The Boyfriend Collector Page 11

  With one hand gripping his sheet, he takes the other and rests it on my shoulder. “Rose, I meant what I said last night. I get you. I get what it feels like to be fighting for the life you want, and I’m willing to take this”—he toggles a finger between us—“wherever it’s going. Another date. Five more dates. All the way to the altar if that’s where my heart leads. I’m okay with anything as long as it’s real and we both want it.”

  “Where the hell did you come from?” I mutter. Because his response is exactly what I want to hear.

  He shrugs. “The same place as you. One hell of a fucked-up family. But I won’t ever let it define me, and I sense neither will you.”

  How can one night with a stranger lead to this very real, very honest moment? I feel like he and I are almost the same. Or at least in the same place in life. That said, we don’t really know each other, but we do have a connection that’s unlike anything with the other guys I’ve met.

  “What do you say, Rose? Two days in Napa. Then you decide what’s next.”

  I nod without even thinking about it. “I’d like that.”

  He runs his thumb over my bottom lip and beams at me with those green eyes. Despite my massive hangover, my stomach knots in a good way.

  “Are you really a stripper?” I ask.

  “I prefer male entertainer.”

  I bob my head. I won’t judge him for it. He’s doing what he has to. Not everyone is born into this world with a family who provides for them. Love. Food. Support. A child can starve in more than one way.

  “Do you sleep with any of these women?” I ask.

  “Only when I really like someone. Never for money or anything like that. I just happen to meet a lot of really attractive ladies in my line of work. And I’m a man.”

  “Okay.” It’s an honest answer.

  He adds, “But when I’m in a relationship, I’m in it. No fooling around.”

  I believe him. I think? Okay, I don’t know. Maybe that’s why at this very moment I keep thinking about Bex. I need to talk about what’s going through my head.

  “I gotta run.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.

  “See you next week?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “You will. But can you help me find my shoes first?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Bex

  “Rose? Rose is here right now?” I say to Hailey and look up from my desk.

  “She doesn’t have an appointment,” Hailey says, “but Mr. Aspen cancelled his nine o’clock, so you’re free for the next hour.”

  I look down at the pile of paperwork in front of me. I’m a week behind, but if she’s here, it’s for a good reason. “Show her in.”

  Rose enters with such a flurry that I can almost feel the wind on my face. She’s wearing an extremely sexy outfit—tight, shiny black pants, sexy red heels, and a low-cut blouse. For a moment, I’m unable to tear my eyes away from her large pillowy breasts.

  “Bex?”

  I snap my eyes up to her face and try to mask my inappropriate thoughts. The problem is I think she’s starting to grow on me in more ways than one.

  “Rose, how are…you?” I notice the worry in her large brown eyes. Something’s happened. I bet she went to see that fucking guy. I feel my face heat red with anger, and my shoulders tense up. “What is it?”

  She points to the couch.

  “Of course. Sit,” I reply.

  She doesn’t sit. She crashes on her back. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” She covers her face with her hands.

  I rise from my desk and grab a pen from the holder. I don’t have her file handy, so I reach for a piece of white paper from the printer behind me.

  “Take a deep breath, Rose.” I’d benefit from one myself. Seeing her like this is triggering me. Rose has been through her fair share of suffering already, and I’m not okay with anyone subjecting her to more of it.

  She inhales sharply and exhales with a whoosh. “Are you in your chair yet? Please tell me you’re in your fucking chair, Bex.”

  “Almost.” Though I don’t really see why that makes a difference.

  I grab my clipboard and take a seat.

  She cracks open an eye. “Took you long enough.”

  “What happened?” I ask, my tone unintentionally abrasive.

  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “What did he do to you, Rose?” Because I’ll fucking kill him if he touched you. To my shock, I mean every word. As a professional who’s committed to helping others, there are many things I can tolerate: stupidity, narcissism, a general lack of empathy. I can tolerate ninety percent of mental illnesses. It’s why I’m here. But when it comes to thoughts of anyone harming her, I find myself unable to stay calm. I want to find the guy and fuck him up—not a very doctorly thing to do.

  Rose

  Stretched across the infamously lumpy couch, I wring my hands, wanting to tell Bex everything, but I don’t know how. My feelings don’t make any sense.

  “We made a deal—complete honesty,” Bex says with a hint of a growl. “And you stormed in here without an appointment, so stop the bullshit. What happened?”

  He sounds angry, but my head is spinning so damned fast, I don’t stop to ask why. I suppose he’s just annoyed with me, coming in here and demanding his time like some entitled princess.

  “I think I’m fucking this up, Bex. I have less than two weeks to go, and every turn I make feels wrong.” I’m betraying my heart, betraying my mother, or betraying my morals. What I want is to fall in love with the right man on my own terms when I’m ready. But how can I do that if it means turning my back on my mother’s wishes? Or worse, letting my grandparents take control of the estate and then dealing with all the ugliness that would follow, including a horribly public legal battle? “I don’t know what to do.”

  Bex’s armchair creaks under the weight of his large body. “I’m listening.”

  Meaning, “Get to the point. Don’t waste my time.” Okay, but where to start? From the beginning.

