Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (8 page)

"Everyone, this is Skylar," Blythe announces somewhat begrudgingly, pointing a finger in my direction. At the mention of my name, I snap out of my somewhat stalkerish trance and look around at the rest of the group. There are two other guys, both dressed in nice suits with loosened ties. But my eyes are drawn back to the boy who is now standing, opening his arms to bring Blythe in for a hug.

Are they dating? Just what I need, to land a tweenage crush on Blythe's boyfriend. But as they pull away, I realize it's much worse. They have the same profile, the same nose, the same chin…

It's not her boyfriend.

It's her brother.

"I'm Patrick Keaton," he says, extending a hand in my direction. I numbly accept, shaking, all the while trying to figure out how someone so evil could be related to someone so…not. At least, I hope not. "These are my friends Dan and Josh."

Dan reminds me of a politician, you know, with one of those smiles that's just too perfect to be real and looks more like a fancy façade hiding a well of inner disdain? One of those, complete with sparkling white teeth. And Josh looks like a player, too good-looking to be a nice person sort of thing. He also has sunglasses on top of his head even though it's after sunset, and is currently guzzling his own pitcher of beer, so there are other signs.

"Nice to meet you guys," I murmur, letting the other girls squeeze into the booth first. But they all follow Blythe and I'm left taking the seat next to Patrick, which isn’t really a bad place to be, except I'm suddenly hyperaware of really ridiculous things. Does my breath smell? Am I taking up too much room? Is my hair too flat? Am I too close to him? Should I fold my hands on my lap, or maybe put them on top of the table, or cross my arms? And then I do all three of those things…twice. Before I start to look like I'm having a seizure, I finally put one hand in my lap and one on the table as a compromise.

"So, Skylar," Patrick asks conversationally, "are you an assistant too?"

Before I can respond, Blythe chips in, "She's the sex columnist."

Josh perks up, lifting his head out of his pitcher and looking at me with newfound admiration. Well, thanks for that, Blythe.

"It’s more of a dating column," I rush to say, biting back the rest of my nervous chatter before I accidentally confess how far from a sex columnist I really am. Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time. I need to change the subject. "What do you guys do?"

"Investment banking," Dan responds.

"Ah," I sigh, looking around at the sea of pinstripes with understanding. Bankers. The unattainable group of Manhattan men single women seem to chase with total abandon—they're wealthy, good-looking, known to have a wandering eye, which in an odd way makes them all the more attractive. It seems like I've inadvertently found the jackpot—too bad those are all traits I've never really been interested in. Well, haven’t been interested in until now, I correct myself, meeting Patrick's flirtatious gaze.

"Ah, what?" he asks, the hint of a friendly challenge in his voice.

"Oh, nothing." I shake my head. "I didn’t mean anything by it. It's just, you know, now I get why you're all in suits."

He narrows his eyes, letting me know he sensed the sidestep, but then a waitress comes over to ask if we want anything to drink. Blythe gets a cosmopolitan. Rebecca orders a glass of white wine. Isabel decides on a dark and stormy, whatever that is. And then it's my turn and there's really no doubt what I need—a cold beer. It may not be the most fashionable drink, but as I take a long sip, relishing the citrus tinted taste swirling down my throat, all I can think is oh, yeah—this is what I've been waiting for all week. Instantly, I'm a little less on edge. It's really amazing what a little bit of cold beer can do.

While I'm still sipping, Patrick leans over and whispers, "You don't really seem like someone Blythe would normally hang out with."

"Why?" I ask after putting my cup down. "Because I'm not a size zero, and I think spending thousands of dollars on a handbag is insane?"

Whoa, where'd that attitude come from? I'm not really sure, but I sort of like it. Apparently Patrick does too because he laughs, not pulling away. The gentle caress of his breath tickles the spot of skin just below my ear, and I know if I turned to look at him, we'd be close enough to kiss. I mean, I won't. But just knowing that sends a little thrill down my spine and raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I take another sip, feeling flushed.

"No," he finally says. "You look like the kind of girl who could go sailing without worrying that the wind would ruin your hair."

Huh. A little random, but I'll go with it. "Do you sail?"

"Don't you?" he responds, as though the very idea of not sailing is utterly insane. But isn’t it really the sort of thing only fifty-year-old men with too much time on their hands do? I try to picture it—the ocean, the sun, the idea of being all alone with no one and nothing in sight. Patrick's smiling face pushes its way into my imagination, but now he's wearing a bathing suit, six-pack abs, and nothing else. And I'm in a bikini—stomach maybe a little flatter than it is in real life, but hey, this is my fantasy! And we're floating, sipping on champagne. We're surrounded by sparkling sapphire blue, stuck in a gemstone.

