Virgin's Fantasy

by Kayla Oliver

  Worse, what if he decided I wasn’t the right physical type for him? Not every man appreciated a short chick. And while I wasn’t fat, I was curvy. What if that wasn’t his thing?

  Doubt ate at me steadily throughout the day, despite my attempts to quell it. I put on a good front, enough that even Marnie didn’t know how nervous I was, but it didn’t do anything for how I felt on the inside.

  When three thirty rolled around, I knocked on Marnie’s door and poked my head into her office. “Hey, it’s that time.”

  She glanced up from her desk—she looked a little stressed, so she was probably looking over something from Harvey—blinked twice, then glanced at her wristwatch. “What? That late already?”

  “I’m leaving early, remember? Hot date?”

  It took her several seconds before it clicked for her. “Oh! Right, your date. I totally spaced it. But go, you’re good. Definitely. Be sure to tell me everything that happens afterwards.”

  “I will,” I promised, grinning.

  “And Court?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Try to have a good time.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  I grabbed a few things from my desk to work on over the weekend, made sure my computer was off, and grabbed my cell. Then I headed out.

  When I got home, the first thing I did was shower. I wanted to be as clean as a whistle and as bare as a newborn baby, not a hair in sight. So I took a little longer than usual and shaved all my lady bits until I was smooth. When I got out, I put that soft vanilla-smelling lotion on, then went to work getting dressed. I’d pulled aside several viable options for that evening, but I still had to decide which of them was the best of the bunch.

  “Something sexy, something sexy,” I muttered to myself as I stared at the five dresses I’d laid out on my bed.

  One was a deep burgundy thing that went past my knees. Not quite a pencil, but it cinched tightly at the waist and emphasized my hips. The neckline was modest enough for public and a nice restaurant, but showed a hint of cleavage just the same.

  Two were blue, which I quickly dismissed. Blue was a cold color and more appropriate for work, dealing with people I didn’t like, and the occasional perfect spring day for whatever reason.

  I’d been pissed at Malcom when I’d picked them out, debating being an asshole to him.

  That had changed, so now I was debating between the burgundy, the pink, and the red with black, lacy overlay.

  The pink was cute, but I quickly decided I didn’t want to be cute. I wanted to wow him. To lure him in with sexiness and the promise of more. Which was why I ended up dismissing the burgundy, too. It was pretty and even a little sexy, but it was too modest. I needed to reel him in, not leave him guessing.

  “Red and black it is,” I muttered.

  Which was how I picked my underwear. Lacy black seamless panties coupled with a plunging push-up bra that did wonders for the shape of my large breasts.

  I wiggled into the dress, then threw a T-shirt over the top to finish up my makeup and hair. I painstakingly curled my silky tresses, then put them mostly up in an elegant twist. Shaking my head a little, I loosened some of the curls until they fell naturally down the nape of my neck and framed my heart-shaped face.

  Perfect. Or as close to perfect as any woman got.

  I checked the time, then grabbed my clutch. It was just big enough for my ID, credit card, some cash, a compact, and a condom. Just in case.

  I headed out the door, hoping tonight was going to be as good as my mind was building it up to be.

  About forty-five minutes later—thanks a lot, Seattle traffic—I got out of my car and walked the half block to the restaurant where I was supposed to meet Malcom. He’d texted me the details the day after asking me out, and that was about all I’d heard from him.

  I told myself it was because he was trying to build up the suspense to meet me.

  It was a sit-down restaurant, a nicer one that required reservations, and I hesitantly went up to the host to ask if my party had arrived yet.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see a reservation under that name,” he said, doing his best to not look down his nose at me. He failed miserably. “Perhaps you have the wrong restaurant.”

  I lifted a single eyebrow at him. “Check again. Malcom Resner.”

  The man pursed his lips but did as I asked. After a quick perusal of the names, he looked up at me again and smiled thinly. “I’m afraid I don’t see a Resner anywhere.”

