The Boyfriend Collector Page 12

  “Please don’t ask me on a date because I might have to say yes,” I mutter.

  He cracks an amused smile that reaches his warm eyes. “Sorry?”

  “Did I just say that out loud?” I feel my face flush.

  He chuckles and hands me a yellow envelope. “Here. This is for you. It got delivered to my mailbox by mistake.” He jerks his head toward his right shoulder. “I’m your neighbor—just down at the end of the hall.”

  I take the envelope and look at the return address. “Oh. It’s my new passport.” I know I’m smiling like a fool now. This is big for me, a symbol of the new Rose, the real Rose, and not that cartoon version who was trapped in a painting.

  “You must be going somewhere fun,” he comments.

  I promised myself I’d take my first trip soon, regardless of what happens. Maybe the Caribbean. Maybe Europe. I don’t know. “I’m not sure yet. Haven’t decided.”

  “Well, if you need any suggestions, let me know. I’m not much for flying, but I’ve seen a lot of boats and every inch of road between here and Tierra Del Fuego. I love to ride motorcycles.”

  He actually fits the motorcycle-lover image. Really cute, a little rugged, lots of tattoos.

  He adds, “That’s probably why we haven’t met before. I just got back from a three-month ride through Canada.”

  “Wow. Sounds like fun.”

  “Amazing, actually.”

  We stare at each other for an awkward moment.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’d better get back to my piles of mail.” He points over his shoulder.

  “Thanks for dropping this off. I’m Rose, by the way.” I hold out my hand.

  “Jor Mazzara.” He slides his hand into mine, and it’s rough, almost like leather.

  Why does that name sound familiar? Wait. Ohmygod. I’ve seen him in those celebrity gossip magazines the maids always left around. “You’re Jordan Mazzara. The one who was engaged to—”

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “I prefer to put that chapter of my life behind me.”

  I nod sympathetically. “Totally understandable.” He was with Ariel Medina, the pop star. Their breakup went public when the paparazzi caught her cheating on him. Anyway, he has or had his own custom motorcycle shop and a TV show at some point, I think. I never watched TV, but I remember reading about it. High on Hogs, or something like that. They make custom bikes for obscenely wealthy people.

  “No offense, but why are you living here?” Not that there’s anything wrong with this building, but the apartments are small. And very affordable.

  “Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone. This is kind of my hideout. The paparazzi thing got old real fast.”

  I hear that. “My lips are sealed. Well, nice to meet you, Jor.”

  “Nice to meet you, too. Hey—I’m not around much since I split my time between coasts for business, but maybe we can go grab a coffee sometime.” Like he knows I’d say yes, he doesn’t wait for my reply before turning to leave.

  Yes, I look at his ass. Not on purpose, but the man is walking away, and it’s just there. Firm and round and—Stop it, Rose.

  Wait. No. I should look. I’m a free woman. I should be pushing myself to…to…not think about a certain someone else.

  I stare for a moment longer. All right. Enough. You have a non-date to get ready for.

  I go inside and hear my phone beeping on the kitchen table. There’s a missed call from Gustavo, but no message. For a split second, I consider calling him back and putting this whole thing to bed once and for all, but I don’t have the energy. I need a calm evening hike under the stars.

  I’ll call him in the morning.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Dressed in tennis shoes, a red down jacket, jeans, and a sweater, I wait for Markus outside. He’s prompt and arrives in a black Ford Explorer, which is a good sign. He’s not the flashy-car type, just like he said.

  He steps from the car, and wow. He’s what I’d describe as all-American handsome. Short brown hair neatly cut and parted on the side. Slight almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Very nice lips, the bottom one fuller. His five o’clock shadow is more prominent around his mouth, kind of like a frame for his lips.

  “Rose.” He leaves the car running and walks around to greet me with a handshake. “I was at your party, but we never had the chance to meet.”

  I wonder why. I shake his hand. It’s warm and rough, but nothing as extreme as Jor, my neighbor.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He smiles, and it’s a good one. It says he’s genuinely happy to see me. There’s no wolfish gleam in the eyes. No twitch of lusty seduction in the lips. It’s as genuine a smile as they come.

