Man Candy (17 page)

towel or something?”

“No, don’t worry about it. Be right

back.” I hurried down the hall to my

bedroom, shut the door, and went into

the bathroom.

As I cleaned up, I started to panic.

Not because he hadn’t worn a condom—

I was on the pill and very good about

taking it. I’d never had a scare.

Then again, I’d never fucked anyone

without a condom. Ever.

My heart started to pound.

Why had I done it? What had made

me so hungry for Quinn that I’d broken

one of my ironclad rules? What did this

mean?

Calm down. You were hungry for

Quinn’s dick, that’s all. It’s a nice one.

True. Maybe that was it.

But…but what about the big heart

thing? And the New York thing? And the

way we had such fun playing each

other’s little chicken games?

Exactly—playing. You’re great

playmates. Friends. And it’s OK to miss

your friends when they go away. And

it’s nice that he gave you a compliment,

but for fuck’s sake, don’t be stupid. You

don’t have that big a heart, and even if

you did, it’s impenetrable.

I breathed a little easier.

Right. Quinn hadn’t worn protection,

but I had.

I always did.

I TOOK off my boots and traded my

lace romper for some flannel pants and a

sweatshirt before going back out to the

living room, where Quinn had turned on

a lamp. He was completely dressed

again but holding his coat and scarf,

looking at some pictures I had framed on

the mantle.

“When was that?” He gestured to a

photo of Claire, Margot, and me in

formal dresses.

I went and stood next to him, arms

crossed over my chest. “Prom.”

“Cute. And that one is Alex’s college

graduation?”

“Yeah, I didn’t walk in mine.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Too much

fanfare, I guess? I’d earned the degree;

that’s what mattered to me, not the silly

hat.”

“You are truly a no-frills woman.”

“I guess so.”

He turned toward me. “Everything

OK?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” I met

his eyes, but I had to work
very
hard to

keep my expression neutral. I didn’t

want him to think this was anything

different than what I said it would be.

That he was anything more to me. That

this mattered.

Because it didn’t. It couldn’t.

“I don’t know.” He knitted his

brows. “You seem a little off.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m fine.”
Cool as a

cucumber.

“OK.” He looked at me a moment

longer, trying to read me, and I willed

my face to stay impassive.

“Maybe I’m tired,” I said.

“Of course. I’ll let you get some

sleep.” He leaned over to kiss me, and I

gave him my cheek. At the brush of his

stubble on my skin, my insides swirled a

little, remembering the feel of it between

my legs. He left his lips on my cheek a

moment, then straightened up. “Night.”

“Night,” I said, walking toward the

door. At this point I didn’t trust myself to

look him in the eye. I opened it and he

walked out without another word.

After I closed it behind him, I stood

there staring at the door, chewing on a

thumbnail, hating myself for being so

cold to him after such a nice night.

The knock on the door startled me.

I took a deep breath before pulling it

open.

“Was it too much for you?” Quinn

asked, his blue eyes serious. “What I

did?”

“Which part?”

“I don’t know—any of it.” He ran a

hand through his hair. It still looked

perfect. “The stuff at the restaurant. The

window and the kneeling and the scarf.

The broken rule.”

God, Quinn. Don’t look at me like

that. I’m completely unable to handle

my own feelings, let alone yours.

And I had no idea how to answer his

question. The truth was complicated. If I

considered each thing alone—the

restaurant, the living room, the broken

rule—the answer was no. None of that

was too much for me. I’d had fun at the

restaurant, despite the hideous romantic

gestures and embarrassing nicknames.

Sure, he’d made me squirm, but secretly

I’d enjoyed being the sole focus of his

attention.

I’d enjoyed his little shame game in

the living room too, loved knowing that

bossing me around like that was turning

him on—it turned me on, too. Had he

been a little rough? Yes. But rough I

could handle. Gentle was a whole

different ballgame.

The broken condom rule was more

troublesome, but even that I could chalk

up to simply getting carried away in the

moment.

But put them all together, and this felt

too all-consuming, too good from every

angle, too
big
for me.

All I’d wanted was a little man

candy, and he was offering me an entire

meal.

“Say something,” he implored. “I’m

starting to feel bad.”

I felt myself cracking. “Don’t. Don’t

feel bad.”

“I’m sorry if—”

“And don’t apologize. For God’s

sake, Quinn. I had a great time tonight. I

didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do or

wouldn’t do again.”

“Really?” He looked relieved.

“Really.” I wrinkled my nose. “Well,

maybe not everything. I don’t think I ever

need to be called dumpling again.”

He laughed. “I’ll stick to love bug.”

“Don’t you dare.”

We smiled at each other a moment,

and even
I
felt reluctant to say

goodnight.

“So does this mean you’ll go on

another date with me? Because that’s

what I want. Something more than just

no-strings sex with you.”

I winced. “I don’t know, Quinn. I’m

feeling a little…off kilter right now. I

need to think through some things.”
And

you need to stop looking at me like

that. Your face is totally incompatible

with rational thought.

“I understand. I’ll let you get some

sleep.” He looked down at the scarf in

his hands, then met my eyes again. “You

know, if it makes you feel any better,

you’ve got me off kilter, too.”

“Jesus. Shouldn’t one of us know

what the fuck we’re doing?”