I shrug. Suddenly sailing doesn’t seem so bad. Actually, it sort of seems like the most romantic thing in the world.

"I could get into sailing," I say almost subconsciously, not realizing I spoke aloud until Patrick's grin deepens and I feel mine doing the same. I'm about to turn and look at him, finally meeting his gaze, when—

"Ow!" I howl, jumping about five-feet in the air as I reach for my shin. What the heck? I rub the sore spot. Someone kicked me. Someone wearing pointy-toed shoes. I look up.

Blythe is staring me down from across the table. She blinks and the look is gone, replaced by concern. "Oh my goodness, Skylar, I'm so sorry. I was just crossing my legs."

Little brat. Of course, I can't say that. So instead I do that secret loathing smile Blythe taught me—she is the master after all—and say, "Oh, don’t worry about it. I'm totally fine."

But Blythe has already forgotten me, turning her attention on her brother. "So, did you hear that Dad wants us to spend Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa in Connecticut? I mean, how lame."

And just like that, I've lost him. Patrick turns to his sister, pulled into family drama, and I'm completely forgotten by his side.

Oh, she's good.

She's very, very good.

For the next forty-five minutes or so, I nod politely while Dan and Josh switch between arguing about some multi-million dollar deal they're working on and arguing about football. Then I try to edge my way into Isabel and Rebecca's conversation but fail miserably when I realize they're discussing designers I know nothing about. Blythe is still whining about spending Christmas outside of New York City, which really doesn’t seem like more than a five-minute conversation to me or all that terrible, truth be told. And I realize my job here is done. I bonded with my fellow assistants a little bit, maybe have enough to pull some sort of column together for next week, and would rather go home to binge watch reality television with Bridget then remain here and feel obsolete.

"I'm going to go," I mutter and stand up. No one really seems to mind. They're all too deep in their own worlds and I wonder if this is one of those social cues Rebecca said I have a hard time picking up on.

Just as I'm halfway down the street, someone calls my name.

"Skylar!"

I turn, unable to stop the little flip my heart makes inside my chest. "Patrick?"

He runs over, completely confident as he lays a hand on my arm. "Why are you leaving?"

I shrug, sort of wondering the same thing as I start to get a little lost in the evergreen edges of his eyes. "I, um, I just have some work I need to do for tomorrow."

He nods, not hesitating for a second before replying, "What are you doing on Saturday?"

I gulp, unused to a guy with such unbreakable confidence. Is he even the slightest bit worried that I might turn him down? I mean, I won't—at least if my racing pulse is anything to go by. But I could. And against my normally neurotic nature, I decide to make him guess a little bit. "Why? What’s happening on Saturday?"

He bites his lower lip, ensuring that my attention is brought to that exact part of his very kissable body. "Well, I sort of hope that answer will be going out with me."

Straight to the point, and I kind of like it.

Patrick is the sort of boy Victoria wants me to date. I can tell just by looking at him. Definitely sexy. Confident if not cocky. With deep enough pockets to take me on lavish dates that our readers will love to sit in on. And just far enough out of reach to make me insecure in where I stand—which, I'll admit, scares me. I mean, he's the opposite of my ex. John was steady. He was safe. But then I blink, heart-pinching—John broke my heart anyway.

"Sure," I find myself whispering, caution blown away in the wind. What have I got to lose?

I'm a total romantic. Flowers, chocolates, kissing in the rain—bring on the clichés! I pretty much spend all of December watching those made for TV movies about Christmas. The cheesier, the better.

"Wait, he's picking you up?" Bridget yells from her room. "What does that even mean?"

We've both spent the past hour speaking through the wall, comparing and contrasting outfits while we ready ourselves for our dates. I've settled on a curve-hugging midnight blue dress, obviously stolen from Bridget's closet, and even broke out my old push-up bra for the occasion. And the ladies look fantastic, if I do say so myself.

"I don't know," I shout while staring into the mirror. Do I like these pearl earrings? Or how about these gold ones? Though silver makes the grayish blue in my eyes stand out… "He just said to text him my address and he'd come pick me up at eight."

"Like, in a car?" Bridget is really stuck on this idea. "Or in a cab? Or are you walking? I just, I've never even heard of someone picking someone up for a first date in this city."

"I think it's sort of sweet," I say.

"Well, however he's picking you up, he'll be here any minute."

Crap!

I jerk away from the mirror, deciding on the silver earrings, and take a step back, pulling my dress down to smooth out the wrinkles, doing a little twirl, you know, surveying. According to Skylar standards, I went all out tonight. Wedges—the closest thing to heels that I can safely manage. Full makeup covering the spatter of freckles that span my cream cheeks. A little pouf in my hardly ever styled hair.