  “Oh, I know this isn’t a date, but”—he reaches for the rear passenger-side door, opens it, and produces a bunch of big fluffy marshmallows on skewers, wrapped in cellophane—“I got you a bouquet.”

  “Oh, what unusual flowers,” I say with a giant smile.

  “Phil and June are bringing the chocolate and graham crackers.”

  I surmise that Phil and June are the friends who are joining us. “Please tell me we’re making s’mores.” I’ve never had them. My childhood memories contain zero outdoor excursions or camping trips—something I plan to do a lot of going forward.

  “And cocoa as promised. Premade and waiting for you in my thermos.”

  “This is already the best non-date I’ve ever had.”

  He flashes a warm smile, closes the rear door, and opens mine. “Then I’ll be sure to say something incredibly awkward at some point during the evening so the bar is set really low—just in case we ever decide to go on an actual date.”

  I chuckle and get in. I can already tell that Markus is special. Warm, friendly, confident. I’m definitely considering counting tonight as our step one.

  Markus and I keep the conversation light during the drive to the trailhead about forty minutes away. He’s a high school English teacher, of all things. He only casually mentions that his parents were really supportive when he decided not to go into the family golf resorts business, which is nice to hear. He has an older brother who runs things on the West Coast, and a younger sister, just by one year, who is at grad school, studying business.

  “So she’s the one who made you ask me on a date?” I say.

  “I can’t say no to her. Doesn’t matter how hard I try, she always gets her way,” he says with affection.

  He clearly adores her, which makes him adorable.

  “So tell me more about you,” he says.

  “Pretty much what you witnessed at the party explains all of the drawbacks.”

  “So it’s all true? They kept you in the attic, stole your money, and starved you?”

  “Ah, I see you’ve been keeping up with the tabloids.” The staff, who were all fired, told the press everything and then some. “My situation was difficult, but not as dire as some of the stories. I wasn’t chained up or anything like that.”

  “It still sounds like one hell of a crap situation. I can’t imagine growing up like that.”

  “And I don’t recommend trying. It’ll only depress you.”

  “But you seem…I don’t know. Well-adjusted?”

  I shrug. “I’m happy to be free. Happy to start my life and put it all behind me.”

  We turn and pull into a nearly empty parking lot lined by tall thick trees. There are signs posted everywhere.

  He stops the car and turns off the engine. “But what they did to you—they deserve to be in prison.”

  “They already are. It’s called greed.”

  He bobs his head. “Still, I’d feel better if they weren’t running free. After everything I’ve heard about them from my parents, it wouldn’t surprise me if they came after you. Clearly they’ll do anything to get your money.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That they don’t like anyone getting in their way, and they’ve threatened people in
the past. Physically. Just rumors—but everyone says they used to run some illegal gambling ring in the seventies until they got hit and lost their money.”

  Whatthehell? “My grandparents. You’re sure?”

  “Like I said, they’re just rumors, but if what you said at the party is true, then that’s reason enough to watch your back. Who knows what they’re capable of.”

  Ohmygod. “It never crossed my mind that they’d try to hurt me or hire some…hit…man…” My voice fades.

  The memory of Gustavo and that night in the alley flashes in my mind. Two-man job? No. Don’t be ridiculous. Gustavo had the chance to let that man kill me. Or Gustavo could’ve taken me out himself. But he didn’t. He saved me. He’s a mama’s boy who wants to open a salsa club, not a hit man.

  “Is everything all right, Rose?” Markus asks.

  “Yeah. Totally fine,” I lie, with a hard swallow.

  “Let’s get the gear, then, and I’ll introduce you to Phil and June.” He points to a white sedan pulling into the lot.

  I nod, and we get out to grab the packs from the back.

  “You sure you’re alright?” Markus asks.

