Womanizer

I don’t want to do either but I can’t seem to force myself to stay away. He’s like the highlight of my day.

I inhale, then exhale the smoke and put out the cigarette on the clear ashtray on the coffee table before me instead of passing it over to him, suddenly feeling too intimate to share a cigarette.

“Does this brother of yours know you were out clubbing?” he then asks, looking at the cigarette I just extinguished as if wondering why I didn’t want to share today. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking sideways at me, his stare once again playing havoc with me.

I shrug. “Why?”

He leans back and links his fingers behind his head, watching me with a growing frown as he studies me even more, as if I’m this complicated thing. “I wouldn’t want my little sister in those kinds of clubs.”

“You have a little sister?” My voice reveals my utter surprise.

“No,” he says slowly, eyes twinkling.

“Fine so tell me where a girl’s supposed to go. Or better yet, take me there.”

His eyes widen in surprise, but then his lips twitch, and his eyebrows slowly start rising. “The places I frequent aren’t exactly ones a girl with . . . clusters of freckles belongs in.” He smirks.

I start to blush. I can’t help it. I can’t help wanting to know more about him.

I want to do more than that; I want to kiss him.

I’ve never wanted to kiss this way before. With my whole body, hands and legs and tongue.

“I wanted to go see the sights this weekend. I haven’t seen anything but my apartment and Carma since I got here, and I’ve heard there’s so much to see,” I say, searching that gorgeous face for an inkling of whether he’d like to come. “But tonight I just wanted to go to a bar and have a drink or two.”

“That bad a day, huh.” He studies me in understanding, and it only makes me want to kiss him more.

“Worse,” I say, nodding in exaggerated dismay.

He passes me my jacket. “Put on your jacket, then. Let’s get some drinks.”

“I’ve planned on working for a company from twenty-two to twenty-five, then start my own business by twenty-six, and maybe at twenty-eight, I’ll meet my husband.”

“Really?”

“Well, he won’t know he’s my husband but . . .”

“What’s he like?”

“Hmm. He’s kind and giving, and he . . . well, I suppose I never feel like I say or do the wrong thing with him.”

He eyes me in amusement and links his fingers behind his head. “Why twenty-eight?”

We’re at this cute little bar a few blocks from Carma. We sit side by side at the counter. I’m on my third glass of white wine, and he’s drinking red.

“Seems like a good number.”

“I’m twenty-eight. Does this mean I need to keep an eye out for my wife?” He snickers the word.

“In my plan it does.” I laugh. “What’s your age?” I frown. “To meet the one.”

He grimaces.

“Really,” I press.

“I haven’t the mind for that.”

“Why?”

Silence.

“You don’t want kids?” I ask.

“I like kids, but I’m not sure I can be responsible for one.”

“Well, that’s where the wife comes in. You might want one if you’re going to have kids.”

“Haha.”

His smile relaxes then morphs into that boyish face of his for a moment. Until it’s suddenly gone. “I don’t know that I can love someone that deeply,” he says. He frowns as if remembering something, and he glances at his glass and strokes his thumb around the rim. “I’m not built that way.”

“Fine keep your bimbos. I don’t care.”

“I will.”

He laughs, his eyes lighting up again for the merest second before . . . they don’t. His brows draw together in an agonized expression. “I’ll just let her down,” he says, gritting his teeth and glaring down at his wineglass. “I’m never falling into that trap.”

“It’s not a trap.”

He shoots me a don’t-be-naïve look. “Trust me. It’s a trap.”

“You just want crazy sex, then.”

“Oh, I’ve had crazy sex. I’m good at that.”

“You like it better than normal sex?”

“Depends on who you’re doing it with. Crazy sex fills in for other things that I’m not exactly interested in just now.”

“I’ve only had sex three times. Though the first one absolutely doesn’t count, it was so awkward! He was grunting and done and I was left wondering, is this it?”

He peers into my face and lifts his hand as if to push my hair back, but I quickly do it myself and nervously—because I’m suddenly mortified I admitted it to him, but why am I unable to stop?—add, “I consulted with my friends and they said it so wasn’t it, so a few months later I went at it with a different guy. It was better, a little nicer. Not addictive though.”

He brushes the other side of my hair, the one I didn’t push back, and the touch frissons down my body like a lightning bolt. “And the third?” he asks gently.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, swallowing as I watch him shift in his seat to face me and cross his arms as if to keep them to himself. “It wasn’t awkward, but it was still missing something. I’ve always thought sex is the moment you know when, well, you’ve found someone. It’s always felt like that’s missing so far.”