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“Different women.”
The corner of her mouth turned up, like she was struggling not to laugh. “Wow. Impressive. You must have an abundance of energy and a great memory. That seems complicated as hell.”
“It was, trust me. You’re bound to fuck up when you’re talking to that many women.” I had called one brunette by the wrong name. That had been the end of that date.
“So what was the goal in doing that?” she asked. “I’m being totally serious. I don’t get it. I would never want to meet eight different guys in one week. That’s just dizzying.”
“The goal was sex,” I told her. “I would have thought that was obvious. I figured the higher the numbers, the greater the odds of success in accomplishing my goal.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re… wow.”
“What? I could have lied to you, but I don’t believe in putting a spin on it. I was in my twenties, I wanted to get laid. Is that so shocking?”
“Not really. What’s more shocking is you thought you might fail, given what I’ve seen of your ego.”
That made me nudge her leg with my knee. “Ouch. You wound me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I highly doubt it. And most people aren’t so calculating about sex.”
“It wasn’t calculating. It was called the internet. You met people, you went out. People then and now were talking to multiple people at the same time. I never pretended I wasn’t.” I was starting to think she was tweaking me just to get under my skin. “Who cares, anyway? Martin quit. That’s all that is relevant here, not some ancient nickname.”
“That is very relevant. And you’re right. I don’t care about your personal life. You could date half the women in New York and I don’t care.”
That made me eye her. Why did she sound so sharp? We had kissed like it was the cusp of the apocalypse that night of Michael’s engagement party. Was she thinking about that? Was she jealous? “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Isla shook her head. “No.”
That was a relief to me but I wasn’t going to look too deeply into the why of that.
“Tell me you’ve never been on dating apps and I’ll tell you I don’t believe you.”
“Of course I have. But I wasn’t trying to get nailed by eight guys in one week.”
Damn. There was a visual. “I wouldn’t judge you if you had.” I wouldn’t. I loved sex. I’d have sex three times a day, seven days a week if I could. Four times on Sunday. “But I wasn’t trying to have sex with all eight women. I told you, I was assuming some would reject me.”
“That is very humble of you,” she said, looking amused, and like she thought I was anything but.
She wouldn’t be wrong. “It was.”
Isla’s head tilted and she raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes were sparkling and the tip of her tongue appeared to lick the rim of that glass. “Do I dare ask how your little experiment went? How many ladies did you charm out of their panties that week?”
Damn. She was a sexy woman, even if she was annoying. Maybe more so because she liked to give it back to me.
“I don’t fuck and tell,” I told her dryly. “But let’s just say I could have used an IV of fluids by the end of the week.”
A snort escaped her mouth. “You’re a tool. I knew it in the elevator and you just confirmed it.”
“And you’re aggressive and angry for no reason whatsoever.” We had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot on the elevator and I wasn’t even sure why. I didn’t even remember what we had said to each other prior to the elevator grinding to a painful and terrifying halt.
I don’t do small spaces. I don’t like being trapped. Spelunking can suck a dick, it’s never going to happen. I won’t use the restroom on a plane, ride in a mini Cooper, or enter a small closet. The freezers in kitchens freak me the fuck out but I have a whole system of propping them open and making sure I always have my phone with me. Even Murphy beds disturb me.
It stemmed from a childhood incident involving my father’s wine cellar. I’d walked into it, entranced by all the labels on the bottles. But right as I was studying a label with an almost naked woman drawn on it, the door had clicked shut. I had gotten trapped in the closet for nearly an hour before my mother found the origin of my screams. I still can’t look at certain chardonnays without breaking into a sweat.
It’s irrational, it’s stupid, and I hate it, but I can’t seem to make it go away.
Being trapped makes me a prick and I could tell Isla that, but it would mean I’d have to admit I had been afraid and now was not the time to offer up my vulnerabilities on a platter. If I handed her that ammunition, she’d be locking me in the freezer every chance she got, hoping I’d quit. She looked capable of that, easily.
“Do you mean I’m angry now, or in the elevator?” she asked. “Because when you got in the elevator, I smiled at you. I tried to be nice, and you dismissed me. You didn’t even smile back.”
