature glasses of wine, I'm more than a little tipsy by the time dessert—a strange tapioca ball concoction—is cleared off the table. What can I say? Lots of wine and teeny tiny little portions make for a drunk Skylar.

"So, what did you think?" Patrick asks as we exit the restaurant, making our way toward the elevator. I hold onto his arm, leaning into his body for support. Oh, I can walk perfectly fine, I'm not that tipsy. But the wine has sort of whisked my inhibitions far enough away that I give in to the desire to touch him, to hold him. Beneath my hands, his bicep flexes just enough to make me curious about what other muscles hide beneath his clothes. Note to self—tasting menus at very expensive restaurants are dangerous. Steer clear in the future! You'll find your hormones raging with reckless abandon in only a few short hours.

"Did you like the food?" Patrick asks again.

"It was different," I say diplomatically. "Not really like anything I've had before. But next time, I think I should get to choose the spot."

He doesn’t answer.

And then I realize my mistake.

Next time! Why did I say next time? Stupid inebriated loose lips!

I close my eyes tight, letting him lead my steps, but then I give in to curiosity and take a peek up. He senses the movement and looks down.

"And what spot is that?"

I bite my lip, thinking for a moment, but really—it’s a no brainer. "Shake Shack. Madison Park. We can wait in line for an hour and freeze our butts off, then chow down on burgers and fries, freezing a little bit more from the milkshakes. But in the end, it'll totally be worth it."

He tilts his head a little, eyes brightening as if that's the last response he ever expected, but then reaches out his hand. "Deal."

"Deal," I repeat and we shake on it as we make our way outside. The night air sends a chill down my spine, causing goose bumps to pucker my skin. Patrick shrugs out of his suit jacket, resting it around my shoulders, and I hug the edges tight, breathing in the subtle scent of cologne.

I look at him.

He looks down at me.

A nervous tingle tickles my neck, and I know this is that moment at the end of the night that I dread—that moment when I take a cab home by myself or toss my caution to the wind and go home with him. But even after the romance and the wine, my choice is clear. Still though, I'm not ready to say goodbye, not ready for the magic of this night to end.

"A carriage ride!" I blurt, completely ruining the moment.

Patrick recoils, surprised by my outburst. "What?"

I look to the right where horses and carriages line up at the edge of the park, just waiting for riders, and take his hand.

"Come on, I've always wanted to do one of these. I've seen it in the movies a thousand times."

Patrick sighs. "You know what's not in the movies? Something someone born and raised in Manhattan can tell you?"

I refuse to give in to his sarcasm, keeping my mood cheerful. "What?"

"Those things stink."

"Don’t be a downer."

"No, Skylar, they smell. Horrible."

And as we walk across the street, I begin to see what he means. The overwhelming scent of manure seeps through my nostrils, ripe, harsh enough to cut through the buzz the wine has made in my brain. But it’s too late. I'm already set on the idea. And Patrick relents.

We settle in the backseat and yes, it does stink. But as the driver eases off the curb and pulls into the softly lit park, Patrick wraps his arm around me and I snuggle against his side. My heartbeat quickens, pulse racing, as a familiar set of butterflies returns to my stomach. But these are nerves of anticipation, and a wave of excitement washes over me, standing my hairs on end, making my entire body alert.

I look up.

Patrick is already watching me.

Our breath teases, filling the minute space between our lips, tickling the surface of my skin. His eyes dance, twinkling like stars. They start to close and mine follow. Pulled together by the wine and the romance, his lips land velvet soft against mine, and we’re kissing. A rush of pleasure curls my toes and I sigh as he pulls me closer, erasing the gap between our bodies.

Suddenly, the smell is the last thing on my mind.