The Boyfriend Collector Page 10

  “Thanks. You too,” she says.

  I step into the hallway, and screw me, but with every damned step I take, I feel the urge grow. Can I really never see her again? Just one cup of coffee. A dinner. Something. It’s crazy as hell, but I’ve never looked at a woman and wanted to know everything about her.

  Don’t you do it. Don’t you fucking turn around, man. She’s involved with Gustavo.

  On the other hand, I am a thief.

  I turn and offer her a charming smile. “I know this might seem strange, but would you like to go to Florence with me next week? I have two free passes to the Uffizi Gallery and two prepaid airline tickets. I won this raffle thing on the radio, and my little sister was going to go, but she’s got finals to study for.”

  This tall blonde goddess stares at me, and I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. Normally, I can figure out anyone. It’s part of what makes me good at my job.

  “Sorry.” I hold up my palms. “I just came across like some weird stalker. I just… Have you ever had a feeling about someone?”

  She blinks at me but doesn’t respond. Not at first.

  “Yes,” she finally says.

  “Yes, you’ve had a feeling, or yes, you think I’m a stalker?”

  “Yes, I’d like to go to Florence with you. I should have my passport in a few days.”

  Whatthefuck? She said yes?

  I try to play it cool. “I, uh…uh…great. Give me your number and email. I’ll send you all the details.”

  She laughs. “How about a name?”

  “Yeah, I guess I need your name, too. For the ticket.”

  She chuckles again. “No. I meant your name. What’s your name?”

  Oh. I stretch out my hand. I’m Gustavo’s new target if you tell him a thing. “Waylon.” I shake her hand. “I’m Waylon Jones.”

  “Rose. Rose Marie Hale. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Waylon.”

  Rose

  Uh. What just happened? This hot flower-delivery guy shows up at my door, smiling at me, and I just melt like a fifteen-year-old girl? And I agreed to go to Italy with him.

  I close the door behind Waylon after exchanging our information. This is insane. Why did I say yes? Especially because something in my stomach is telling me I should have said no. He’s not even on the list.

  Wait. What am I saying? I go sit on my white sofa and stare out the window with a view of the street below. A woman, a dog walker I presume, is outside with three small dogs and a golden retriever who couldn’t look happier—bounce in its step, tail wagging, nose high in the air, and enjoying life.

  Okay, you know it’s time for a little self-reflection when you wish you could trade places with a dog. Clearly I’m at a crossroads I should have seen coming. I promised myself I wouldn’t marry a man just to satisfy the will, and I won’t. But I’ve also been so focused on making sure my grandparents don’t get their hands on the estate that I never considered dating men who aren’t “approved.” What’s the point if it means letting those a-holes win?

  But am I really willing to miss out on the possibility of love with the right man, even if it means taking a more difficult path—walking away from my inheritance or fighting for it? It’s a question I have to answer, because in less than two weeks, I have to make a choice.

  The thing is, part of me feels like if I contest the will, I’ll be betraying my mother. It would mean letting go of this part of her that’s always been hovering in the background, watching over me. It sounds crazy, but at the time, thinking my life had been by her design always gave me a sense of peace. Yeah, I was alone a lot. Yes, I felt tired sometimes from all the work I had to do. But that was what my mom wanted. She wanted to teach me something from beyond the grave.

  All that turned out to be a lie, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that it made me feel connected to her in some small way.

  Oddly, after I found out the truth, I felt closer to her than ever. She never wanted me to live like that. She’d wanted me to be looked after and loved. Maybe this thing about marrying before my twenty-first birthday is my way of honoring her. It’s what would have made her happy. So when I think about deliberately considering a man who’s not on the list, I feel like…like I’m turning my back on her.