  “Yep. This hike is exactly what I need.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Date ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. The entire time I was with Markus, I kept thinking about Gustavo and if he had in fact been hired to kill me. Or hired that man in the alley to help him? On one hand, it makes sense. Remove me from the equation and the estate goes to my grandparents. No legal battles. No risk of me contesting the will. Done.

  On the other hand, I feel like that’s a little extreme, even for them.

  Not if the rumors about their past are true, I argue with myself.

  Am I being too naïve again? I’ve already proven I’m too trusting. Case in point, it took Markus bringing up how ruthless my grandparents are for me to even see this gruesome angle.

  No. They wouldn’t kill me. But then my mind quickly replays the thousands of times they lied to my face—the fake copy of the will, my altered birth certificate, hiding the fact that I had a father all those years. Do they know I have a half brother and sister? Did they keep that from me, too? My grandparents purposely isolated and brainwashed me into submission, including making me work like a slave for room and board in my own home. “Pay your own way, Rose. That’s what your mother wanted.” But given the money she left behind for my care, I know she wanted me looked after—to go to school, have a real childhood and friends—not taken advantage of. Not used.

  Fuck. And this is why I’ve been avoiding thinking about it. I could spend the next ten years of my life thinking about how I had twenty years stolen from me. Screw the money. Screw the mansion. I just wanted love. I wanted a family and friends. I wanted not to feel invisible or ashamed for being born. Instead, I just feel…angry. Hurt. And maybe confused about why my mother trusted her parents. Or, an even bigger puzzle, why she put the marriage clause in her will.

  Stop, Rose. You can’t deal with this right now. I’m running out of time. And maybe I can’t change my past, but I can change my future.

  Just after midnight, Markus and I pull up to my apartment building, and I offer a polite smile. “Thank you again for the outing. It was really great. Especially the s’mores.” They’d actually brought one of those little tins you light and use for heating food instead of making a real fire. I didn’t care. Phil and June, who’ve been dating for about four years, are really nice people, and I could tell how much they love Markus. They were definitely trying to size me up, asking all sorts of questions about where I went to school, what I want to be.

  “You’re being polite,” he says. “It sucked. Especially the stargazing. But in my defense, the forecast said clear skies.”

  “No. Please. It was just what I needed. Fresh air. The cover of darkness to hide how out of shape I am.” It was only a mile and a half or so, but the trail had been straight up.

  “It’s okay, Rose. I don’t mind if you’re honest. I know I upset you.”

  “You mean the comment about my grandparents.”

  “I saw the look on your face.”

  “Am I that transparent?” I ask.

  “Yes. But you know what? I don’t regret saying it. You seem like a really nice girl, and I think you’re underestimating your family.” He shrugs, but I can’t see his eyes clearly. With the small amount of light from the dashboard, he appears to be annoyed. Not at me, but by the thought of my grandparents hurting me.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  He turns his body to face me completely. “I hope so. Because I’d like to take you out on a real date sometime.”

  Oh, but you just did. And though my head wasn’t entirely in the game tonight, I’ve seen enough to know that Markus deserves to go to step two: sexual compatibility. So far, it’s just him and Chad, the rebel chef.

  I clear my throat. “Markus, there’s something I want to say. Actually, no, it’s something I want to ask you.”

  “All right.”

  “I know you’ve read about my situation in the tabloids, and you were at the party, too.” He heard the fight firsthand.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Then you know if I don’t marry before my twenty-first birthday, I’ll have to go to court to get any of my inheritance.”

  “I think you should contest the will anyway. It’s barbaric to make a woman marry just to get money. Especially in this day and age.”

  “I agree.” I’m about to tell Markus about how part of me wants to do this for my mother. I feel like it connects us because if I find the one, fall in love, and wake up every day beside an incredibly special man, I will always know in my heart it was because of her. This is what I want to say to Markus, but I can’t. I’m not ready to be vulnerable with him or anyone. Just Bex. Who I am not going to think about. “What can I say? My mother was a hard-core romantic.”

