Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (19 page)

He shrugs. "I actually have a conference call in about half an hour, so I thought I would come for the introductions and then while you guys have cocktails, I can take the call from my father's study."

My heart sinks. Feed me to the wolves, why don’t you? But on the outside, I just smile warmly, pretending it doesn’t bother me.

"Where are Mom and Dad?" Blythe asks, handing her coat to a maid who just appeared out of nowhere. I do the same, unused to being helped with such menial tasks. I mean, I can hang a coat on a rack myself.

"Upstairs," he says, taking my hand and leading me to the grand staircase a few feet away.

Now that I have a second to look around, I have to admit, I'm pretty much speechless. This house is amazing. Like, could have its own television special amazing. The Queen of England would find this place impressive. The walls are covered in warm, rich wood. The ceiling is painted—painted! Artwork is displayed in intricately carved golden frames. The upholstered furniture is crafted of shimmering silk, pin tucked and with feet carved like little claws. I can just tell that everything in here is from an auction house, infused with history. The grandfather clock. The grand piano. The marble fireplace. And when I look up, the stairs keep winding for at least two more floors. I mean, it's a mansion—a mansion in the middle of one of the most expensive cities in the world. A dozen of my apartments, heck maybe more, would easily fit in here. I knew Blythe was a socialite, I knew Patrick had some money to burn, but I had no idea they came from this.

"Blythe," a voice calls softly.

I look toward the sound to a woman dressed in a beautiful green woven dress with a matching jacket, and I've learned enough at the style section to know it's vintage Chanel and crazy expensive. By her side is a man in a dark gray suit, complete with a tie.

I swallow, smoothing my hands down the front of my black work dress—from the sale rack, obviously. At least I wore a bright scarf with it today to add a little color, Bridge's suggestion of course. And I'm in designer flats—I mean, they're a few years old, and a gift from my mom, but still recognizable with a bright gold buckle over my toes. For me, this is about as dressed up as it gets. But I feel a little bit like a toddler in a room of adults.

"And you must be Skylar," the woman says, giving me the once over. I can't decipher her expression enough to know if she approves or not—I see now that Blythe is just the ice princess, the queen is right here, hiding away in her castle.

"So nice to meet you, Mrs. Keaton." I reach out and shake her hand, which is a little awkward since she's still seated, sipping on a cup of tea. I turn to her husband, who did at least politely stand, towering over me with the same height of his son. "And you too, Mr. Keaton."

"Welcome to our home," he says after releasing my fingers. "Patrick speaks very highly of you." I sneak a peek at Patrick, who is smiling warmly in my direction. Maybe tonight won't be so bad. "Would you like a cocktail?"

I look around realizing he has a crystal scotch glass beside him, and another one waiting to be filled for Patrick. But somehow, alcohol just seems dangerous in this situation. I need all my wits about me. "Um, maybe just a glass of water, if that's all right?"

"Not a problem," he says and then nods to someone over my shoulder. I can't help but feel as though I've been transported to another century. These people have servants working for them.

"So, where did you grow up?" Mr. Keaton asks once we've all settled on the cushions. Patrick's arm is draped lightly across my shoulders, and I'm drawing comfort from the warm touch of his skin.

"In a small town in Pennsylvania, outside of Philadelphia," I respond. Let the interview begin.

"And what do your parents do?"

"My mom owns her own stationary store, and my father works in advertising," I murmur, waiting. But no snide remark from Blythe comes. No comment that my parents are divorced—something I'm sure the Keaton's would not approve of—or that the small town I come from is in the middle of farm country—something I'm sure they would find quaint but not acceptable.

Confused, I scrunch my eyebrows, glancing at Blythe. But she is sipping her cocktail, smiling politely in my direction. And I realize something when she meets my gaze—there are clock hands ticking in the center of her pupils. She's biding her time. I'm safe for a little while. But my stomach tightens in knots—when exactly is that countdown in her head going to hit zero?

"Your mother owns her own business?" Mr. Keaton nods approvingly.

"Yes," I say, jumping on the opportunity to impress while I still can. "The shop is sort of a cross between a design studio and a retail store. A lot of the cards we sell are from other merchants, but she does a lot of custom invitations for local events and weddings. I'm trying to help her expand, so I just recently put together a website for her to help reach a broader customer base."

Dang. That sounded pretty legitimate.

I sit up a little straighter.

"Very savvy of you," he comments. I grin, sipping my water.

