Page 8 of The Virgin Gift (The Gift 2)
“I’m happy to do it. After all, I would never want to be the one to stand between you and even one of those twenty-two thousand, two hundred and one. They need to see your warrior pose,” I said, completely serious, because this woman was a badass dame who simply needed a little tech support now and then. I was happy to provide it.
Miss Sheridan was a former showgirl and now she taught yoga classes both locally and on YouTube. She’d bought a new cell phone for the videos and had struggled to find the setting for horizontal—hence her emergency knock.
Boy, oh boy, did I know that struggle too.
“You should try my classes,” she said, folding her hands together in a namaste. She still had the curves of a showgirl, and the attitude. “Yoga for Showgirls and Seniors is getting quite the following. And yoga is good for flexibility in the you-know-what.”
I couldn’t resist the bait. I raised an innocent eyebrow. “In the butt? Is that what you mean?”
Her jaw dropped, and she cackled. “And to think I was going to say it’s good for flexibility in the bedroom.”
I laughed. “I know. Just messing with you.”
“Speaking of the bedroom, how are things with your roommate?” She wiggled her eyebrows, tipping her forehead toward the hallway.
“He’s not my roomie. He’s just using the guest room while his place is being painted.”
She made an A-OK gesture with her fingers. “Right, sure,” she said, in a way that made it clear she found my answer had holes like Swiss cheese in it.
“I swear he is,” I said, insisting, because it was true. Adam and I were friends and only friends, and that was all I wanted.
My sole focus was on business and, as of an hour ago, finding a way to eradicate the overwhelming plethora of fantasies from invading my brain nonstop during work hours. Once I knew what my clients knew, I’d be able to connect with them on another level, like I wanted.
She hummed. “But he’s a nice one. A sweet one. He fixed the door in my laundry room the other day. And just a few weeks ago, he hung some new shelves for me.”
“He’s a handy one too,” I added, keeping it light.
“And so outgoing. He’s like the sun. You can’t tell me you don’t feel chemistry with him.” She arched a brow in question.
Her skepticism pierced me, and I looked away, my eyes landing on her tabby cat lounging in a streak of early evening sun cast through the window.
The cat stretched elegantly, looking like Evangeline, at ease in her body.
Something I was not, so I asked myself the questions Miss Sheridan was hinting at.
Did I feel chemistry with Adam? Smart, charming, easygoing Adam?
Friendly chemistry, for sure.
We were pals, birds of a feather.
And empirically, Adam was attractive. There were no two ways about that. With honey-brown hair, warm hazel eyes, a square jaw, and just the right amount of scruff, the man radiated magazine-quality looks. Like Scott Eastwood, with the same touch of rugged exterior.
But Adam was good.
And even though I was a virgin, I knew what I wanted.
A dark and dirty man to work through my wish list, the one that had been percolating in my head for years, fueled by the books I read, the videos I watched, the Tumblr feeds I devoured.
A rough man, a commanding man who’d help me cross off item after unholy item.
And all I needed from that unnamed man was to shed my virginity. To fulfill these rampant fantasies and eject them out of my head.
Adam was a straight-up kind of guy. I doubted he’d pin me down, shove my face into the pillow, and tell me to suck his—
I stopped the lust train, slapping on a smile for the older lady. “We are just friends,” I told her, and that was the other reason I couldn’t entertain romantic thoughts of Adam.
We’d become close friends over the last two years. He’d helped me grow my business, offering feedback on marketing and my online presence. His wisdom was so spot-on I’d become the most sought-after boudoir photographer in Sin City at age twenty-four.
As for him, I’d become his go-to friend, the one he played trivia games and shared podcasts with. That role had been easy to fill, especially after his last relationship turned sour, and he found his girlfriend not only using, but selling opiates near college campuses. She’d stolen money from him to fund her drug empire. To say Adam was jaded on romance was a euphemism.
He was turned all the way off love.
I headed for the door. “I’m glad your video is working now, and I can’t wait to see your triangle pose,” I told Miss Sheridan, and I left, walking down the hallway to my condo at the end.
When I opened the door, Adam stood in the kitchen slicing peppers for dinner. He shot me his winning grin, the kind where his dimples shone.