  “So you’re going through with it?” Markus asks.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you; if you date me, it’s okay if you’re not ready for marriage or even a commitment. But you need to know that I am. I’m not going to dance around the subject or play games. I’m not ashamed of it or afraid. I’m in this to find Mr. Right.” Just like The Bachelorette. Only, I’m not on TV. And have a lot more on the line than just my heart. I could end up with the wrong man and lose everything.

  “What are you asking?”

  “Honesty. That’s it.” Like I said, I’m willing to give it all up for the right guy if I have to. But I’m not willing to give it all up for the wrong guy. “I’m going to see other men until I feel like I’ve found someone I’m serious about. I’m not going to lie to you about anything. All I ask is that you’re transparent with me. If you don’t feel like you could see being with me long term or—”

  Markus reaches over, slides his hand to the nape of my neck, and pulls me to his lips.

  I freeze. Part of me registers how soft his lips are and how warm and sensual they feel. Another part of me is whipping out the pom-poms. This is my first kiss.

  I move my hand to his jawline and lean into him. He slides his mouth horizontally over mine, allowing me to feel the velvety texture of his lips. So sensual. He presses softly and then opens his mouth. I suddenly think of Gustavo teaching me to dance salsa. Follow his lead. Mirror his moves. Is it wrong to think of him while Markus is sliding his warm tongue past my lips, urging me to open myself up to him?

  Regardless, I tilt my head, allowing him to deepen the kiss and taste me. I stroke my fingertips along the bristles covering his jaw, enjoying the masculine texture.

  Being kissed is different than I thought. It’s pleasurable and intimate, but where are the sparks? Where’s that lightning in my heart, flutters in my stomach, or throbbing ache between my thighs? The stroke of his tongue spurs a gentle warmth, but nothing more.

  Suddenly, it all changes. My body starts to heat up. My nipples tingle and harden. I feel hard waves of sensual palpitations deep insi
de my core. I realize it’s because I’m imagining kissing someone else.

  I pull back, ending the kiss, and Markus gazes into my eyes. All I feel is his adoration, which I’m not so sure I deserve. Here I am preaching honesty and thinking about another man.

  “That was a good kiss,” he says. “But I’m not sure about the rest, Rose.” He tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. “I’m a take-it-slow kind of guy. Really slow.”

  I bob my head. “I get it. I really do.” And I’m beginning to see why dating is so damned difficult.

  One guy says all the right things, but you’re not sure you can believe them. Another asks you to Florence, but you know saying yes means shutting the door on other things—big things—and consciously choosing to take a more difficult path that involves court battles, trials, and a whole hell of a lot of talking about things in your life you don’t want to face. Then there’s the guy who “gets you” from the first moment you lock eyes and you know you can just throw down with him, get a little crazy, lose your inhibitions. But being with him means making compromises that will lead to resentment. The truth is that Chad is a great guy, but my dream of falling in love and sharing my life with a man does not include other women touching him every night.

  Then there’s Markus. He’s nice, genuine, and an all-around good guy, from what I can tell—but the spark just isn’t there. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. I don’t exactly know how to describe the feeling other than to say I think he and I could build something over time.

  Then there’s Jor. Just met him. Don’t know him. And somehow I know that I never will. He’ll always be the guy who’s just out of reach, the one you can’t nail down who blows through town every so often just to tempt you, to make you dream of what it would be like if you could just catch him.

  “So? You free on Wednesday?” asks Markus. I realize he’s been talking, and I haven’t been listening.

  It’s because I’m suddenly thinking about the last book my mother wrote. It was hated by most of her fans and deemed a “romance disaster” by critics because there was no happy ending. The heroine dies alone in a cabin, full of regrets, wondering what her life might have been like if she hadn’t been so afraid to give her heart unconditionally. She might have found happiness. Instead, she kept dating these men—all of them different—some rich, some poor, some educated and some not, all of them beautiful in their own way. But she just couldn’t take the leap. The fantasies in her mind kept fueling her drive to find the perfect man, who doesn’t exist. In the end, as she’s dying alone, she calls herself “the boyfriend collector.” Her life had been all about collecting the hearts of these men, but none of them got to own hers. She never had the bravery to take the harrowing journey with anyone.