  My shoulders slumped, but I forced myself to thank the man. He was an ass, but he was probably paid to be that way. I turned and headed back out to wait at the front.

  Had I gotten the wrong restaurant? Or did Malcom not realize it was the type of place to need a reservation?

  I checked my phone and the message he’d sent me. Shay’s, 6:30pm Friday.

  Glancing up at the sign, I confirmed that this was most definitely Shay’s. The corners of my mouth tugged down into a frown. Because suddenly there were only a few options of what was going wrong. Either he didn’t realize this was a reservation type of place, this was the wrong place, or… he forgot.

  That last one sent a cold chill down my spine.

  Had he seriously forgotten? I was halfway through a very angry text about leaving a woman waiting when I heard someone call my name.

  “Courtney!”

  It sounded familiar. Instantly, my shoulders relaxed. I turned toward it as I said, “Malcom.”

  Except when I caught sight of who it was, it wasn’t Malcom at all. I froze. It was Trent Harvey. I felt tension crawl across my body again. He was sexy, dressed in fitted black slacks and a silky, deep-burgundy button-down. Its colors shifted subtly in different lighting, and it suited him wonderfully. His body was well-defined, and he was tall. Tall enough that I would have to look up at him if we were standing any closer.

  But I didn’t care about any of that. I wasn’t interested in seeing him. I wanted Malcom, and damnit, that disappointed me immensely that he hadn’t shown yet.

  He will, I told myself.

  Setting my shoulders, I said, “Mr. Harvey. What a pleasant surprise.” My tone directly contradicted that statement.

  “It certainly is,” he said with a perfect smile. “Care to join me?”

  My lips pursed tightly together, even as I tried to smile politely. “I’m sorry, I really can’t. I have a prior engagement.”

  “Oh? And here I thought we had a date tonight?”

  I frowned outright at him this time. “A date? Are you crazy? I have plans with your agent, Mr. Resner.”

  His perfect smile faltered, and I took a little pleasure knowing I’d thrown him off balance. That is, until he spoke again.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Resner isn’t coming.”

  “What?”

  Had I really been stood up? Worse, was Trent Harvey the one telling me I’d been stood up?

  “That’s bullshit. He’ll be here any minute.”

  Harvey shook his head. “No. He’s not coming because… because he doesn’t exist.”

  I felt my eyes roll all on their own. “Did you forget to take your meds or something? Of course he’s real. I’ve been talking to him on the phone for months now. He’s the one who invited me here.”

  But Harvey didn’t budge. He shook his head. “No, he didn’t.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, an inkling of doubt trickling slowly down my spine. “Then who the hell have I been talking to?”

  He offered a half smile, which was surprisingly… sexy. Not that I’d ever tell him that. He didn’t need any ego stroking and wasn’t going to get it from me, that was for sure.

  “Me.”

  I stared at him. “I’m sorry, but what sort of phony-baloney nonsense are you trying to sell me?”

  “It’s the truth,” he told me, and his smile dropped. Suddenly, he was all seriousness. “I told you to meet me here. I told you I wanted to see every bit of you, damnit, and I’m tired of waiting. And I told you that yo
u had to stay for the whole date. You owe me a favor, and I’m cashing it in.”

  I froze as it slowly sunk in.

  Because that sounded exactly like Malcom Resner. Not just the exact words he used—not a text message that someone could have read over, but words he verbally spoke to me—but the exact tone and timbre of his voice.

  Oh, God.

  “No,” I said flatly. “I refuse to believe it.”

  “You assumed I was Trent Harvey’s agent when you were trying to sway me to S&W Publishing. And I didn’t correct you.”

  “You lied to me.” Oh, yeah, it was sinking in. Big-time.

  He winced and a flicker of panic ran across his face. “I needed you to give me a chance, but you’d already decided to hate me. I… I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get to know you.”

  My eyes narrowed. I wouldn’t be swayed by his stupidity or his pretty words. “You lied. To me. A lot.”

