Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (18 page)

"You almost done in there? Cookies are about to go in the oven," Bridge calls from the kitchen.

I step back, snatching my fingers from beneath his. "Yeah!"

Bridge pokes her head through the doorway, grinning as she scans the room. "A winter wonderland!"

I try to copy her attitude, but my heart is pounding and I don't know where to look, where to go, what to do. In the end, I kneel over the box of decorations, pulling ornaments to hang on the tree, silent once more. Ollie helps. But the tension that surrounded us before Thanksgiving has returned, and I'm even more acutely aware of his every move than I was before. We're dancing around each other, afraid to get too close—two magnets working on opposite charges, with a certain amount of space constantly between us. While I'm standing by the tree, Ollie waits with the box of ornaments. When I'm done, we switch, maneuvering around the small space with self-conscious chuckles, little sighs that do nothing but hang in the air around us, making it thicker.

And then Ollie breaks the pattern.

"What's this?" he asks, walking to the tree, standing beside me. I look at his hand. My heart skips a beat.

"Mistletoe," I whisper. Because of course, he would find the mistletoe—the one single strand in a huge box of other Christmas decorations. Just my freaking luck. Then to fill the lingering silence, I add, "Bridge and I hung it over the doorway when we had that party."

He nods, runs a hand through his hair, fussing it up perfectly. And then he walks over to our door, hanging the strand above the frame. "Well?"

"Wh-what?" I stumble over the words.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes a clear turquoise once more. Piercing. "Tape?"

"Oh, right." I flinch, remembering the tape dispenser in my pocket. I rip off a piece and walk over, handing it to him.

But Ollie doesn’t take it.

He waits. Watches.

I reach up, careful to avoid touching him as I secure the mistletoe to the door, just barely able to reach the height. And then even though I know I shouldn't, I shift my eyes, gliding ever so slightly from the uncomplicated view of the door to the very complicated view of Ollie's burning expression.

He acts swiftly. I don't even have a chance to move.

We're kissing.

Before I even realize his lips are touching mine, they're gone. And I'm left with only the aftershock, the fire blazing on my skin, sizzling and tingling even though the contact lasted for less than a second and is already gone. I swallow, pulling my trembling fingers from the door, moving in slow motion. The warmth still lingers, mocking me, mocking the feelings I thought I’d gotten rid of a very long time ago.

"Skye," Ollie whispers, voice softer than I've ever heard before. "I'm—"

"I have to go," I interrupt, stepping away, backing up, fleeing to my room. Because I know what he was about to say.
I'm sorry
. All he ever has for me are apologies that come too little too late. And I don't want to hear them.

"Skye!" he shouts, but I'm already behind the closed door, heaving in air.

"What's going on?" Bridge asks, muffled from the door. My heart sinks. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Did I know that would happen? With Bridge only ten feet away!

"Nothing," I say back, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just forgot I told Patrick I would come see him tonight. I have to go."

"What did you do?" Bridge asks quietly, but I still hear, and I know exactly who that question is directed to. I stop midway through pulling a pair of jeans on. Ollie takes a moment to answer and I wish I could see his expression, but it's far away, on the other side of the door I felt was necessary to put between us.

"Nothing." He sighs. Denial. Good. But then he adds, "Nothing I regret, anyway."

Well, great.

What the heck does that mean?

"What are you talking about?" Bridge asks, voice as sassy as ever. And really, I want to hug her with gratitude. Go get him!

But I'm too furious to speak.

How dare he kiss me! How dare he, like nothing happened, like it's no big deal, with his sister—my best friend!—in the next room. I mean, the nerve! The sheer arrogance!

I shove my pants on, wincing a little as the zipper pinches my skin, but I'm in lightning speed mode. I need to get out of here. Away from him. Before I punch him in the face, and then Bridge will really know something is going on.

I take a deep breath, letting my hand hover over the knob, and then open the door. Bridge is glaring at Ollie. And Ollie, well he looks confused. His brows are pinched tight with concern, but a smug smile widens his lips. And that just makes the anger raging beneath my skin burn brighter. But I shove it down and smile because there is one thing more important than my fury and that's making sure Bridge remains ignorant of the situation. Because she can never, never know.