But then a rumble vibrating against my thigh distracts me. Patrick shifts, reaching into his pocket, stealing the warmth of his body heat away and I'm left cold. He stands, signaling that he has to go with his fingers, pointing to the side.

The conference call.

I watch him disappear around the corner, veins turning to ice when I shift back around and catch Blythe's stare.

Time's up.

Her eyes practically blaze with excitement.

"So, Skylar, you work with Blythe at the newspaper?" Mr. Keaton asks.

I jump in before Blythe has time to comment. "I do. I'm also an assistant for the style section, and I write my own column, all about dating in the city in your twenties."

"How wonderful, your own column," he says. And I breathe easy for a moment. Mr. Keaton is actually very sweet—it's just the women in this family that have issues it seems.

"Which column?" Mrs. Keaton purrs from her teacup.

I swallow. Something in her tone unnerves me. The same prickly sweetness of her daughter. "Um, you probably haven’t read it."

"Skylar, don't be so modest, of course she has. Everyone has," Blythe chimes in. I close my eyes, taking a moment to breathe.

Oh god.

Oh god.

"She writes it under a penname. Cooper Quinn?"

That's it. I'm done for.

But no bomb explodes. There's no screaming. No kicking me out. No reaction. I release the breath I was holding, exhaling slowly. The world hasn't ended. The earth is still intact. I open my eyes.

"Oh, Cooper Quinn?" Her mother pauses. And then she smiles. And for a second, I think—this cannot be happening. She reads my column? And approves? I almost want to point and laugh at Blythe—victory is so, so sweet. Her mom continues, and the sinking expression on Blythe's face is enough for me. "I recognize that name. I do read that column, all the ladies—"

Mrs. Keaton stops dead.

My heart follows, screeching to a halt. The elation in my chest evaporates as realization dawns, a flip switching in the depths of her hazel eyes, which are slowly narrowing to slits. Blythe's smug expression pierces like a knife.

"You write
that
column?" Mrs. Keaton asks.

I start to choke on my own breath, reaching for my glass of water, finding it painfully empty. Where are those servants when you actually need them?

"And, PK, is Patri…" She trails off into silence. Every word she's ever read in my column flickers in her gaze, every lewd detail she perhaps gossiped about with friends or read with shocked curiosity, devoured like a penny novel. Every little bit she once found entertaining is now turning utterly grotesque in her mind.

My face is turning beet red, I just know it. And Blythe is taking a mental picture by my side, grinning triumphantly. Mr. Keaton just looks confused. But I can’t take my eyes off of the ever-rising eyebrows of Mrs. Keaton, the accusation in her glare, the utterly disapproving purse of her lips.

And I finally have an answer to my question about what could be worse than my own mother finding out I write a sex column. It’s my boyfriend's mother finding out I write a sex column about her son.

I sit back in the chair, leaning into the cushion, trying to shrink—wondering if I can disappear if I just think hard enough.

But I don't.

Her eyes nail me in place.

I just bite my lip and sigh. This is going to be the longest dinner of my life.

Patrick and I don't speak about his parents again. I mean, radio silence. As the Christmas season passes, we get sugar-high on hot chocolate, ice skate, go shopping, see a holiday show, have a wicked snowball fight, but we don’t speak a word about that night. And I have no idea what that means.

I haven't been alone with Ollie since the mistletoe incident—as that moment will henceforth be known. Sure, I've seen him—I mean, we live together. There's no way around that. But if he's in the kitchen, I'm in the living room. If Bridget's not home, I'm safe behind the closed door of my bedroom. And right now, stepping through the front door of the McDonough home for Christmas Eve dinner, I don’t ever want to leave my mother's side.

"Look at your hand!" Bridge calls as soon as we step through the door.

I hold my wrist up, grinning. "No more cast, no more splint! My mom and I went to the doctor this morning."

She runs a finger over my wilted skin. "It looks…"

"I know." I shake my head, flexing my stiff muscles. The skin around my wrist is pasty white, like sickly, and the entire area is noticeably smaller than my other wrist. "It looks disgusting."

"No." She shakes her head, grabbing my other hand to pull me inside. "It looks like a Christmas miracle."

I lift an eyebrow, asking, "Did you get started on the eggnog a little early?"

Bridge pauses. "Maybe…"

But we've entered the kitchen before I can respond, and I'm immediately pulled into two enthusiastic embraces.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. McDonough. Merry Christmas," I murmur into the sweaters my face has been pressed into. Ollie remains on the other side of the room, idly stirring a pot on the stovetop. He glances in my direction, but I think he knows I don't want him to come any closer.

