The Boyfriend Collector, Two Page 7

  “I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”

  Always so cocky. “Well, I can handle myself, too,” I say, trying to reassure him.

  “Rose, I didn’t tell you everything.”

  Oh boy.

  He continues, “Frank is advising that you leave the country after you give your additional statement to the district attorney.” He stands and then looks out the window. I’m learning that it’s not a good sign when Bex does that. It means he doesn’t want to face me when he says whatever’s stewing inside that man-brain of his. “We’re both worried that your grandparents or one of Gustavo’s associates will try something.”

  Bex thinks this is a shock to me, but it’s not. I never believed for a second that they were done with me. All right, maybe for one second, but then I realized it would be naïve. Because while I may have been in the dark for years about the real terms of my mother’s will, I know their values. I lived through their abuse. Money is their coldhearted god and rules everything they do.

  Even if by some miracle they got their hands on every penny of my inheritance, I know they’d want to punish me for fucking up their two-decade-old plan, for the public humiliation, and for getting them locked up. Their reputations are soiled among the high society they claim to belong to.

  “So what does Frank suggest?” I ask.

  “Like I said, you leave the country.”

  “Run.” I draw a slow breath, trying to let it all sink in. “For how long?”

  “Until there’s a reason for you to come back. My aunts have a house in Spain that’s available. It would be the perfect place for you to lie low for a few months and—”

  “I’m not going.” I stand to face Bex.

  “What?”

  “I’m not running from those clowns. They can fuck off if they believe for one stupid second that they get to control my life like that.” I already feel like the bodyguards are too much. They’re a response to this…element that’s just not welcome in my life.

  “Rose, this isn’t about control or winning some epic game of right and wrong. I’m talking about you staying alive.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not going into hiding.”

  “Don’t you want to live long enough to see justice served?”

  He’s playing the fear card, and I do not appreciate it. I’m done with all that. “Of course I do, but I need to move forward with my life. I have colleges to apply to. I have plans.”

  “Then go for a few weeks until we see how things shake out. I can take you tomorrow if you like.”

  “Where?” I’m confused. He wants to take me somewhere, and I missed that part of the convo.

  “Spain. I can buy tickets today, and we can leave the day after tomorrow, right after we see the DA.”

  Me and Bex. Romantic setting. Alone. In Spain. I can think of nothing I’d love more. And hate more. “I can’t do that to you, Bex. You have your patients, and I really—”

  “I’m a big boy, Rose.”

  And you pity me and have a hero complex. But I need to be able to take care of myself. I’ll never be free if I don’t.

  “You said that already,” I say quietly, trying to keep a lid on my emotions. “And, as I already told you, I can take care of myself.”

  His expression softens. “I know. And it’s time to let others help you.”

  “You have helped me.” I take his hand and hold it tightly, praying he will hear what I’m really trying to say: He’s got to let me go. “So have your aunts and their lawyers, and I’m grateful for all of it, but you don’t need to take me on some pity vacation because you think I can’t handle going off by myself. In fact, I already had plans to go to Italy.”

  It’s true. I was planning to go after this guy Waylon invited me. He delivered flowers to my apartment, and we hit it off. Or…connected? Or…I don’t actually know what to call it because I am a kindergartner when it comes to dating and men. But something about Waylon charmed me. Nerdy. Polite. But bold. Maybe I saw a little of myself in him? The only thing I don’t like is—No. Don’t think about whose flowers they were. Don’t think whose flowers they were. Don’t think about Gustavo. The point is, after all that ugly stuff went down, I told Waylon I wasn’t in a good headspace to appreciate Florence. He said to let him know if I changed my mind because he’d be there for a few weeks on some art history, deep-dive tour. He’s probably still there.

  “You’re going to Italy?” Bex folds his arms over his chest. “By yourself?”

