Roman (Cold Fury Hockey #7)(84)

“You do realize you just described me to a T,” Jeremy says dryly. “Well, except the orange fake tan.”

“Yes, well, you’re my cousin and I don’t care if you’re a metrosexual or not. I’m not dating you.”

“Then what do you really want?” Jeremy prods.

I give a long, painful sigh. “I don’t know. Just something different. A real man, you know?”

“Again…I may enjoy all those things you pointed out above, but I do believe I’m a real man. I drink beer, belch, and even fart sometimes. I watch football and leave my underwear lying on the floor, which drives Aubrey batshit crazy. But I give her amazing orgasms, so I can say this metrosexual has it going on between the sheets.”

“Ugh,” I say in frustration as I lean my head back against the couch and stare at the chandelier again. “I’m not making myself clear.”

“I’m not getting it, Valentine,” Jeremy tells me bluntly. “Now quit beating around the bush. What the hell do you think is missing from your dating life?”

A million lies run through my head, but this is Jeremy, and he’ll call me on every one of them. And if I screw around, someone might buy that Proenza Schouler I want.

My head turns to the left and I look at Jeremy. “I want to feel really wanted. I want to drive a man crazy. I want him to look at me like I’m an oasis in the desert. I want a man who would battle an army just for the chance to be with me, and once he was with me, he’d battle a million armies just to keep me. Men here aren’t like that. It’s too easy for them. Pickings are abundant and no one has to fight for real companionship because we’re all so self-absorbed we’ve learned to do without it. I want a man who can and would take on the world for the right woman. And most important, I want that feeling that would come from having a man like that. Oh, and I’m betting a man like that would be amazing in the sack.”

“Be careful, Valley,” Jeremy chides. “You find a man like that, you’ll probably fall in love.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen,” I say dryly, dismissing such an idea. I’m not anywhere near ready to settle down. “I know one thing: I’m done with the men around here for a while. Maybe I’ll just take a break or something.”

“Why don’t you try a change of scenery?” Jeremy suggests as he stands from the couch. He pulls a Donegal sweater out of a box that had been placed there earlier by a sales associate and inspects the collar stitching.

“Change of scenery? You mean like a new bar or something?”

“No, like a new location. Not New York City.”

“You mean travel somewhere and sample the men there?” I ask with a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” he asks, and his tone is so serious I sit up straight on the couch to listen further. “Why not? You’re independently wealthy and you can write your blog from anywhere. You say you’re bored with everything around here, so pack up your trunks, grab your yappy little rodent of a dog—”

I lean over quick as lightning, grab a petit four, and launch it at Jeremy’s head.

Score.

A direct hit.

Jeremy turns to glare at me but doesn’t miss a beat. “—grab your cute and lovely dog, and go explore the world a bit. Maybe you can find your real man out there.”

Hmmm.

That idea actually has some merit. It would reinvigorate my blog as well, because if I was getting bored with the city men around here, I’m sure my readers were getting bored of hearing about it.

“But where would I go?” I muse out loud, thinking of perhaps Paris or Barcelona. I think Spanish men are really sexy.

“Alaska,” Jeremy says, then pulls the sweater over his head. When it pops through, he looks at me through the mirror. “Remember Jordie Cambridge? I went on that fishing trip for his bachelor party there a few years ago.”

I vaguely remember Jeremy going on that trip. But they were fishing, and that really didn’t interest me much, so I can’t recall much about it.

“Why Alaska?” I ask.

“Because the male population is like fifteen times that of the female population. Someone like you would be a hot commodity and there’d be herds of men from which you could cull,” he says matter-of-factly. “Is this sweater any good?”

Fifteen men to every woman?

And I’m thinking big, rugged manly men who don’t give a rat’s ass about fashion or manicures, and I bet their tans are natural.

“Alaska,” I murmur to myself.

This idea definitely has merit.