  “I did what you asked with Gustavo. He called three times, but I told him I couldn’t see him yet. Needed time to process.”

  “What did he say?” Bex asks, sounding less agitated.

  “He begged to come over so we could talk. When he realized he wasn’t going to win, he stopped calling.”

  Bex’s shoulders drop, and he rests his pen—not the gold one, but some plastic Bic thing—on top of his clipboard. “So you haven’t seen him.”

  “No.” I rub my eyes, disregarding the fact that I still have on last night’s mascara and that I’m going to look like last night’s trash panda, too. “But he sent flowers yesterday, so I’m sure he’s not throwing in the towel.”

  Bex doesn’t comment, so I tilt my head in his direction to gauge his expression. I’m surprised because he usually covers himself in a sheet of ice when I talk about things that upset or displease him. This time, he’s not keeping his emotions inside. His eyes are hard, and his jaw is ticking with tension. He’s definitely on edge.

  Still, I don’t let it deter me. I tell Bex about Waylon’s invitation to Florence, and how conflicted I feel because it’s forced me to think long and hard about my choices—what I’m afraid I’m giving up just because of my need to see my grandparents walk away empty-handed. I then move on to Chad. I give my very narrow recollection about waking up naked with a man I don’t know.

  “So you slept with him,” Bex states. Not a question. Not a nice tone. In fact, it sounds like he’s accusing me of something.

  What’s with him? And why is that the piece of this he wants to discuss? Nothing about the conflicted feelings and resentment I just mentioned.

  I have to wonder if my being here is more of a nuisance than he’s letting on. Maybe I’ve overstepped some big boundary, or he feels like I’m taking advantage of his kindness. I don’t know, but a part of me doesn’t care. This morning when I woke up, the only thing I could think of was that I needed to see him. So, yeah, maybe I am being self
ish for once.

  I sit up, plant my red heels on the floor, and stare with intent. “You’re breaking your promise.”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “You said you’d be here for me.”

  He leans back, and I feel those cold, calculating blue eyes drilling into me. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “No. You’re not. You’re sitting there like some passive-aggressive asshole judging me.”

  “I think the correct definition is good old-fashioned anger.”

  “Why? What have I done?” For the life of me, I don’t know why he’s this mad. Just because I didn’t have a stupid appointment? Then he should have had his assistant send me away!

  “Are you going to tell me what happened or not?” he says curtly.

  “Not until you tell me why you’re pissed.”

  “My job isn’t to discuss my feelings, it’s to discuss yours.”

  This time the fact he’s shutting me out feels like a betrayal, and something inside me goes off. “Wrong. Your job is to help me love myself. And I’m pretty damned sure I won’t ever get there if my own damned doctor treats me just like they do because they blame me for my mother’s death. But guess the fuck what? You and they can hate me all day long, but none of you will ever come close to the extreme amount of self-loathing I have for robbing myself of my own mother. There is no possible punishment, torment, or sickness you could wish on me that I haven’t already wished on myself!”

  Whoa. I don’t know where this is coming from, but I suddenly feel a little lighter—like the years of guilt and shame, which were used to keep me docile and quiet, needed to get out. The weird thing is, I know I couldn’t have admitted those dark thoughts to anyone but Bex.

  I gaze into those powder blue eyes, and I feel it. The connection I’ve been searching for in these other men. Bex sees me. He cares. It makes me feel like we belong together. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. No, no, no.

  I jerk to my feet. “I have to go.”

  “Rose.” He stands too and steps forward.

  “I can’t see you anymore.”

  “Rose…?” he growls like a warning.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Hughes.” I turn and leave that place as quickly as possible. I can’t want him. I can’t. And yet…I do.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two days go by, and Bex hasn’t called. He hasn’t come to see me either, and I’m glad. The thing is, I refuse to become that woman. The one who tears apart a marriage, a family, her own dreams. Pursuing a married man is where I draw the line. Besides, he’s not even on the list, and it’s only a little crush.

  Plenty of fish in the sea, too. Right? Just these past two weeks, I’ve already met three men.

  Gustavo, who is fun and passionate and…okay, the jury is still out on him. I’m not sure I believe his story about the guy in the alley or the gun. On the other hand, I was in so much shock that night, maybe I need to hear his explanation again before shutting the door on any possible future. What if he was telling the truth? Then I’d just be dismissing the man who saved me from a situation he had nothing to do with. According to him, it was his older brother who’d gotten mixed up with some bad people, not him.

  Then there’s Waylon. I’ve already texted and said I can’t go to Florence. Maybe after my birthday? But I keep flip-flopping on my decision. He’s cute, clean-cut, and the kind of guy you could bring home to mom. Just an expression, of course. But he loves art, he clearly likes to travel, and there’s a definite attraction between us. No, he’s not on the list, and I’m not ready to give up on marrying before the deadline, but who’s to say how things will work out?