  “Bex,” I say firmly, “I can handle it.” Even if I appreciate his worry, his need to come to my rescue has to end. For his sake and mine. It’s ruining both our lives. “I promise, I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s just…” His voice trails off, so I’m guessing he doesn’t want to say whatever he’s thinking, which is probably something like, Rose is too naïve. She won’t be safe without me.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not going alone,” I offer to ease his worry.

  “Who are you going with?” He narrows his eyes like an actual jealous husband. I don’t like it because it messes with my head and makes me feel like an emotional yo-yo at a time when I am doing my best to keep it together and break free of my unhealthy feelings towards him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as nicely as I can, “but that’s actually none of your business.”

  He sneers with a grunt followed by a loud exhale. “For fuck’s sake, Rose, why is everything a fight with you? I’m on your side, and I think I’ve proven that.”

  “I’m not trying to pick a fight,” I snap. “I know you care about me, and not many people do, but I don’t know if you’re doing all this because you think I’m helpless—which is wrong, so wrong—or because I evoke some sort of brotherly protectiveness in you.”

  He grips my shoulders softly. “I assure you, my feelings are anything but brotherly. I—”

  “Oh. Hey. Am I interrupting?” Chad is standing in his boxers in my bedroom doorway. His short dark hair is a mess, and his eyes are still half closed. He has his morning wood, something I have never seen on a man. Frankly, my instincts are to look away, but I realize this is an opportunity. Bex doesn’t love me, and whatever feelings he does have aren’t helping me move on. Maybe if he believes there’s someone else, he’ll feel free to back off.

  “Uh…no. You’re not interrupting, Chad,” I say sweetly. “This is Bexley Hughes, my thera—”

  “Her husband.” Bex’s mood goes from sincere to downright furious—jaw tight, lips smashed into a hard line, nostrils flaring. He’s the only man in the world who actually looks hotter when he’s angry. I hate that I notice these things about him. “What the hell is this, Rose?”

  My jaw drops in outrage. Mr. Hero, who promised never to judge me, is judging me. It’s crossing a line of trust he swore he’d never break.

  “I’m going to use the bathroom and hit the road.” Chad disappears to attend to that tent in his shorts and likely to avoid this messy scene. I can’t blame him.

  “Well, aren’t you making the rounds.” Bex gives me a stern look. “How many men does that make this week?”

  Oh. And now he just slut shamed me, too? I narrow my eyes. I am livid. This goes way beyond what we agreed. I’m free. He’s free. No strings. Worst of all, he’s turning his nose up at me like I’m some cheater.

  “Yep. I’m spreading my wings—or should I say legs?—every chance I get. I’ll tell you all about it in our next session, Dr. Hughes.” I say his name like a bitter curse.

  “I thought you were done with seeing me,” he throws back, but now he’s back to neutral. No emotions. Wall up.

  I’m not buying it. “Maybe I’ll change my mind.” I walk over to my front door and open it. “After I go to Italy. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on the juicy details once I’ve had my way with all the men.”

  Bex’s wall remains intact, and behind it hides every thought, every emotion, and it robs me of any satisfaction. I detest that he has so much power over me. One word,
one smile, one frown can send me in completely different directions. I care too much about what he thinks, and this moment proves that I was right; we cannot continue this relationship. He can’t help being a knight, and I can’t control my emotions when it comes to him. Because I didn’t just see Chad standing with his giant erection in my bedroom doorway just now. I saw Bex. Or at least, I wanted it to be him after a night of hard, hot fucking.

  Bex leaves without so much as a glance or another word.

  I close the door and go into the kitchen to start coffee. I know I’m slamming cupboard doors and whatever else I can get my hands on, because when Chad appears—still shirtless with his chiseled abs—he’s smirking and shaking his head.

  “Wanna talk about it?” he asks.

  “No. I’m fine.”

  Chad folds his arms over his chest. “All right. But if you change your—”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m going to get dressed, then.”

  I nod but stick to my coffee making, which has just ended with me spilling the grounds all over the floor.