"Bridge, honestly, Ollie didn’t do anything. I just realized I'm late to see Patrick. I totally forgot." My voice is surprisingly chipper, deceptively easygoing—something I've never been able to attribute to my words before.

Ollie's eyes darken.

For the first time today, I successfully ignore him, throwing my arms around Bridge's neck and squeezing her for a tight hug. "Thanks for being the best roommate ever. Save me a cookie for when I get home tonight."

She clasps her hands behind my back, returning the embrace. "Will do. Have fun with your hunk of a man. If I had one, I'd be doing the same thing."

I roll my eyes but can't stop the little grin that sprouts, puffing my cheeks. And then I leave, walking out the door without a single look back. As soon as I make my way to the elevator and out the lobby, I can breathe again. I suck in deeply, letting the crisp winter air fill my lungs, liberating me from the stale air of the apartment a few stories above my head. My heartbeat slows to normal, and I feel free for the first time in days.

I don't really know what I want to do or where I want to go. My goal was just to escape, and I have. But I find myself wandering to the pharmacy, grabbing a few little Christmas decorations from the dollar shelf, and then boarding the subway heading uptown.

I've only been to Patrick's apartment once before—he cooked me dinner. But I think I know the way. And a little while later, his charmingly surprised face opens the door, mouth dropping before widening to a swoon-worthy grin. And I might swoon, just a little.

Before he can say anything, I plop a Santa hat on his head and hold up the gingerbread house kit I bought at the store. "Surprise?" I say and shrug.

"Best surprise I've had in a while," he murmurs, grabbing my hand, pulling me inside and against his chest. The heat from his skin is warm, comforting. Not a raging inferno, something more manageable. Something I can handle. And when his lips land on mine, I sink into the kiss instead of running away, because his touch sends a little spark down my spine. Not enough to drive me wild, not enough to make my brain stop functioning, but maybe it's better this way. He's not a storm pulling me under against my will. He's a choice I'm making for myself.

And as we fall onto the couch, lips still locked, my thoughts have a second to wander to another choice I could make. To the clothes packed in my handbag just in case I decide to spend the night. Just in case I decide I'm ready.

So…I wasn't ready. Big shocker! What is wrong with me? I'm twenty-two. It should not be this hard. I ended up staying the night, cuddling against his chest under his surprisingly cozy blankets, waking up to a kiss and a hot cup of coffee. I mean, the boy is perfect. So I say again—what is wrong with me?

"Skylar, any updates?" Victoria asks from across the conference room. We're having our weekly meeting with the Style team, only it got pushed back from the normal time on Tuesday mornings to Thursday afternoon.

I spit the sip of latte I just started to take back into my cup, coughing. And then look down sadly. Ew—backwash. I read somewhere once that the last tenth of any drink you consume is all backwash. I mean, how nasty is that? You end up just drinking your own spit. Disgusting. And yet…I don't think I have the heart to say goodbye to my nutmeg laced coffee just yet.

"Skylar?"

Oh, right. My boss!

"Yes," I say quickly, covering up for the space out. "I just finished a new column, all about date night ideas to spice up the holiday season. On Sunday, I surprised Patrick by showing up with a few lights, candles, and a gingerbread house kit. With romantic lighting and soft Christmas music, any setting can become magical. I ended the piece with a few more ideas, ice-skating or a movie night, things like that. And added a part about how to seal the deal before the night is through, or just bring new heat to a long-term relationship. I think the readers will definitely swoon." I mean, I know I did.

"And it's on my desk?" Victoria asks, scratching down some notes.

"Yup."

"Good. And how about holiday gift guides? What are your ideas?"

I bite my lip, closing my eyes for a moment. When I open, Blythe catches my gaze, smirking. Did I mention I'm meeting Patrick's parents for the first time tonight? Who also happen to be Blythe's parents? And did I also mention that she's been dropping hints all day, you know, about the utter sabotage she is about to lay down?

Well, she is. And guess what? I'm terrified.

I mean, meeting the parents for the first time is always a little nerve-racking. But when you're a sex columnist who's sort of totally embarrassed about being a sex columnist, that little feeling of nerves gets blown up to full-on panic attack pretty quickly. And right now, Blythe is subtly rubbing her wrist—a gentle reminder that the day ends in fifteen minutes and then the two of us will be alone for however long it takes to get to a brownstone on the Upper East Side.