  Finally, there’s Chad. Animal-loving, tattooed, hot-chef Chad. I won’t dock him points for being a stripper, but I won’t lie either; if we got serious, I’m not sure how I’d feel about sharing him with all those women, and I know he’s a pay-my-own-way kind of guy. Meaning, he wouldn’t let me help with his tuition even if I had all the money in the world. So that leaves me asking the question: Could I live with him being a stripper until he graduates and gets a real job? I’m not sure. Of course, if our weekend in Napa proves him to be more than just a fun time, I’ll have to consider it.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at my still undecorated walls, my mind slowly drifts back to my therapist—or ex-therapist? I don’t know if I’m thinking straight about what happened. I’m aware it’s easy to mistake feelings of trust for love when you’re sharing intimate pieces of yourself. Maybe I just overreacted. Either way, I need to sit on it for another day. And I definitely need to talk to Gustavo. And…Crap. I have another date tonight. His name is Markus.

  I can’t do it. I can’t handle adding another variable to the mix right tonight. I grab my cell from the nightstand and dial Markus. I’ve never spoken to him live, but he’s on the list and texted me after the party. I think he got my number through the rich-people grapevine.

  The phone rings and a deep, velvety voice answers with a hello.

  “Markus, hi. This is Rose Hale.”

  “Rose, I hope you’re not calling to cancel on me.”

  “Oh, uh. Actually, I sort of am?” I feel like a turd, but how can I go on a date with him? I’m spinning too many plates as it is.

  There’s a long stretch of silence on the other end.

  “Hello? You still there?” I say, wondering if he just hung up.

  “Yeah. I was just debating if I should make you feel guilty or let you off the hook.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m actually relieved,” he finally says.

  “You are?”

  “My sister wouldn’t stop bugging me about asking you out after that party.”

  “Ah. So you just did it to shut her up.”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “You’re an attractive woman, but I’m really more of the outdoors type. Hiking and camping. That kind of stuff.”

  I chuckle. “Are you saying I’m too high-maintenance for you?” That’s pretty funny actually. I’m about as high-maintenance as a pet rock.

  “Well, you were wearing a ten-thousand-dollar dress that night—according to my sister, who saw the dress and knows about these things.”

  It cost ten thousand dollars? I quickly shove away my anger, given where the money came from. My grandmother bought it for my cousin Teresa.

  “That was a hand-me-down,” I inform him, “and I happen to enjoy being outdoors.”

  “Then it’s a shame you’re canceling our date because I was planning to take you on an evening hike up Stone Mountain for some stargazing. It’s pretty spectacular.”

  Hmm… Not that it matters now, but he never mentioned that in his texts. “What were you going to do if I’d showed up for our date in heels and a dress?”

  “Take you shopping for thermals, jeans, and tennis shoes?” He laughs. “Okay. I lied. I was really going to take you to dinner for our date and call it an early night, then go on the evening hike with a few friends.”

  “Oh my god!” I laugh. “You were going to ditch me after dinner?”

  “Pretty much.” He chuckles.

  “What a guy.” But he is honest. I’ll give him that much.

  “Had I known you were more the nature-loving type, I definitely would have planned to take you on the hike. Which I’m still going on, so you’re welcome to join us.”

  I just turned him down for our date, and he invites me anyway? I think most men would call it quits. “You’re bold, Markus. Point for you.”

  “Bold makes me think of those guys who like outrageously expensive cars and suits. I’m more of a calm, low-key, straight shooter.”

  I don’t know much about Markus other than his family owns some golf courses. Maybe that’s another reason I wasn’t too excited about the date. Golf isn’t my thing, though very few things are. I haven’t had the chance to figure out all my “things.” I know I want to finish college, I love to read, I want to travel, and I enjoy the outdoors.

  “So what do you say
?” he asks. “And by the way, if you say yes, I’d feel more comfortable if we didn’t call this a date.”

  “What would it be, then?”

  “Just four people going on a hike with a telescope. And warm clothing. And maybe some hot chocolate, but only if you decide to come.”

  I admit, his offer of hot cocoa is tempting. Plus, since this isn’t a date, I feel like it might be just the sort of thing to relax me. “Fine. You convinced me.”

  “I’ll pick you up around eight, then,” he says enthusiastically, borderline gloating. He won, and he knows it, but I don’t mind. “And be sure to dress warm. It’s going to drop below forty tonight, and since it’s not a date, there will be absolutely no cuddling.”

  I laugh. “See you soon.”

  I end the call and stand there staring at my phone. Wait. I just agreed to go out with another guy. What am I doing?

  There’s a knock at my door, and I’m not going to lie. My heart starts pounding. It’s not Markus, because we just got off the phone. Chad is working—Ugh! Don’t think about it. Do not think about horny women shoving dollar bills down his shorts. That leaves either Waylon the art lover or Gustavo.

  Or Bex?

  I rush to the door and look through the peephole. None of the above. The guy has a scruffy jaw, dark hair, and bedroom eyes.

  I open the door, thinking he’s likely a delivery guy or something because he’s holding a thick envelope.

  “Can I help you?” I say.

  His mouth kind of just falls open, and his dark eyes run from my face all the way down to my toes and back again. He’s wearing a plain white T-shirt, exposing tattoo-covered arms, and well-loved jeans that hug his nicely built body.

  The universe must’ve heard my prayers about finding a husband because gorgeous men keep popping out of the woodwork.