I look good.

"You look hot," Bridget says, echoing my thoughts as she peeks her head through the door. "How about me?"

"Gorgeous!" And I mean it. Soft curls lighten her thick red hair. The evergreen skinny jeans look fantastic against her natural coloring, especially paired with that black sparkly top. And next time, I need to borrow whatever eyeliner she's wearing because her eyes pop—in a good way!

The phone on my desk vibrates.

I freeze as nerves surge up my spine.

He's here.

Suddenly I can't breathe. My eyes go wide.

"Uh, Skye?" Bridge says.

I shake my head. I can't speak. My voice has run away. It's in hiding.

He's here.

Oh my god, what was I thinking saying yes! He's so far out of my league it's laughable. So attractive. So good-looking. So going to break my heart.

"Skye!" Bridge runs over and grabs my shoulder. "Stop freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," I squeak. My hands are shaking. I might be hyperventilating. Is the room starting to spin?

"Come on," Bridget nudges, grabbing my purse before taking my hands and tugging me from my room. I think she's going to let go when we make it into the living room, but she doesn't. She just keeps pulling me past our kitchen and right to the front door.

"Bridge, really, it's okay," I protest, but she just shakes her head, letting one hand go to open the apartment door.

"As if I'll believe you. The last time I saw you this nervous was junior year in high school when Chris asked you on a date. You told me you didn’t need me to come over and help you get ready, then I find out from everyone later that night that you totally bailed on him. Well, if this guy is so chivalrous that he's picking you up outside of our apartment, no way am I letting you blow it by hiding in the emergency staircase or something ridiculous like that until he gives up and leaves."

"I wouldn't hide in the staircase…" Though I admit, now that she said it, the idea doesn't sound half bad.

Ignoring me, she continues to yank on my arm, practically pulling it out of its socket—which when you think about it really wouldn’t be the ideal way to start my date. But a few minutes later, I'm in the elevator, purse in hand, watching in horror as the doors close, leaving me by myself.

"Bridge!" I shout, banging on the metal just as it seals shut.

How could she leave me like this?

I swallow. Heat rises under my skin. Suffocating. The walls start to close in. I watch as the numbers click lower and lower, butterflies zipping around my stomach. And not in that cute anticipating way, but in this painful, terror inducing way. And then suddenly, I visualize my escape—the perfect excuse for retreat.

My jacket!

I forgot my jacket! I have to go back. I have to!

Futilely, I press on the button for my floor over and over again, but the number won't light up. I've got a one-way ticket—down. And a few seconds later, the elevator stops. I'm just going to stay here and go back up. Just stay and go back up, and get my jacket, and then hide in my room until I can forget this night ever happened.

The door cracks open and I want to close my eyes.

But he's there. Patrick. Almost the same as when I last saw him, but this time, a perfect red rose rests in his hand. When our eyes meet, all of my nerves melt away, vanish in a split second. Instead, I feel warm and tingly all over, excitement tangible, an energy that crackles the air around me.

"Skylar," he says.

I shiver. My name has never sounded so good.

"Patrick," I sigh.

Then the elevator door starts to close, because I, like a star-struck idiot, forgot to get off. I reach out to catch it, but Patrick beats me, stopping the metal with his hand and pushing it back.

"For you," he says, and hands me the rose.

And even though I know this could easily be some move he does with every girl, a carefully crafted gesture to put me right where he wants me, I can't help it. I accept, bringing the flower to my nose and sniffing gently as a shy smile curves my lips.

He grabs my hand, easily taking charge in a way I'm not used to. John and I were dating for months before he finally felt comfortable enough to hold my hand, but Patrick does it effortlessly, a little too smoothly. But I don't care, because his hand is warm and where our fingers touch, a little fire ignites beneath my skin.

Oh yeah, this is bad. Two seconds into the date and I can already feel myself falling, hard. But if he's playing a game, then I'm pretty much guaranteed to lose, so I might as well enjoy it while I can.

"I have a car waiting outside," he says, making for the door.

"A car?" I ask, sort of giggling.

"Well, if I work on weekends the company pays for a car service back to my apartment, so I figured I would take advantage tonight." He looks back at me and grins. I melt a little more.

Definitely bad…but in the best way possible.

True to his word, waiting outside is a black town car. I sort of feel like a celebrity when he jumps ahead and opens the door for me, letting me scoot in first. The seats are soft leather and there's a divider halfway up giving us privacy. I've never felt quite so fancy before. I mean, I grew up in Pennsylvania just a few miles east of farm country. We didn't exactly take limos around. I'm about to comment when I remember that Patrick, born and raised on the Upper East Side, probably did.