I look away, back to Victoria. "Well, for the gift guides, I got assigned to gifts for style-savvy techies, so I put together a list of about twenty-five different ideas and put that on your desk to review. iPhone cases, monogram decals, adjustable camera lenses for your phone, various gadgets."

And then I wait. Because I have a feeling I know what's coming next.

"Great." Victoria nods, and for a moment I really think what I was afraid of might not happen. That I might be in the clear. But then she opens her mouth, still holding eye contact with me, and my heart sinks. "For your next column, I want you to put together a sexy gift guide. Costumes. Toys. Accessories. Things like that. Okay?"

I swallow, trying to cover the gulp. "Of course."

Ugh.

I knew it.

I knew this would happen.

I have to talk about toys. Toys? The only toys I know about are Barbie dolls and video games. And that's fine with me.

"Okay, that should be it, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow. Skylar, can you come to my office with me?"

I subtly spit my coffee out again, holding back a sigh.

Goodbye, nutmeg.

"Sure," I mumble and then toss the paper cup in the trash, following Victoria out the door. My heart starts beating fast—Victoria wants me to come to her office. Why? Am I underperforming? My columns have gotten great traction so far. I even have a little following on a Facebook fan page I created for my penname. I mean, I wasn't going to write these under a real name! But still, the anonymous fame is pretty fun. Even if I find myself answering sex questions nonstop. Sometimes, I feel a little guilty handing out totally false advice. But I always ask Bridge for her opinion, so at least my responses themselves come from a place of experience—even if I have none.

"Skylar, I want you to look through these for your gift guide. A couple of different retailers sent them to our office as samples," Victoria says when we step into her office, and she hands me a loosely sealed cardboard box. "When you're done, just get rid of everything. I don't really find these sorts of things appropriate to keep in a newsroom."

My smile wavers.

Good god—what’s in the box?

For a moment, my fingers flinch, ready to drop the thing like it’s a bomb about to explode, but I hold on.

Stay professional.

You can do this.

"Thank you, Victoria. Have a wonderful evening," I say, doing that smile I've mentioned before—the sweet killer look.

"You too," she says, but her attention is already on the e-mails waiting in her inbox and I know I've been dismissed.

As soon as I get back to my cubicle, I drop the box loudly on my desk with a heavy sigh, and take a step back—staring at it as though it might bite.

"What's in that?" Rebecca chimes. Isabel is out today, so it's just me, Rebecca, and Blythe in the assistant corner.

"I don't really want to know," I mumble. "Just some things for my gift guide."

Rebecca immediately perks up, rolling her chair closer. "Ooh, let's take a look. This could be good."

I step back, giving her room, and she keeps wheeling slowly closer.

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm curious. Not curious enough to get any closer, mind you, but intrigued enough not to stop a girl on a mission.

Rebecca stands, slowly opening the cardboard flaps, and lets out a laugh. "Oh my god."

Blythe jumps into action, crossing the small space and taking a look. Even the permanently composed ice queen cracks a smile, glancing at me with humor dancing in her irises. Then they both look at me expectantly, waiting for me to join them. And dang it…I sort of want to. But I remain seated, holding my ground.

Rebecca breaks, reaching into the box to pull out a see-through red lace bra with a matching thong. "Patrick will love this," she says and winks.

Blythe just makes a noise of pure disgust, muttering, "Tacky."

"And these," Rebecca keeps going, pulling out a set of fuzzy handcuffs next.

My face starts to redden.

Next out is a bottle of some sort of lotion, and I don't want to know more than that.

"Oh my god, look at these," she exclaims, holding out a box of Santa hat pasties. My cheeks are on fire. Literally. I think I might self-combust in the middle of the newsroom. Just poof, vanish into a cloud of ash, dying from embarrassment.

"What about this?" Blythe remarks. And her tone is way too nice, way too cheerful to be sincere. So I jump out of my seat, snatching the cardboard flaps and slamming them closed. Blythe barely has time to jerk her hand out of the way lest it be chopped off in my speed. And hey, I'm moving pretty well for a girl with a broken wrist. But I know one thing for sure—I do not want to see whatever Blythe was about to pull out of my little box of horrors.

