“So. I want to know if you want to have sex with me,” Svetlana asks, her tone annoyingly coy.
I almost drop my fork. “Have what with you?”
She looks me directly in the eye. “Have sex with me. That’s what rich men deserve. Grrreat sex.” She gives me a smile I’m sure she believes is playfully erotic. It reminds me of a vampire. She flutters her eyelashes, then licks the cherry from her cocktail with some acrobatic tongue-work.
“No,” I say flatly. “I’d rather get fucked by a horny mountain goat.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize I mean every syllable. I toss my napkin on the table and stand up. I’m not wasting any more of my life like this.
Thankfully, Svetlana seems too shocked to react. Maybe this is the first time anyone’s turned down her offer of “great sex.”
I pay for my portion of the dinner. Svetlana, being so superior to everyone, can pay for her own damned food. During the drive home, my rage builds. I park and stomp toward my apartment.
Kim has to be fucking with me to purposely set me up with one shitty woman after another. I should’ve known she still holds a grudge against me and wouldn’t play fair. Otherwise she would’ve volunteered herself for the date. Because, like she said, it’s just one lousy date, not a lifetime commitment. And she knows I’m not interested in commitment, long term or otherwise, with a woman who thinks I gave her herpes in high school. It doesn’t matter that she’s stunning, or that part of me just dies in sheer desire and longing when I see her. I don’t want her.
I need to be more like Dane. Or at least David. He’s pretty good at managing his feelings about women. He said breaking up and rebounding gave him a better perspective on life.
As I’m about to unlock the door to my apartment, I spot Kim walking toward her unit with a dog trotting behind her. She’s smiling like she’s been having a great fucking time. But then, why the hell wouldn’t she? She got to spend time with a dog, not Svetlana of the Somersaulting Tongue.
I shove the keys back in my pocket and walk toward Kim, anger and resentment twisting inside me. Since she’s been ignoring my texts about the women she’s selected, I’m going to do this in person. And now is the perfect time.
“Kim.”
“Wyatt.” She gives me a small nod.
When I don’t get out of her way, she arches her eyebrows. And even now, she looks like some goddess. And I hate it that I’m noticing how pretty her eyes are.
What the hell is wrong with me? Or maybe there’s nothing wrong with me. She’s just too evil to be ugly. Like the snake that tempted Eve. How beautiful and mesmerizing must that reptile have been to get a woman to do what it wanted? Women usually run screaming when they see a snake.
I stay in the same place, wanting to erase the smile on her face, although I’m not sure exactly how yet.
“You’re blocking the way,” she says, slowly, like I’m stupid.
There must be something clever I can say. It’s just at the edge of my mind, but I get a whiff of her scent—a hint of clean sweat and something sweet and soft. My blood surges south, which is the wrong direction. Now the clever thing that I almost had is gone. “You are seriously fucking evil,” I say, the filter between my brain and mouth not working anymore.
“Me?” She blinks a few times. “Evil? I’ve been trying to help you.”
“Your idea of help is matching me up with unacceptable women.”
“Unacceptable? In what way?”
“Shallow, clingy, stupid, bitchy…”
“It isn’t my fault that single women who aren’t off dating apps and rich enough to not want your money are like that.” Suddenly Kim gives a theatrical gasp and puts a hand over her mouth. “Or…wait a minute… Maybe it’s you bringing the bitchiness out.”
I should hate her for that, but instead I still find her hot. Damn it.
“You set me up. You never intended to take this seriously.”
She stiffens. “You have no idea how seriously I take my job.”
“Your job. All you want is the housewarming gift Dane is going to send me.”
“Yes!” she says like she means it.
“That’s the dumbest excuse ever. It’s just like when you made me think you recipro—” Okay, hold on. High emotions and hormones don’t make for the best confrontations, because you end up saying and doing things you shouldn’t. Like telling her I assumed she felt the same way about me all those years ago… The fact that I’m still thinking about it shows she still matters in some way, and I’d rather skydive with a ripped parachute.
“Reciprocated what?” she demands, hands on her hips, a flawless picture of outrage.