  Then there’s this other part of me that says she never knew what I’d be up against. She would have wanted me to be loved by a good man, because it’s what I would want for my own daughter. I’d tell her to throw caution to the wind, get caught up in a whirlwind romance, and run away for a weekend with a handsome man to Europe. Get swept off your feet and fall madly in love. That’s what I’d say because it’s what I want for myself. I mean, how many times have I sat there staring at an attractive guy, a stranger on the street, wondering if he’s the one. So now that I’m finally free from my grandparents’ mental prison, shouldn’t I be searching for my epic fairytale, like I’ve read about in my mother’s books?

  Or maybe you’re being naïve like she was, I scold myself. She was obsessed with romance, so much so that she died alone.

  I often wonder if it’s because her standards were so incredibly high that real men couldn’t compete. Her heroes were all perfect. Perfect smiles, bodies, and hearts. Even the ones who start out all messed up evolve into the perfect man by the end of the story. But I’m not looking for Mr. Perfect. I’m looking for Mr. Perfect-For-Me.

  So, Rose Marie Hale, what are you willing to sacrifice for him? An image of my grandparents in that house, counting piles of cash belonging to me while they laugh at my mother’s memory, racks my mind. I instantly feel the bitterness of their cruelty and lies sawing me down the middle.

  No. I can’t let them get away with this. They can’t win. Which means I’ll call Waylon tomorrow and tell him I can’t go. If after my twenty-first birthday I come up empty-handed, then it’ll be a different story. But I couldn’t live with myself if I made it easy for good ol’ Melvin and Gertie.

  I look at my watch and realize it’s almost seven o’clock. Crap. I really want to call Bex right now. I need to hear his voice—for the reassurance that I’m making the right choice about sticking to my plan, of course. Nothing more.

  Unfortunately, I have a do-over date at eight with Chad, who’s one of the guys on the list. His parents own a chain of high-end steak houses, and he’s currently studying to be a chef. He seems like a really nice person, but I didn’t get the chance to talk to him much on our first date since I spilled soup down my dress. I hope tonight goes better since he invited me to some fundraiser dinner at his parents’ restaurant.

  I eye my cell phone sitting on my kitchen counter. No. No Bex. You can wait to talk to him. Besides, if I call now, he’ll get pissed. This isn’t an emergency.

  On the other hand, he said he’d be there for me.

  No. No! You’re a big girl. And you have a date. No more thinking about Bex. Think about moving forward. Finding Mr. Right and living happily ever after.

  But why do I feel like something big is holding me back?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’ve made a special effort tonight with my outfit: white sleeveless, sling-neck blouse that shows off my cleavage, black satin capri pants, and red heels to match my lips for a little color. This outfit isn’t something I would normally wear—a little tight and a lot sexy—but I’ve never been to a fancy steak house. Actually, I’m one of the few people in this world who can count the times she’s dined out on one hand. I’ve definitely never been to a fundraiser either.

  My Uber driver pulls up to the front of the restaurant, where tons of people are standing around outdoor gas heaters, laughing and mingling. A banner posted over the front door says “Winter Luau for Leukemia,” and everyone is wearing board shorts, tank tops, straw hats and other beachwear.

  Great. Chad didn’t mention this is a themed event. And for the very first time in my life, I’m overdressed.

  The next morning, as I’m drifting between a state of wakefulness and utter agony, I reluctantly acknowle
dge the sun shining on my face through a window.

  “No, go away,” I grumble. My head feels like there are ten boom boxes thumping inside, and my eyes can’t seem to focus on anything. “Owww…” How much did I drink?

  I take a moment and swipe away a few tequila-flavored cobwebs from my head. Okay, I went inside the restaurant. Met Chad—superhot, green-eyed, stepped-off-the-cover-of-Sexy-Chef-magazine, with tattoos on his arms Chad. He offered me a fruity drink with an umbrella. I said, “I’m not twenty-one yet.” He said, “No one here will tell.” So I drank it. Then another. There was a limbo contest somewhere in there. Then another drink and lots of laughing and flirting and… “No!”

  I jackknife upright and look to my side. Chad. Naked. Passed out next to me.

  No, no, no. I reach for my crotch, hoping to God that I did not sleep with this man. I will absolutely murder myself if I had my first kiss and lost my virginity but was too drunk to enjoy it.

