by Brill Harper
How could I have not recognized his name? If I had to guess, I was distracted by his eyes. Okay, no, his eyes are nice. Magnetic, really, steel gray rimmed in navy, but it is his lips that drew my gaze. The bottom one makes me want to sink my teeth into it. But maybe, if I’m being honest, it was his broad chest that distracted me, the way it fills out his silky black shirt and the way his torso tapers in a lean line...
Damn, no wonder he is such a threat to the women of the city.
Now all my blog hits make a lot more sense. I’ve been riding on the popularity wave as if it was some kind of cosmic fluke, but really, my blog is completely necessary to the safety of women’s hearts everywhere. I’m a virtual superhero.
“I’m your nemesis?” Dane repeats. “So I take it this means you don’t like me,” he adds dryly.
My skin flushes hot then cold. Despite being Goliath to my David, my behavior toward him is atrocious. “Again, I’m sorry. It’s not that I dislike you. It’s...”
“It’s?” he repeats.
It’s just that you’re so far out of reach you may as well be on a different planet.
I signal a passing waitress and desperately hold up my glass for another drink. “If my mother saw the way I mucked up this conversation, I’d be painting fence slats every day for a week.”
Dane’s good-natured grin falters. “I’m sorry—what are you talking about?”
“I hated painting the fence. It was my worst punishment. Which she knew of course, which is why anytime she caught me being rude to someone, it was out to the fence for me. I swear, we had the whitest pickets in the county. It’s not like I mean to be rude, I don’t. I’m just honest. To a fault. Which is why I’m not your biggest fan.”
“Because you’re honest?”
“Because you’re not.”
Well, that pissed him off. I can tell because he’s frowning, and his face looks unaccustomed to it. He probably doesn’t have to express disapproval very often. I bet people, men and women alike, go out of their way to make the road smoother for Dane Martin.
“You just met me. What makes you think I’m dishonest?”
I sit back in my chair. “I’ve met dozens of you, actually. Sometimes your name is Joe or Mike or David. Sometimes you wear Armani instead of Ralph Lauren. Once in a while, you are a lawyer or a business tycoon or a sales rep for Bowflex. You go to my gym, eat at my favorite Thai place, jog in the same park...I’ve even met you at a Bris.”
Dane, for his part, looks mortified. “I’ve never even been to a Bris.”
I shrug. “Maybe not, but there you were, wearing a great suit, drinking a Molson, and regaling me with reasons why I should sleep with you...without actually saying I should sleep with you. I believe your name was Todd that day.”
“How many drinks have you had tonight?” he asks, nonplussed.
“One. Is that waitress ever coming back?” I look around impatiently. “Dane, your website is horrible and should be outlawed before you ruin any more single men than you already have.”
He looks surprisingly ruffled. “My website is horrible?” He, too, holds up his glass to the waitress taking orders at another table. “My website wins all kinds of awards. There is nothing wrong with my website. And I don’t ruin men. Men do that all on their own. I fix them.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You encourage poor behavior, artificial relationships, and dehumanize women.”
“I love women!” It comes out pretty loud, so he takes a deep breath and brings his voice down. “Why would you think I dehumanize women?”
“You basically have three categories that you put us in: fuckable, unfuckable, and can’t fuck.” I ignore his raised eyebrows and the sound of my mother in my head chastising my language and carry on. “One group you basically hunt, one group you categorically ignore as not having any value at all, and the last you put on a pedestal because they are related to you or married to your buddy or something, and while maybe you’d love to bed them, you can’t so they will always be idealized as perhaps perfect since you’ll never know.”
Dane smiles at the waitress as she sets down the drinks, but as soon as she is out of earshot, he bears down on me. “Have you even looked at my website? I’ve never put women into categories. I love women. I encourage men to rise to the occasion and make themselves worthy of pursuing women. I discourage lying in all forms.”
“What’s wrong with people just being who they are?” I ask sipping my Cosmo. Okay. Not exactly sipping. I suppose gulping is a better term.
“They don’t get laid,” Dane answers simply. “Women want certain kinds of men in their bed, and if a man doesn’t project that image, he won’t get laid. It’s that simple.”
“And that’s the end game for you, right?” I lean across the table and looked deeply into his eyes. “Getting laid?”
He doesn’t answer, just leans toward me and stares back. Wow. He packs a wallop with those eyes. They are...primal. My heart rate kicks up a notch. A far-off voice in my head reminds me that Dane is using one of his tricks to seduce me right now. And I’ll listen to that voice in just a minute. Right now, I’m enjoying the sexual energy fizzing between us.
“You’re attracted to me,” he says.
“Of course, I am.” Duh. “You’re an attractive guy. And you emit enough sexual pheromones to power a small city. I’m sure I’d even enjoy sleeping with you.”
“Yes, yes you will,” Dane assures me.
Is it possible to concuss yourself from an eyeroll? If it’s executed very heartily? “Except that I won’t. I’m not looking for an Alpha-man-about-town.”
“Maybe you should be.” He grins, his gray eyes darkening into storm clouds of sin.
Fuck me. Not good.
“Mr. Martin—”
“Dane,” he interrupts.