"It's so nice to have everyone together." Bridge's mom sighs, looking around with a goofy smiled plastered across her lips. "I don't think all six of us have been in a room together in years."

Four and a half years, if we're being exact. But who's counting?

My eyes drop away from Ollie and I lean into my mom's shoulder. The conversation turns to the multitude of Christmas cards taped to the fridge, half of which my mom designed for locals—McDonough family included. I listen politely, smiling, just taking comfort in my mom's presence. Or well, I was, until my eyes veered to the right and ran into Bridge's wide, imploring expression.

"What?" I mouth at her.

But Bridge doesn't say anything. She just opens her eyes wider. I sigh, stealing away from the nice warm spot on my mom's shoulder, and cross the kitchen to the kid's side. I settle into a spot next to Bridge, a little too close to Ollie, who seems suspiciously unaware of our presence.

"What?" I ask again.

"You're not the only one with news," she says, and then stops, eyes dancing. My lips twitch with anticipation. Bridge leans in, whispering, "I got a date for the New Year's Eve party."

"Who?"

"You know that guy I was telling you about from my gym?"

I raise my brows. "You mean the guy who can do one handed pull-ups and caught you drooling last week?"

"I was not drooling," she says, slapping my arm lightly. "That was a bead of sweat that just happened to start at the corner of my lips and make a painstakingly slow trip to the floor."

"Mm-hmm, sure it was."

"Anyway…" Bridge draws the last syllable out like it deserves its own sentence. "The gallery was closed this morning, but I decided to wait until Ollie got off work so I could come home with him. So, I had a few hours to spare and decided to test my luck at the gym. Low and behold, Mr. Hottie was there and right next to him was an open treadmill. So—"

"Let me guess, you did some stretching first?" I interject, trying to hide my grin.

Bridge bites her lip. "Light stretching, maybe."

"Did you wear that spaghetti strap shirt you claim is for working out but is really for showing an ample amount of cleavage?"

"Potentially…"

I can’t help it, a little snicker squeaks out. "That's like the third date that shirt has landed for you."

"What?" She huffs. "Name the first two times."

I roll my eyes. "Bridge, come on. Freshman year, you found out when the lacrosse team had weight lifting training and went in booty shorts and that shirt."

She chews on her lip for a moment, and then grins. "Okay, but he was gorgeous. And an athlete. And we got into a lot of parties because of that little fling. What's the second time?"

"Do you really want me to say?"

"Please don't," Ollie mutters as he opens the oven, checking on the beef. Aha! So he is listening in. Sneak.

Bridge ignores him, waiting for my response. Oh well, she asked for it.

"Junior year, yoga on the quad?"

Immediately, a giggle fit bursts from her lips. "I totally forgot about that. I asked you to do yoga with me, and you showed up in gym shorts and a T-shirt, and then accidentally flashed the entire quad during downward facing dog. Classic."

"Yeah," I mutter, "and somehow you're still the one who ended up with a date."

Ollie snorts.

Bridge shrugs.

I roll my eyes.

All pretty standard reactions. And for a moment, I actually think maybe things can return to normal, someday at least. Maybe—

"Hey, Bridge," Ollie asks, looking over his shoulder while he stirs a pot of boiling potatoes, testing how soft they are. "Can you do me a favor and find the oven mitts? Mom bought new ones and left them in some shopping bag in the garage. I want to see the temperature on the meat. And I need to put the popovers in."

"Sure," she chirps, shooting me an apologetic look before she walks off.

And then I realize the one thing I didn’t want to happen is happening.

I'm alone with Ollie.

I mean, not really because our parents are fifteen feet away and Bridge is fluttering around. But there's no one else in earshot. And I'm more afraid of his words than anything else.

"Um, I'll help," I quickly add, slipping from the stool I had propped myself onto.

"Wait, Skye," Ollie says, forgetting the stovetop to give me his full attention. "Come here for a second."

But I don't move.

He shakes his head. "Would you just get over here? I'm not going to bite."

"That's not what I'm worried about," I whisper, and then wince. Stupid.

Ollie's expression softens. "I'm not going to do that either."

"Good," I respond, even as my heart sinks just a little. Barely even anything. Except I notice it, and I don't really want to think about what it means. So I step next to him, leaning over the food, arm an inch away from his. And even with the heat of the steam and the food, I can pick out that special prickle of awareness, that little spark telling me Ollie is near.