"Okay, time to go," I say, shutting down my computer and tucking the box safely under my desk, as far away as I can hide it.

"Are you so eager to meet my parents?" Blythe comments while buttoning her red peacoat.

"Is there any reason I shouldn't be?"

"No, of course not…" she trails off. I bite my tongue, waiting, because obviously, there's something else she wants to say. Wait for it. Wait for it. Blythe throws her purse over her shoulder and then looks back at me, smiling. Here we go… "It's just, they loved Patrick's last girlfriend. Her parents were diplomats. She graduated from Harvard last year, neuroscience major, pre-med. They were heartbroken when he ended things."

Wonderful.

I sigh.

Future doctor, phony sex columnist—those are practically on equal playing grounds, right?

Right…

Not.

I follow Blythe to the elevator, squeezing in with the crowd, thankful for the silence. Speaking on the elevator always just seems a little strange to me, awkward, you know? I mean, come on. All anyone does on an elevator when two people are having a conversation is listen in—you're stuck in a box, there's nothing else to do beside eavesdrop!

"Uh, Skylar?" Blythe calls to me when we step outside the office. I've already turned toward the subway station. But I pause, spinning. She's standing next to a black town car, shaking hands with a driver in a suit, conversing like they are best friends. "My mom sent her car to pick us up."

I mean, duh. Obviously. Why didn't I think of that?

"Thank you," I murmur to the driver as I slip through the door, which he shuts behind me. The seats are a fine tan leather. The handles are mahogany. There are even new bottles of water waiting in the cup holders for us.

I fold my hands in my lap, unsure. Blythe and I don't really do one-on-one girl time. I'm too afraid of her for that—and for good reason.

"So," Blythe chirps, bouncing on her seat to shift directions, facing me. "Before we pretend to be best friends for my parents, I just want you to know one thing. I'm on to you, Skylar."

I gulp at her ominous tone. Did I suddenly get thrown into a James Bond film? She's on to me? On to what? "Uh, I'm not really sure what you mean, Blythe."

"I've never known a sex columnist who loves to play innocent so much," she drawls.

And I can’t help it. I throw on a snarky attitude and smile. Maybe Bridge is finally rubbing off on me. "How many sex columnists do you know, exactly?"

Her eyes narrow. "You blush like a fifteen-year-old girl every time we have to discuss your columns in our weeklies. You can't even say the word sex without smiling self-consciously. And the only R-rated stories you tell are in writing. Not once have I heard you say any of this out loud, because you can't. You're just lucky my brother isn’t one to kiss and tell, or one to rat out a friend."

My heart is pounding, but I try to keep my voice as steady as possible. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Oh, you know," she whispers, and I find I'm leaning in to hear every one of her words. "We work for a newspaper. We're supposed to work in journalism, not fiction."

"Everything I write in my columns comes from my heart," I say, and it's not a lie. Really. All the sentiments I put on paper are real, it's just the details that are a little, well, embellished. "It's just easier for me to write about these things, rather than talk about them out loud. That makes me shy, not a liar."

Blythe just nods, smiling sweetly. "Okay…"

Except she says it in a way that means everything but. Maybe if I get her angry, she'll crack. I lick my lips, nibbling on the lower one a little, thinking.

Just go for it.

"You're jealous," I remark flippantly. "You were working there before me, and instead of giving you a column of your own, Victoria hired me."

"Jealous of you?" Blythe asks, only it's not a question, not at all. "Please. I just don't like the entire city reading about my brother's private life every week."

"I don't even write out his name, only initials. There is no way anyone knows who he is unless he wants them to."

"I know who he is," she says just as the car pulls to a stop outside of a gorgeous brownstone on Fifth Avenue, right across the street from Central Park. "And as soon as I can, I'm telling Victoria who you really are. I just have to wait for my brother to break up with you first. And trust me, Skylar, it's only a matter of time."

And then the driver opens the door so Blythe can make a perfectly grand exit, while I scoot ungracefully across the seat, catching my coat button on a buckle and practically falling out of the car. By the time I get to the front door, Patrick is already there holding it open for his sister.

"Hey, Skylar." He leans down, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Hey," I murmur, trying to hide the fact that anything is the matter. "I was worried you'd be late."