“Oh, I know what I’m doing,” he

said with a wolfish grin. “It just took me

by surprise. Night.” He disappeared

down the stairs, and I shut the door

before I lost my mind completely and

asked him to stay.

I DIDN’T FALL asleep until well after

two in the morning. I was agitated and

restless—I couldn’t turn off my brain,

and since my body was wired to it,

neither could find any peace.

I was wrestling with thoughts and

feelings that were completely foreign to

me. Every admission was a cycle of

disbelief, denial, and gradual (grudging)

acceptance. Finally, I came to some

conclusions.

I liked Quinn. Really liked him. It

wasn’t just his body or his face or even

his dick. I mean, yes, he was sort of

obnoxious about his selfies, and he liked

making fun of me way too much, but I

liked his sense of humor and his work

ethic. I liked his manners. I liked the

way he talked about his mom. I liked that

he quit modeling to go back to school

and find something he really wanted to

do. I liked that he knew my family and

understood where I came from. I even

liked that he stood up to me—sort of.

What I didn’t like was the way he

had me doubting myself. It had been five

years since I’d sworn off serious

relationships, and in that five years I

hadn’t once regretted that decision. I’d

stuck to my rules, had a good time, and

never felt lonely, deprived, or hurt. The

guys I’d dated casually here and there

hadn’t made an impact, exiting my life as

easily as they’d entered it. They were

nice guys—smart, attractive, attentive,

successful. But they didn’t
do
anything to me.

There had been a few wild one-night

stands and intense extended fuck flings,

but not once did I consider anything

more with any of them. That kind of

passion just wasn’t sustainable for more

than a few weeks, and frankly, none of

those guys were very interesting beyond

the bedroom.

But my gut was telling me Quinn

wasn’t like anyone I’d ever been with

before and didn’t fit neatly into either

category. He wasn’t the dependable date

with no spark, and he wasn’t the guy I

wanted to bang but not talk to.

I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to

know him better. I wanted to listen to

him talk about his past and his future,

confide in him that I was terrified to

make the stupid toast at Alex’s wedding,

admit that sometimes I was scared of

ending up like my mother—married to

my career, blind or complacent about my

husband’s affairs, unaffectionate and

increasingly closed off, a woman with

very few close friends and no visible

excitement in her life.

I wanted to tell him how I felt guilty

for thinking about her that way—after

all, I’d lacked for nothing. Alex and I

had grown up in a nice house in a great

neighborhood, attended excellent

schools, had plenty of clothes and food

and all the extras—swimming pool,

piano lessons, soccer teams, trips to

Europe. Our parents attended concerts

and games and conferences, praised our

successes, gave us the occasional hard

words, paid for our educations,

supported our personal and professional

decisions, and never pressured us to be

anything we weren’t.

That was love, wasn’t it? I mean, my

mother wasn’t a hugger, never really

said
I love you
, and had never seemed

comfortable with my dad’s attempts at

affection, but that was just her. We knew

we were loved, she was a perfectly fine

mother, and my dad, for all his faults,

was a good father.

But Alex didn’t want to be like him,

either.

I rolled over and punched my pillow

a few times. Being an adult was fucking

hard. There were all these complicated

feelings to sort through. Wouldn’t it be

nice sometimes to have someone’s ear

while you did it? Even if that person

didn’t have any advice, just someone to

make you feel like, no matter what,

things were OK? That
you
were OK?

A friend could do that, but a friend

wouldn’t then give you an orgasm to turn

OK into OMG.

Quinn Rusek could be my someone.

He could. It didn’t have to mean that

I was wrong about everlasting love

being a myth—it could just mean I was

willing to take a chance on getting closer

to someone.

Quinn Rusek could be my someone.

He wanted to.

I just had to figure out how to let him

without losing my bearings…or my

heart.

I SLEPT LATE SATURDAY

MORNING, and by the time I got up

and looked out the window, Quinn’s car

was gone. At the gym, I guessed. Ew, if

we dated, would that mean I had to be

all healthy and fit? Not that being fit was

a bad goal, and I was pretty sure I

belonged to a health club, but there was

no way I could handle Quinn’s level of

dedication to his physical well-being.

Maybe I could eat more vegetables or

something.

I grabbed my phone and got back

under the covers, intending to check my

messages and email, but I couldn’t resist

checking out Quinn’s Instagram first.

God, he’d be so smug about that.

“That’s right, I want to see your

stupid hot face first thing this morning,” I

muttered as I typed his name into the

search box. I tapped his profile picture,

but it was
my
stupid face I saw on the

screen, right next to his ridiculous grin.

“Oh my God,” I moaned. “I look like I

just stepped in dog shit!”

Off to a great start
was the caption.

And then: #sweetpea #firstdate

#loveisreal.

Three thousand people had liked it.

And a bunch of them had commented

with cute little emojis that turned my

stomach. Other people had written things

like
so jealous
or
who is that?????
or
why is she making that face, if I was

her I’d be so happy.

Quinn had commented,
That’s my

friend. She’s making that face because

she doesn’t believe in love. I’m trying

to make her believe.

After that there were a bunch of

AWWWWW
and
So sweet!
and more

disgustingly cutesy emojis and eye-roll-