  I touch myself, relieved that I’m still wearing panties. I push gently, and everything feels right. No soreness. I scoot over and peek at the white sheets. Clean.

  Yes! I sigh with relief, knowing that very few twenty-year-old women these days would celebrate this hard over maintaining the old v-card, but I promised myself never to drink and fuck. Not that I’m judging anyone who’s ever gone there. I once read that eighty percent of all people, at one time in their lives, engage in a one-night stand after one too many drinks. After last night, I can’t turn my nose up at them, but I do not want to miss one of the biggest moments of my life.

  I look down at Chad’s short brown hair that spikes up a little on the top. He has a cleft chin, sensual lips, and gorgeous brows. He is a pretty man.

  My head pounding, I have to squint to keep looking at him. I need liquids and painkillers. Something.

  Wait a second. Where are we? I look around the room. The hotel amenities binder on the nightstand is a dead giveaway.

  Oh, God. I can’t believe I got a room with this guy. I mean, yeah, I have no problem sleeping with someone, but I want it to be a sober, conscious choice because I feel like we have the potential to complete the steps.

  Step one: a good date (aka the chemistry test).

  Step two: incredible sex (aka the sexual-compatibility test).

  Step three: determine if we have the necessary ingredients for a long-term relationship.

  Step four: love. Marriage. I hope.

  Last night does not count for any of them, though I remember having the best time with Chad. We laughed. He talked about food. We played games and drank too much. Still, I need a real date in order for us to get to round two.

  I get up, cupping my hands over my bare breasts. The elephant in the room is that I’m topless, so clearly we messed around.

  Dammit! Would it be weird if I hope he kissed me anywhere but my lips? My first kiss is something else I want to remember.

  I spot my black satin pants hanging over the back of a chair by the window. My white blouse is wadded up on the floor. A vague recollection, almost like a snapshot of us playing truth or dare, flashes in my mind: Chad stripping for me, slowly removing his T-shirt and blue Bermudas. I remember thinking how he’s the master of seduction. The way he turned his body and flexed his muscles as he smiled playfully and removed his clothes. I clapped and laughed all the way to the end when he took off his boxers.

  “My first penis,” I mumble with a smile under my breath. I saw my first penis last night! If only I could remember the details. The only thing sticking is that they are a lot uglier than I thought. Rough—or maybe the right word is textured? Either way, I remember it looked like a long mushroom with veins.

  After that, it had been my turn to strip. I did it.

  “Where you off to, Rose?” a deep voice rumbles from the bed.

  I glance over my shoulder as I slide on my pants. “Uh. I have an appointment with my therapist,” I lie. I’m not due for a session until next week, but I need to see Bex. There are a hell of a lot of emotions swimming around inside me, and one of them is guilt, which makes zero sense. What do I have to feel guilty about? I haven’t done anything wrong.

  “Okay,” Chad says, “but don’t forget, you promised to come to that competition with me next week.”

  I grab my blouse and pull it over my head, wondering what the hell I agreed to.

  “Uh…” I turn and face him. Green eyes glitter behind a curtain of dark lashes. And that smile of his—dimples for days. Where does he get off waking up looking so perfect? I bet I look like I was run over by a garbage truck.

  I clear my throat. “I think I had a little too much to drink last night.”

  He slowly sits up. The sheet is covering his penis, and the dirty part of me is disappointed. I want one more look at my first live dick.

  “We both did. But it was fun.” He runs a strong hand through his hair, making his tattooed biceps flex. He’s a beautifully built boy. No doubt about it. And I love that his ink is all about the food.

  Oh! I remember now! He has his grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe on his left arm. He said that when he was seven, he and his grandma baked cookies together. That was the moment he knew he wanted to be a chef, just like his dad. When he got older, he worked in their first restaurant, but every time he wanted to experiment or try something new, his father told him, “This is my restaurant. You want to cook your own food? Get your own restaurant.” That’s why Chad is going to culinary school.