"What's going on?" I ask, eyes stuck to the potatoes floating in the water, the vegetables steaming, the gravy brewing.

"Well, I told Bridge on the train ride here, and I just wanted to tell you myself rather than have you hear it from her."

At that, I do look up.

His shaggy black-brown hair is in disarray, curled from the steaming kitchen, tumbling over his forehead as he keeps his gaze concentrated on the food—concentrated down. I wonder if he doesn’t want to look at me, or if it's that he can't. But I can look at him, and I do. I stare. His skin glistens from the moisture, making the contours of his face stand out even more than usual. Especially the rugged lines of his jaw, flexed and tense. I watch his hands, the authority with which they move, flipping and stirring, in complete command. And I know from experience that cooking isn't all those hands know how to do.

"What, Ollie?" I prod.

"It's nothing serious." He shrugs, still not meeting my eyes. "It's just—I'm moving out."

"What?" The word blurts out. I blink once, twice, in total shock.

He's moving out?

"I'm moving out," he repeats, almost as though he can read my thoughts.

And then he looks up.

Damn those eyes. Those perfect, entrancing blue eyes.

I lose myself in them. And this time, my heart doesn't just sink a little. It plummets. Crashes to the ground.

"I just figured since it's almost the new year, I should let you and Bridge live with one of your friends and find my own place. I told her I would wait until you have someone new lined up. I don't want you two to get bogged down by the rent. But she said she has a friend she might be able to ask, so I just wanted you to be informed this time. I wouldn't want someone else to surprise you in the middle of a rant—I'm sure once was more than enough."

One corner of his lip lifts, a small grin, a secret one meant only for me.

But I can't process it. My mind is moving in slow motion. Surprise me in a rant? And then I remember, the virgin sex columnist confession—the first time I saw him in four years. He's just joking.

But my tongue feels heavy, unable to respond. My nerves are frozen. And it can only mean one thing. In my heart, I really don't want him to go. Because I know something scary—forgetting Oliver McDonough is impossible, but avoiding him is frighteningly easy. Before he surprised me in our kitchen, I hadn’t seen him in four years. Even living together, I was able to barely speak to him for the past three weeks. If he moves out, there's a very real possibility that I won't see him again for months—that I won’t see him again period. Is that what I want?

Staring into his turquoise eyes, my chest is thumping—no, no, no.

But remembering a different night, my head is screaming yes.

"Skye?" he asks.

I swallow, blink. One instant of dark, and the connection is broken, I look away—I seal my mind shut.

"Thanks for letting me know," I answer with a voice unrecognizable to my ears. For the first time ever, my tone sounds unaffected by his presence, by his words. It's shockingly light—the complete opposite of the turmoil churning my stomach into knots. "It was only a matter of time, right? You wouldn't want to live with your little sister and her best friend forever."

Ollie leans back. "Yeah, yeah I guess you're right."

"Where are you going to move?" I ask conversationally, words completely detached, as though someone else is speaking with my lips. "Closer to the restaurant?"

He looks at me for a moment, narrows his gaze, flinches just slightly. And then I lose him. His clear eyes return to the food. "I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe."

"It'll probably make commuting easier."

"Yeah."

"Though midtown can be pretty expensive."

"That's true."

"Unless you're going to find another roommate."

"I probably will."

"Anyone from work?"

I wait for a short response, but it never comes. A moment of silence passes, and then he drops the wooden spoon on the stovetop, abandoning his meal, and runs his hand through his already disheveled hair. Like always, he only makes it look better, more wild, more untamable. "So you're okay with this?"

I really don't know what he expects. As always with Ollie, I have no clue what he wants from me. So I say what's safe, what's best for me. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He runs his hand through his hair again, teal eyes darkening, every bit of sparkle gone. "I don't know, Skye." He looks down, picks up the spoon, and gets back to dinner. "I really don't."

"Found it!" Bridget shouts, stomping into the kitchen with the fury of a hurricane about to hit the shore. I flinch, pulled immediately back to my surroundings. The bubble around Ollie and me bursts. "Mom, seriously, next time you go shopping and buy vital cooking supplies, you have to remember to bring the bag inside."

"The mitts!" Her mom winces, looking at the bright red oven mitts in Bridget's hand. "Is the roast okay?"

"It's fine, Mom." Ollie shrugs.

"What about the milk?" she asks.

Bridge just shakes her head, holding up a carton of milk with her other hand. "You smell it."