“Dane, perhaps I should tell you a little bit about my blog. You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s called Girl Next Door.”
It’s as if I threw a glass of cold water on him. He sits back, immediately wary. Like I might reach across the table and claw his eyes out or something. “I recognize your name now. Your blog has made my life a little harder.”
He certainly doesn’t look any worse for wear, but I remind myself that Dane Martin and his flock are the reason I sold my book. “So you see, finding you physically attractive is one thing, but taking you to bed is quite another. You and Mike and Todd and Dave are more or less the enemy.”
“Only because you make it a war, Holly. Sex doesn’t have to be an adversarial conflict all the time.” He reaches a long arm across the table and settles his hand over mine. My God. His forearm makes my ovaries quiver. I’m sure his ass is wonderful, but give me a thick, meaty forearm with just the right amount of hair and a watch and I need to change my panties. Shit, he’s still talking, and I’ve tuned out. “Sex is really quite enjoyable. You might even like it.”
“I love sex,” I blurt out. A little too loudly. Yanking my hand away, I send him my most sincere “eff you” glare and feel my skin erupting in a blush hot enough to start a fire. Dropping my voice and hopefully gaining some composure, I say, “And it wouldn’t be so adversarial if you would stop treating dating like a hunt.”
“Women are on the prowl for husbands; men are on the prowl for sex. I didn’t write the play; I’m just a gifted actor.”
Seriously? He might be pretty to look at, but if he believes his own hype, he’s in trouble. “Why are we even here?” I hate bars like Felony. Women stand a much better chance at finding worthwhile men in places like museums and grocery stores than places like this.
Dane looks around, and I notice his eyes rest briefly on the bachelorette table currently hooting as the bride does a shot of something neon. When he remembers himself, his gaze flits back to me, and he winces a little at the glare I’m sending him.
It really isn’t his fault that I can’t hold his attention. I’m not his type and he knows he isn’t going to get lucky with me, despite whatever reason our agents th
ought to set us up. Of course, he is on the lookout for his next conquest. It shouldn’t disappoint me, but it does.
“Now would be a good time to say goodnight,” I say. There is no reason to put myself through this any longer.
He has the graciousness to look a little wounded by my abrupt change of conversation. “We haven’t even danced yet.”
I look around. “There isn’t a dance floor here.” Though wouldn’t it be nice to be held in those arms for a few minutes? I imagine a darkened room, his hand on the small of my back, his chest pressing against my breasts...
Dane stands, flagging the waitress to put the drinks on his tab, and offers me his hand. “About three doors down is the best jazz in the city.”
Jazz. He really does take himself seriously.
He doesn’t let go of my hand as I rise slowly, and an unexpected rush of heat floods every inch of my skin. His hand is strong, warm. And his eyes are warmer, lit with an internal fire that makes my blood sing.
Wow. Just wow.
He gently pushes my bangs from my eyes and keeps his fingers near my temple. My breath catches as he stares at my lips. “I’d really like to dance with you, Holly.”
The world stills while he traps me in his hungry gaze, making me feel impossibly decadent feelings. All the reasons why it is a bad idea to stay should be yammering at me, instead, I lean into his touch like a cat yearning to be petted.
This is how he lures sensible women into his lair. A well-placed touch, an intense glance, a confidence in his prowess—Dane commands all the forces of nature in his hands like a dark wizard, and I’m powerless against the onslaught of his shadow magic.
As he leads me through the maze of people looking for a connection, I feel strangely honored. Like being singled out by the captain of the football team. The idea of it angers me, that I’m being so shallow, and that he has that much sway over me. Still, I’m not planning on losing my heart to the man. I like the way he’s making me feel, like his masculinity is ramping up my femininity.
I become hyperaware of myself, the way my nipples pebble beneath my bra, the heaviness between my legs, and the languid sway of my hips as we walk. My blood pulses, pulling and dragging the sensations throughout my entire body.
The jazz club we duck into is small and intimate, with no sign announcing its presence from the street. Like a step back in time to a prohibition speakeasy, it feels secretive and maybe a little dangerous. The only light comes from the many candles throughout the bar, and a mournful sax solo on stage punctuates the feelings of an era gone by.
Dane holds my hand firmly as he leads me to the dance floor in front of the stage where only a few other couples, lost in their own worlds, sway as the sax solo ends and a woman in a red dress and a ‘20s bob resumes singing.
We are on a freaking movie set. We have to be. This is not how real people live, is it?
He molds me to him, pressing his hard planes to my soft ones all at once, and I sigh with pleasure. I should at least try to insert some propriety into the situation, but I’m lost as how to overrule my body. So instead, I sink deeper into his embrace and lay my head on his chest. He smells delicious. Ridiculously so. Not a cologne, it isn’t cloying, but just a hint of something woodsy and spicy that I can’t name but would like to spend hours trying to.
As one song drifts into the next, I tilt my head up to look at him. “I’m not going to sleep with you, you know.”
“I can be very persuasive, Holly.” He presses a hand into my lower back firmly so that I feel, in detail, the state of his arousal.