I close my mouth, biting my lip. We're definitely from different worlds, but tonight I get to be Cinderella—and I don't want to ruin the magic before it really even begins.

"So, where are we going?" I ask as the car eases away from the curb. I've crossed my hands on my lap, unsure of where to put them. Patrick stretches his arm over the back of my seat, and I'm hyper aware of the inch between our skin.

"One of my favorite restaurants in the city, I go with my family all of the time. It's an Asian fusion restaurant in Columbus Circle, gorgeous views of the park."

It takes me a second to realize he's talking about Central Park, and my anxiety creeps back in—any restaurant with great views of that park is a restaurant that is far out of my price range. But—I sigh—Cinderella. That's going to be my mantra for the evening, because, well, if the prince fits… I peek to the side, taking in Patrick's strong profile, and oh, he fits all right.

Now, what to say, what to say… I want to be charming and cute, maybe with a splash of sexy and a hint of mystery. That's easy enough, right? But I think and think, and lick my lips, and nervously smile in his direction, and after a few seconds I'm still drawing a complete blank. My mind is utterly empty. My tongue starts to feel fat and useless. An awkward chill creeps across my skin. This is so the opposite of the effect I was going for.

"So." Patrick finally breaks the silence. "When did you start working for the newspaper with Blythe?"

"Well, I started with an internship for the editors of the book review—"

"Ah, a smart girl," he interrupts, which normally bugs the crap out of me, but I can't help but smile at the admiration in his tone.

"I guess," I admit a little shyly, not really used to bragging about that sort of thing. "But a few weeks ago right around the middle of August, a position opened up in the lifestyle section and they wanted me."

"To be the…" He pauses. "Dating columnist?"

My face goes a little pink. Thank god he didn’t say sex columnist—we'd have a full-on tomato situation here. "Sort of. I do most of the normal assistant stuff too, but I also have a weekly column talking about the average sort of dating life for, you know, recent grads and girls in their twenties. That sort of thing."

"So," he leads and then turns to me, warm eyes narrowing, corners of his lips picking up just a little bit. "Will I be in this column?"

Okay—tomato situation might be happening after all. I look away, suddenly smoldering in the tiny space of the car. "Maybe…"

"Maybe?" he challenges.

I feed off the humor in his tone, using it to push my nerves away. "Yeah, that's right, maybe. I mean, we only just started the date, I need to wait and see if it's newsworthy."

He nods, pursing his lips, pretending to be very serious. I squeeze mine together to keep from laughing—I don't want to ruin the game! "So what would one need to do to be newsworthy? I've already got the fancy ride."

"And the rose," I add.

"Right, and the rose."

"No chocolates though," I gently accuse, frowning.

Patrick shakes his head, face full of remorse. "I'm clearly off my game tonight."

"Clearly," I concede. And though he's trying really hard to remain stone-faced, I hear a sharp exhale of air, the barest hint of humor escaping, and grin. "Don't worry, you could make up for it. Tell me something strange about yourself, something that would make my readers remember you."

"Hmm." He furrows his brows, thinking. "I slept with my baby blanket until I was twelve."

My heart melts picturing him as a little boy—for some reason I imagine a soft blue blanket with teddy bears on it. Ooh and maybe spaceships. Adorable! But this is too fun to let him know that. "Or how about something bad? Break any laws recently?"

"I did!" he says really animatedly.

I lean in, truthfully intrigued. "You did? What?"

He leans in too—this is top-secret information after all—whispering, "I jaywalk all the time. Really. I'm a serial jaywalker."

I press my lips together forcefully, presenting the best solemn face I can manage. "I should arrest you right now."

"Well, I imagine that would certainly make for a good column."

"So, I have your permission then?"

He holds his hands out in front of me, palms up. I search through my purse for a second before pouting. "Shoot, I must have left my handcuffs in my other bag."

"A common mistake, I'm sure."

"You have no idea," I say and roll my eyes.

He's about to answer when the car eases to a stop. "We're here," Patrick says and reaches for the door. And then, with his fingers still resting on the handle, he turns back to me, adding, "Oh, and Skylar?"

"Yeah?" I say, pulling my eyes away from the view of the fountain out my window. Let's be honest, his face is way more interesting anyway.

"You forgot to mention a kiss," he murmurs, vision dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes.

"What about it?" I whisper, a little entranced—caught in the force of his gaze, the heat of it.

"I think it'll make our date newsworthy." And then he's gone, opening the door and stepping out of the car.