  “Here. Let me help you with—”

  “I got it. Really.” I get out my little dustpan and broom. Somewhere after me cleaning up and me swearing at the trash can, Chad returns and gives me a peck.

  “I had a lot of fun last night, Rose. Call me when you’re ready to do it again.”

  I nod and force myself to smile. “Thanks. I enjoyed it, too.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want to come with me to my parents’ house for dinner and some passive-aggressive comments while I refuse to eat their roast and dig into my tofu casserole.”

  “I’m actually looking forward to some alone time.” I know it sounds strange, but I really am. Today was supposed to be about wiping the slate clean and giving myself a day to make a break from my past. I planned to watch movies and eat junk food and treat myself to a long hot bath. I’m not going to get that relaxing day now—too riled up—but I’m definitely not in the mood to deal with someone else’s crazy family.

  “All right,” he says. “Call me if you change your mind. Or just call if you want company. I’m sure I won’t stay at their place too late.”

  Poor guy. I think he’s bonkers to let his family treat him like a shitty doormat because he won’t eat animals. I just don’t get why he puts up with it. Oh, wait. I guess I kind of do. The saddest part is he thinks he can change them. Or maybe it’s kind of sweet. I don’t know.

  Chad leaves, and I notice there’s an emptiness in my apartment, but it’s not because I’m alone. It’s because of who feels missing from my life.

  Dammit, Rose. Stop it. I owe it to myself to get out there and see what the world has to offer. I can’t get hung up on one man. Otherwise, I’ll always be the “poor, poor little Peachtree Cinderella” everyone thinks I am.

  I don’t merely need to become the hero of my own story. I need another story.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Five days later, I have, in fact, taken my first plane ride ever, and I’m in Florence, Italy. I decided not to continue with the bodyguards, mostly because they’re an intrusion, a response to several evil individuals who are not welcome in my bright new future. If they come after me, it could be today or in a year, and I’m not going to live like that. Afraid. Paranoid. Whatever. Plus, those guards cost about five thousand dollars a day. A day! Yes, I know I’m wealthy, but I vowed to never become like Mel, Gertie, and my aunt Belinda, who spend money like it’s meaningless and obsess over material things.

  So I’ve made my choice: I’m going to live my life simply, the way I’ve always wanted, and I accept the consequences of my choices. No, I don’t want to die, but I would rather have a month of living life to its fullest than endure a decade of fear. Because I’ve found the light, and I’m fairly sure it was born right here in Italy.

  This place is so beautiful. I stand there in my jeans, pink sneakers, and my red jacket, holding a piping hot latte while looking at the morning skyline as the sun creeps up behind me. Right there is the legendary Arno river. I mean…it’s right there. I wonder if it would be weird to start spinning in circles and singing.

  No. No spinning. I’ve got real Italian coffee in my hand. Made just for me! Squee! It came from one of those quaint little cafés hidden on a side street. I know it’s lame to get excited over something so small, but the red Illy sign in the window and red overhang just tickled me. The tiny round tables and wobbly wooden chairs outside, which I tried out while waiting for my order, were just as perfect as the old uneven stone sidewalk. Yeah, I got the eye roll when I asked for my coffee to go, but I don’t have a moment to waste—not one second or inch of this beautiful city—because I don’t know what I love more, the endless supply of historic buildings, with their stone arches and warm peach or khaki plaster, or the hordes of tourists who look like they’ve traveled from faraway places, or the…or the…crap! It’s everything. It’s just everything! Too perfect. Too romantic. Exactly how I imagined Florence.

  Having flown in late and checked into my hotel even later, this is my first glimpse of this fairytale. And let’s just say that even my room is romantic—big bed, a TV with nothing to watch in English (to inspire you to go outside or canoodle) and all sorts of fancy soaps and lotions in the bathroom. Of course, the room is all about the window overlooking this exact spot.

  With a smile, I sip my coffee and lean forward into the stone barricade running the length of the deep green river. Downstream is an incredible bridge that houses three buildings with ornate stone carvings over the steeples. They have to be at least four hundred years old. Or six.