He is thick and impossibly hard. That I caused his reaction is flattering and empowering, until I remember that he is supposedly the most virile man in the city. This is what he does; he seduces women, making them feel good about themselves and weakening their defenses for self-preservation. Impressing them with his penis.
I shake my head. “I like sex too much to waste it on a throwaway night with you, Mr. Virile. Sorry.”
A momentary flash of confusion troubles his brow. He’s not used to a challenge, it would seem, and probably most especially one about his sex appeal. “I guarantee you won’t feel like you wasted a night with me.”
“Oh, but I would. You see, sex with a stranger is mediocre, at best.”
“You obviously haven’t had great sex,” he counters.
I feel just sassy enough to press my breasts harder into his granite torso. “No, Mr. Martin, I’m afraid it’s you who hasn’t had great sex. You’re missing out on the next level. When you actually know and care about your partner, it’s...exquisite.”
Good God, there is a smoldering fire banked in those eyes of his. The promise of heat. Sex with him would be amazing, I’m sure he’s right about that. But neither am I wrong. When there is real intimacy, not just body parts and pheromones, sex is even better. I’ll have to remind myself of that later when I’m alone with a pint of mint chip and lamenting the lost opportunity I had at getting naked with a veritable sex god.
I break the eye contact first, probably a sign of weakness, but it’s getting too intense. This isn’t just about me and my hormones. I have my readership to think about. Women who depend on my advice. If I can’t lead by example, I have no business leading at all.
“This has been entertaining, but I think it’s time for me to go.”
His hand presses possessively into the small of my back. “This isn’t over, Ms. Winters. I intend to collect on my spoils of the hunt someday soon.”
“Oh, Mr. Martin, I promise you’ll find bigger, better game and forget all about me.”
But will I be able to forget about him?
Scene Around column from Port Calypso Daily News
TWO OF PORT CALYPSO’S celebrities holding hands at the newly trending club, Felony, is usually not news, but last night, this society page reporter got a lead on an up-and-coming viral sensation, because these two aren’t your average celebs.
Dane Martin, of popular dating advice website Mister Virile, and author of the coming soon release, Coming on Strong was seen canoodling with none other than our favorite Girl Next Door blogger, Holly Winters. As most of our PC Daily readers know, Ms. Winters was our advice columnist for three years before striking out on her own. Her untitled book, out next year, is reportedly a self-help book for women struggling to find commitment among the Virile sycophants.
Has the Girl Next Door tamed the most Virile man alive, or is she just another notch on the bedpost?
CHAPTER THREE
Holly
I’M EYEING MY AGENT across the conference room table, waiting in vain for him to give me a satisfactory explanation. Mitch, on the other hand, refuses to look up from the fascinating grain of the wood in front of him. He is not himself, that much is clear. I almost feel sorry for him, despite the fact that I’m livid.
Usually, my agent was 007 cool. It doesn’t hurt that he is also 007 hot, either. At least that’s what my friends say, and I pretend not to notice. All that black wavy hair and McDreamy eyes are hard to ignore though.
“Mitch,” I begin.
He sighs. “I’m really sorry, Holly. What I did was completely unprofessional, and you should fire me right now. I had no idea the press would be there. It was supposed to be a simple blind date, not a media event, I swear.”
Temples throbbing despite my attempts to soothe them with my hands, I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to fire my agent. I like Mitch. He is doing a great job handling all the things I have zero interest in taking care of myself. But I don’t understand what possessed him to set me up on a blind date, with or without a gossip columnist nearby.
“Why on Earth did you want me to go on a date with Mr. Virile?” I ask, finally, since apparently, he isn’t offering to fill in the blanks voluntarily.
“It was a stupid bet. Magdalene thinks the sun sets on that guy. I knew you could take him on with one hand behind your back, so I may have casually mentioned that not every woman is into that kind of Don Juan...and someh
ow a cage match was born.”
His explanation actually makes things worse. My blood pressure begins to rise. “You were right. That was totally unprofessional of you. I still don’t understand why you would risk our working relationship and your reputation for a bet. It’s not like you at all.”
Mitch leans back in his chair and blows out a breath. He wrestles with some inner demons for a long minute before he meets my eyes. “It isn’t like me at all, and you have every reason to be upset. I’ve lost my mind...losing more every day. It’s just that...it’s...I’m in love with her.”
His confession wasn’t easy. A blush paints over his cheeks and softens my anger, righteous as it is. “Oh, Mitch.”
He holds up a stilling hand. “I know, I know. Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“It’s stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking other than I hoped if you could manage to wrangle the virile guy somehow, she might be less inclined to hero worship him so much.” He scrubs his hands over his cheeks. “She says she doesn’t want a commitment. That relationships and monogamy are outdated. I am, essentially, her booty call. I’ve tried everything. I’m so in love with her that I’m willing to take whatever scraps she’ll heave at me, and it’s tearing me up.”
I cover Mitch’s hand with my own in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. How many letters and emails about this have I answered over the length of my career? Granted, usually it is the women who pine for men who refuse to commit, but the predicament is nothing new, even in a mirror image.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two years. I shouldn’t be telling you this, it’s so unprofessional. Of course, you’re probably going to fire me anyway...”
