“Not here, for all the world to see. I want to take my time in private.” I sigh out of sheer frustration. How much can a girl take?
“Screw the song.” I release my hands from around his neck and wrap my fingers around one of his hands. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Barclay chuckles as I drag him through the crowd of partiers. I’m a woman on a mission and make a beeline straight toward the service elevator.
Barclay and I are alone in the elevator as we descend to the main floor. He moves closer, essentially backing me into a corner, and looms over me. I hold my breath as I look into his heavy-lidded eyes. They give me a thrill of excitement mixed with a touch of fear, but more of myself, because I could totally let loose with him.
Then what?
There are no guarantees. Barclay could be nothing more than a memory I carry with me for the rest of my life. My first. But it’s time I quit overanalyzing. It’s keeping me from living my life, and I want to live in the moment for once. Feel it. Breathe it. Be with him and forget about tomorrow. Somewhere in Alabama, I imagine Maggie giving me a fist pump.
“I can’t stop thinking about one thing.” He breaks the silence and rests both hands above me on each side of the corner walls. I blink and wait, wanting him to tell me more. “How has no man touched you yet? You’re the most beautiful creature sent by some wicked twist of fate to torture me. I should let you go—let you find someone your own age.”
Ouch, that stings. And how do I even respond to something like this? It seems obvious to me that there’s been an undeniable pull, like a force of nature, joining us together from the moment we looked into each other’s eyes.
Maybe with his years of experience with women, what I feel is nothing new to him. But to me, it means everything. I’ll play his “I’m too old for you” game and see if I can erase his hesitations of us being together once and for all. It’s not like I’m asking for more than tonight anyway.
A true fact about southern women: we know how to fight for what we want. It comes from living with frizz-inducing humidity and being raised on Lynyrd Skynyrd. Both build fierce determination.
“All right, Barclay. I’ll only date guys in their twenties. Any suggestions? I’m sure you have a few who would fit the bill.” I square my shoulders, and anger flashes in Barclay’s eyes. His jaw tightens and his lips form a straight line.
“We’ll finish this conversation in the cab,” he growls.
My dating declaration is like hitting a row of sevens on a slot machine. He’s now imagining me with other men, and I want to yell jackpot! When the elevator arrives at the ground floor, Barclay leads me outside to the edge of the sidewalk. He hails a cab and ushers me inside. I laugh to myself as he sits down next to me in a huff. This car ride should be loads of fun. For real.
25
Tessa
Barclay grumbles the hotel address to the cabbie and I lean against the door, twirling my hair around a finger, waiting for him to speak to me. After we barrel through a couple city blocks, he turns toward me. Our eyes meet, and he exhales a deep breath. His jaw is more relaxed, and his eyes are no longer throwing flames my way, but he still looks intense and on edge.
“Tessa, I don’t want to talk about you with other men. At. All. But since you brought it up, let me school you on some facts.”
“Please do,” I scoff, trying to act brave.
“Things move fast here. In Manhattan, a guy in his twenties considers dating a woman for a week a long-term relationship. They’re getting the feel of having money jingling in their pockets along with other things. They’re as shallow as a baby pool with only one thing on their mind.” Barclay raises a brow suggestively, obviously meaning sex.
“Not all guys are like that,” I say, making a lame attempt at defending the young men in this city, but I wonder if he’s right. PH-D was like a sexual playground. Hands wandered, searching the available equipment, and everyone seemed okay with it.
“Trust me,” he says with a sigh, running his hand through his thick hair. Oh, how I itch to touch those soft strands again.
“Okay,” I concede. “Twenties are out, so I’ll settle for guys in their thirties?” I shrug and wait for his answer, knowing he’s thirty-seven.
“Not a good idea either. Too much baggage from their twenties.”
Time to play along with his madness. “Well, that leaves teenagers or men in their forties. Which should it be?”