  Or maybe older? Damn. I wish I’d had more time to read or take classes. I saved just enough to attend a few semesters of college but had to drop out. My grandparents’ doing. Anyway, when I go back, I’m getting five or six degrees. I just want to learn. I want to understand the world I live in and feel empowered no matter the situation. For so long, I’ve depended on others, and that needs to end. I control my life. Me.

  I know, I know. You’re wondering how I can think that and then call up a stranger to see if he’s able to meet me in Florence for the weekend. Yes! I did it. And turns out Waylon is still in town for a few more days. Oddly, when we spoke, I felt completely comfortable, too. Now I have a hot date to the Uffizi museum. Which will help keep my mind off Bex.

  I look at my watch, realizing I’ve been people watching and building gawking for well over forty minutes. Jesus. I’d better get going. Waylon is supposed to meet me out front, and given the masses of tourists, I’m guessing the lines to get in will be crazy long.

  I head down the busy one-way street, refraining from skipping down the sidewalk. I have literally never been this happy. I head to the museum, and standing right in the middle of the Piazza della Signoria is Waylon. Tall, medium build, warm brown eyes and extremely cute face. He’s a pretty boy with nerdy glasses, but my gut tells me there’s a lot more to him. No one talks about art like he did when we first met, and not burn with passion.

  “No!” I laugh into my glass of red wine, my feet propped up on a chair with a bag of ice on my ankle. Waylon and I are sitting in a bustling little trattoria with red and white checkered tablecloths and all sorts of stuff hanging from the ceiling—empty chianti bottles, cheese in wax, and fake grapes. It’s an adorable family restaurant, right out of an Italian movie, complete with grandma sitting in the corner stretching garlic knots by hand. To someone like me, it’s another fairytale. A big family. Everyone working, smiling, living together.

  “Come on, Rose. You can’t go back to your hotel. It’s only eight fifteen.”

  “I seriously can’t take another step. My feet are throbbing.” Waylon and I walked for five hours. Had lunch at a small café near the museum, and then went back for another four hours. I’ve never seen so many beautiful paintings and sculptures. Even the murals on the museum’s ceilings—cherubs, angels, saints, and goddesses—were worth sta
ring at for hours.

  Of course, I just had to twist my ankle on the uneven pavement the minute we left, but I feel perfectly fine. Waylon insisted on the ice. He’s a sweet guy for sure, though the entire afternoon, I kept asking myself if I’m really attracted to him or if I just envy him?

  He’s so articulate, educated, and passionate about art. He even took meticulous notes and photos despite knowing everything there is to know about certain paintings. The Birth of Venus, by Botticelli, for example, is his favorite. Now, how an art student, who works as a flower-delivery guy, can afford three trips to Italy this year alone, who knows? This particular trip he won on a radio station giveaway—says he uses an app to enter everything under the sun to score free trips. He was supposed to take his little sister with him this time, but she had other plans, so that’s when he signed up for that art tour thing.

  “So, you up for dessert?” Waylon swipes the narrow menu standing between us on the small square table.

  “God, no.” I cradle my stomach. “One more bite and I’m gonna pop.” We each ate three giant handmade raviolis stuffed with prosciutto and cheese along with an entire loaf of the warmest, flakiest bread I’ve ever tasted.

  Waylon’s warm expression evolves into something more serious. “Then how about a sweeter treat?”

  It’s hard to explain, but there’s something about Waylon that equally repels and attracts me. He’s forward and bold and he’s been out in the world, which excites me, but there’s something lingering just beneath the surface of his mama’s-boy exterior. A sort of…well, I’m not really sure. It’s a hardness or an edge. I notice it most when he lets his guard down and thinks I’m not watching.

  The irony is that it only makes me think of Bex, the deep and sometimes dark thoughts lurking behind those cool blue eyes. I understand that Bex does it to protect me, but I hate when he’s not honest. There’s like this push-pull between us.