  He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Not a lot. About this one thing, yes. But not about the rest. Not about how I feel about you or how we’ve connected.”

  I made a frustrated sound, coming out half like a petulant whine and half like a roar. “Damnit! I connected with Malcom!”

  He spread his arms, hands open and palms up. “I am Malcom. You connected with me.”

  “You’re an asshole.” I was just close enough that when the urge to slap him washed over me, I didn’t resist and there was a resounding smack as my open palm touched his cheek.

  What a dick.

  I spun on my heel, prepared to walk the half block to my car and never, ever go on another fucking date again. In fact, I was seriously thinking about reconsidering my stance on lesbianism. If I could just train my libido…

  “You owe me a favor.”

  I froze. Damnit.

  It took a long time for me to turn back to face him, but when I did, I threw daggers at him with my eyes. Bastard.

  “I said you have to stay for the whole date. That’s the favor. And I’m going to hold you to it.”

  He looked marginally desperate, just for a second, before it melted away to that smooth, cocky exterior. What an asshole.

  Rage swelled inside me. He was the worst kind of man. The kind who felt entitled to whatever the fuck he wanted. He should be shot for that kind of personality. I didn’t have to fucking stay. I could leave whenever I wanted. Screw him and his stupid favor and… and…

  My body walked over to him mechanically. I thought about slapping him again, but didn’t. Because in the end, whatever kind of an egomaniac he was, he was right. I did owe him a favor. And I was a good enough person to hold up my end of the bargain.

  Even if I was so goddamned mad that I had heartburn.

  “Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll stay for the whole date. Then I’m done. If you text me again after this, I’ll feed your balls to my fish.”

  He grinned broadly at me, and okay, I didn’t have fish, but I’d get some just to keep that promise.

  He held up his hands to indicate he wouldn’t cross me, but I already knew that was bullshit.

  “Whatever,” I grumbled, then stalked past him into the main lobby again.

  The same snooty host was at the podium. His smile was snide as I approached him for the second time. “Trent Harvey,” I told him with acid in my tone.

  He blanched. “I’m sorry?”

  “You heard me, Ponyboy. Trent Harvey is the name. Does he have a table?”

  The man didn’t even have to look. His eyes were as wide as saucers, and he was nodding quickly. “Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Harvey. What a pleasure to have you back with us! Please, this way.” His eyes were fixed right over my shoulder where I presumed Harvey was standing.

  Bastard.

  The host grabbed two menus and escorted us through the crowded restaurant to the back, where there was an exclusive little booth. He seated us there.

  “Shall I bring out a wine list?”

  “No,” I said at the same time Harvey said, “Yes.”

  I scowled at him, but I could guess which of us the host would listen to. He disappeared quickly. What seemed like a second later, a clean-shaven young man came to our table and deposited not only two glasses of water, but a wine list.

  “Are you folks ready to order?”

  I just folded my arms over my chest, staring daggers at Harvey.

  He seemed unconcerned with my venom and smiled at the waiter. “The steak for me; chicken for the lady. And a bottle of red.”

  “Steak,” I blurted, even though I’d probably like the chicken better. But I’d be damned if I let this asshole order for me. “I’ll have the steak, too.”

  Harvey looked momentarily surprised but smiled and nodded. “The steak for the lady. I like a carnivore.”

  “Carnivore either way. Chicken’s still meat, asshole.”

  The waiter wisely backed away from the table, slipping out while he still could.

  Harvey ignored the asshole comment and leaned over the table toward me. “This is one of my favorite places,” he told me and looked ready to launch into some sentimental story about himself or whatever, but I wasn’t having it.

  “This where you take all your hostage dates?”

  His smile didn’t flicker as he answered, “Only the ones I really like.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and silently admitted to myself that the place was nice. Like, really nice. I wasn’t a poor college student anymore, so I got to treat myself every so often, but not to places like this. This was above my pay grade.