  “So? Are you still coming or flaking out on me?” he asks.

  I’ve already decided that I won’t forfeit my inheritance to my grandparents unless I have to, which means I can’t go to Italy with Waylon. Unlike Chad, he’s not on the list. It’s not about the money; I just can’t stomach the thought of Gertie and Melvin getting control of my mother’s entire estate—book rights and all. They can’t be trusted. But like I said, if my birthday rolls around and I’ve come up empty-handed in the “approved” husband department, then I’ll have no choice but to contest the will. Then I can date whomever I want.

  The sad thought of leaving my mother’s dying wish unfulfilled washes over me. I have to stay hopeful. I have to try to find a husband.

  “Um, where is the competition again?” I ask Chad.

  “Napa, California.”

  “Oh, now I remember.”

  He grabs the sheet, gets up from the bed, and comes over to me. “Rose, what’s going on?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You look like you’re fleeing the scene of a crime.”

  I hate that he says that. Reminds me of my date with Gustavo.

  “I thought we clicked last night,” he adds.

  Oh boy. I have no experience with any of this stuff. “Chad, I’m so sorry. I know we had a lot of fun, judging from how I woke up and by how badly my head hurts, but I’m not going to lie to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not looking for a one-night hookup. Did we kiss, by the way? And if we did, how was it?”

  He frowns. “We didn’t kiss. You wouldn’t let me. You said you’d get naked though.”

  Well, at least I have standards. “I’m betting you think that’s a little weird, but I can explain.”

  “Rose, you told me everything,” he says. “And I don’t think it’s weird that you want to wait a little. I get it.”

  “So I told you about my…” I glance down at my meow, as it’s called in several of my mother’s funnier books.

  “That you’re a virgin? Yes. You also told me how you only have a few weeks to get married and that I’m on this list—” he makes little air quotes “—of yours.”

  “So why didn’t you run away?” I ask.

  He blows out a breath. “I was at your party. I saw the entire thing, and I know how it feels to be an outcast like that, to not be accepted by your family.”

  “But I thought you were studying to be a chef so you could—”

  “Work in the family business?”

  “Well, yeah,
” I say.

  “You really did drink a lot last night. I’m a vegan. I have been since I was six and discovered where meat comes from. I don’t think it’s right to kill animals, which is why my parents and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  Suddenly, a conversation we had, right before we passed out almost naked in each other’s arms, pops into my head.

  “Ohmygod.” I cover my mouth. “You’re a stripper on the side!”

  He cocks his head. “Yes. Just like I told you last night, Rose.”

  “Oh…” Now I remember. We got to drunk-talking during the party, and he told me his dirty little secret. He then promised a private show, which is why we came here. When he told me it was my turn, I went for it. I think I was trying to be supportive, like…Hey, it’s okay if you’re a stripper. See, I’ll take off my clothes to prove it. Silly. But I do remember we both laughed the entire time.

  “My parents won’t help pay for my vegan culinary school, so I’m paying my own way, and it’s not cheap. Being a male entertainer is the only way I can earn money and have time for classes.”

  “I get it. I do.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice filled with skepticism. “Because you look like you’re struggling with it.”

  We lapse into an awkward stare.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “It’s just that I don’t remember everything.”

  “So last night meant nothing to you.”

  I don’t know what last night meant. Here’s this guy, so good-looking that he probably gets hit on five times a day. He comes from a well-to-do family and wants to be a chef. He loves animals. He seems like fun and…well…a fantasy. A hot, animal-loving chef.

  I clear my throat and look down at my bare feet. I still don’t know where my heels are. “Chad, I want to get married in about two weeks if I find the right guy. On top of that…” I swallow hard, coming to a startling realization: With every step forward I take, my situation becomes increasingly complicated. Chad isn’t the only guy occupying my thoughts. But to lie to him or myself wouldn’t be right. I want to be honest. “I’m not planning to be exclusive. I can’t afford to be until I’m sure I’ve found the one I’m ready to be with.”