Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(45)

The door swings open and my best friend appears. “Why am I not surprised right now?”

I groan and push to my feet, uselessly trying to hide all the evidence of a make-out: hair tangled by my own head as I rolled it on the couch, smeared lipstick, rumpled clothes. I’m blushing hard, and Malcolm is clearly amused by my embarrassment. God, I must look ridiculous with my blonde hair and red face. I turn to him and point in mock warning, “And don’t think you’re getting a free pass, I’m hearing that story,” I tell him, for Gina’s sake.

“Hey, you’re staying with me tonight,” he says, confused.

I stand there, looking at him as Gina tugs on my hand. “Sorry,” I finally say, wincing a little. “Gotta go.”

On his feet, Saint lifts his jacket, and he looks at Gina as he folds it over his arm. “How about I drive her home?”

“How about ‘no’?” She smirks.

“I’m Malcolm, by the way.”

“I saw you at our place, remember? I’ve also seen your face on only every magazine and despite the fact that you’re hotter in person, I’m completely immune. Say goodbye to Rachel now.”

She takes my arm, and Malcolm says, “Do you want to go with me tonight, Rachel?”

His face is inscrutable now, but he’s putting out some major waves of annoyance.

“No, sorry. I have a campout in a few days, so I really should get some rest. ’Bye,” I awkwardly say as I turn to leave with his eyes on me. Oh, shit, f*ck, that went so bad just now!

I run my hands over my hot cheeks before Gina drags me down one of the long tunnel halls. “Nothing happened,” I mumble, in answer to the big bold question mark pasted on her forehead.

“Okay, I’m saying it,” begins Gina. “Saint is absolutely bad news. Workwise, heartwise, you could not pick a worse guy than Paul except for Saint . . . and his two friend creeps. Rachel, you don’t have to tell me what happened, I can already see he’s totally got you pinned against the wall. You’re blushing like a carrot.”

“What do you mean I’m blushing like a carrot? I’m orange?” My eyes wide, I’m freaking out.

“Rachel, you don’t know it yet but you don’t stand a chance! And that dude Tahoe totally eye-f*cked me right now when I hunted you at Saint’s table.”

“I do not blush orange, Gina!”

“I swear Tahoe totally eye-f*cked me and my heart still hasn’t recovered.”

“Orange? It has to have been the Tunnel lights! Please tell me you meant cherry. At least cherry is a prettier shade of blush than freaking orange?”

“You’re red! Okay? Relax, Saint won’t know your name in a few days when he wakes up with four naked floozies.”

My mouth flaps open to reply, but all I can say, as I come down from my orgasmic high, is, “If Saint’s bad news, so is Tahoe, okay? I don’t want him playing with you.”

“I don’t like any of these manwhores playing with you. I’m starting not to like this project.” She seizes my shoulders and whips me around. “Tell me you don’t like Saint?”

“I . . .” I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t want to lie, I don’t even know what I’m doing, so I say, “My ovaries kind of like him.” I add, “A little,” when her mouth purses grimly.

“Oh no.” She shakes her head wildly. “No, Rachel.”

It’s no use. I came in his arms at the club. I move in bed tonight and I can smell him on my skin. I can still hear him inviting me to be with him while I find my safe spot. I want to know what it’s like to lie next to him without anything between us. I have a thousand questions floating in my head, and one single ache between my legs. More than anything, I want to text him and say, I had a good time tonight. But do I really have the courage to open up this way? Maybe if he had a different history. Maybe if he were that normal guy. Maybe if I weren’t so focused on a job rather than a partner. Maybe in another life.

Monday trails on at a tortoise’s pace. Wake up. Coffee. Work. Emails. Editing yesterday’s draft. Helen’s interrogation about what’s going on. Victoria coming over with wide eyes. “It worked, didn’t it? I heard Saint was seen with a platinum blonde on his lap!”

“Shh,” I laugh and pull her close, and then I don’t want to talk about him to her. Sometimes when I write I don’t want to talk about my subject: I protect it and nurture it in my heart before I pound the keys and then it’s out.

It’s different with this man. I can’t bear to share him at all. Not even with my friends. I don’t understand why I feel like putting a bubble around us where nobody can have an opinion and nobody can take him away. Not floozies or his lifestyle, and not my friends. “I did have luck but nothing happened. You know those guys—they just flirt.”

“Oh, well, flirt back harder.” She winks and walks past.

Fuck. I groan and slump in my desk when Valentine walks by with much the same tune.

“Platinum blonde? People are asking on his social media. I know of only one platinum blonde . . . so speak now, platinum blonde. In fact, give me a few tips for tonight’s date.”

“Valentine, you have a date? Wow, love is in the air. Boy or girl?”