  “I love your dress,” he told me, his eyes wisely remaining firmly on my face, not my cleavage.

  It must have been a monumental feat for him.

  “Thanks.”

  The wine came quickly; the dinner would take a while. I debated the wisdom of getting plowed versus dealing with Harvey sober. It was going to be a long night, so I compromised with a sip of wine, coupled with a drink of water. Maybe I could at least dodge the hangover.

  “I’m glad you came,” he told me, sincerity all but dripping from his full, sensuous lips.

  But I wasn’t interested in sincerity or giving him a chance. In my book, he was still an asshole and would likely remain that way for a good, long while. Prick. “Glad one of us is,” I told him, holding my glass up to him before taking a sip.

  If he was disappointed by my statement, he didn’t show it. His expression remained pleased.

  When he didn’t add anything, I asked him about this date. “So, dinner? Very original.”

  He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, but his smile widened. “It’s actually dinner and a show.”

  I deliberately looked around us. I didn’t see any stage, no screens. Nothing to indicate there might be a show in addition to this very nice, very expensive dinner. “Really. And this show is, what, hiding on your phone?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s upstairs.”

  Okay, I was a little intrigued. “Upstairs?” From outside, it had looked like a simple one-story place. I thought I saw a gate of some kind along the outside edge of the building, but it hadn’t looked like much.

  Smiling, he nodded. “Yes. It’s exclusive, so even most of the guests won’t be staying for it. There are only a handful of seats.”

  I’m not impressed, I’m not impressed, I thought to myself, but even my inner self knew that was bullshit.

  Suddenly, this date had gotten a lot more interesting.

  The steaks took forever, but it was worth it. It was the best damn steak I’d ever had, cooked to perfection with just the right amount of pink in the middle. I didn’t even touch the A1 sauce, not wanting to ruin the flavor.

  I ate about half before slowing down, and when I looked up, I saw that Harvey was sipping at his wine, smiling at me. “Good?” he asked smugly.

  I spit my tongue out at him, even as my cheeks flushed. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate a compliment from such a lovely lady.�
�

  I dabbed at my mouth politely with the tip of my napkin. “I’m sure it’s nothing new for him,” I replied. I put my napkin down and reached for my wine again, reminding myself about small sips and water. “Some men are used to gaggles of women at their beck and call.”

  Harvey nodded absently. “Some guys are,” he agreed. “But only a few are lucky enough to have a woman like you in their life.”

  Okay, that was smooth. Charming, even. But I wasn’t stupid, not now that I knew who I was dealing with. If he thought he could win me over with a good—amazing—steak and some natural charm, he had another thing coming. There was a reason I didn’t trust charming men.

  Or men in general, at this point.

  “So what’s this show,” I asked, swapping topics. I wasn’t about to make it easy for him to just woo me.

  “It’s called Being Earnest. It’s about two men who both pretend to be Earnest—”

  “To win over a couple of batty, idiot women who are so hung up on a fucking name that they don’t care who it belongs to,” I finished helpfully for him.

  He looked slightly derailed that I was familiar with the story. “You’ve seen it before?”

  “Read the book,” I informed him. “I do work for a publishing company.”

  He laughed. “That’s an excellent point. I never should have underestimated you.”

  “That would be mistake number one, wouldn’t it?”

  Wincing, he took another sip of his wine, then set it back down gently. “Courtney, I know you’re angry with me.”

  “That’s a mild way of putting it, don’t you think?”

  He ignored me and continued. “But I asked you out tonight, because I want a shot. A real shot. Not at being your virtual boyfriend, but your in-the-flesh one.”

  I scoffed. “Meaning you want in my panties.”

  His gaze shifted over my body, and there was absolutely no arguing that sexual desire was part of his reasoning. But when his eyes came back to me, full of smoldering lust, I noticed that they were pleading with me. For a wild moment, I wondered if maybe he wanted more than just to get between my legs.