Tessa

The way Barclay looks at me leaves me breathless and tied in knots. My skin feels so on fire under his gaze, I want to unbutton my coat and let out some steam. But I only have on my bra and panties, so I spread the collar open wider in hopes of getting a little air on my overheated skin. Nothing helps.

Barclay swallows. “Where are you staying in the city?” His eyes search mine.

“The Hammond Hotel. Room six-seventeen,” I breathe. He frowns, and I have no idea why.

“Lawrence,” Barclay calls out in a firm voice. “We need to drop Miss Holly off at the Hammond first, then my office.”

“Yes, sir,” Lawrence replies, facing forward, his hands gripped firm on the steering wheel.

“Mrs. Mackenzie will send your clothes to your hotel room. You can leave her coat at the front desk.”

Like he’s checked off a task from a list, Barclay returns back to his phone and types away on the screen. And me? Well, I try to process why he just called me Miss Holly. Maybe it’s because he’s speaking to his driver.

Either way, I can’ help but worry and feel restless the closer we get to Manhattan. There’s no guarantee I’ll see Barclay again once I exit this car.

My unease started back at Don’s when Barclay hesitated to get in the car with me. He walked by the passenger door several times, worry lines crossing his forehead and creasing at his eyes. He seemed at war with something.

It doesn’t take a membership to Mensa to know what it is either. My virginal status spooks him. His reaction is nothing new to me.

Guys either run for the hills when they find out, or pursue me as a selfish challenge, hoping they can add a special notch to their bedpost.

I’ve yet to find a guy who sticks around for the right reason, or one I’d even consider the right one for me—until yesterday. One look from Barclay Hammond across the restaurant, and my body was turned on without even a touch. I was a smoldering mess last night. Today, I’m more of a hot mess, which leads me to the impossibilities of us being together.

He’s the kind of guy who deserves his own lifestyle spread in GQ magazine. I can see the caption for his story. Meet Barclay Hammond, New York City’s Most Eligible Bachelor. They’d ask him questions about what he’s looking for in a woman. He’d say something like beautiful, accomplished, and experienced. She’d have to be someone worthy of his sophistication.

Why would he want me, some virgin college graduate, when he could have any woman in his bed? Being around him has made me hope for the impossible. It’s time to virgin up and forget my silly fantasies. He and I just aren’t going to happen.

I glance over at him, and he’s still on his phone, conquering the publishing world. I let out a long sigh and lean against the door. Gazing out my window, I watch the Manhattan skyline move closer. My time with him is almost up.

Who knows how many silent minutes later, Lawrence enters the busy streets of the city, and a lump forms in my throat. I want to say something to Barclay, like, “What are you doing for the rest of your day? Any more authors you need help with?” but I don’t want to interrupt him. His brow creases in concentration, so whatever he’s working on must be important.

“Check your phone,” he says in his usual bossy tone. I turn from the window and find him assessing me with his dark eyes.

I do as he asks, and there are several unread texts from a phone number with a New York City area code. It has to be him.

I open up the first text and glance over it. He’s sent me the name and email address of a human resources manager. They also work for a company on my list of potential dream employers, but the address is different than the general one I’ve sent scores of emails to. I view all the other texts, and they’re all similar. He’s been working on his phone this entire time to help me find a job, and here I thought he was just ignoring me.

I smile up at him in sheer disbelief, and he returns mine with a sweet smirk, like it was nothing, but I know better. He’s giving me access to people who trust him, without a clue as to whether I would be hirable or not. I owe him big time.

“I can’t believe you did this for me,” I say, nearly in tears. I’ll blame it on that stupid lump in my throat.

I click my seatbelt off, throw it to the side, and move closer to him. Our legs touch, and I reach up to kiss him. When my lips meet his scruffy cheeks for a quick peck, he gasps and goes still.

Oh no, I’ve overstepped some boundary.

As quick as possible, I scoot back over to my side of the backseat. He resumes breathing, and our eyes meet. His are as black as night.

“I’m happy to help you, Tessa,” he says in a husky voice. His intense gaze startles me, because I can’t tell if he’s mad or ready to pounce. My needy body hopes for the latter.

“Sir, we’re here,” his driver announces. The car comes to a stop outside Hammond Hotel, and the tension building between us dissipates.

Barclay lowers his head and pushes a breath out between his lips. It sounds like a long sigh of relief, likely since I’m getting out of the car. I fear my kiss was probably over the top. I hope he doesn’t regret helping me.

“I’ll get her door, Lawrence,” he says, already halfway out of the vehicle. He has my door open in a flash, his hand extended. I place my shaky one in his and exit the car with his help.

Still clasping hands and standing on the sidewalk, I squint up at him, trying to block the midday sun. He’s beautiful from my vantage point almost a foot below him. His hard jaw is framed with perfect scruff. His black eyes shine with vigor and strength, but there’s a hint of something else behind them. Determination, maybe.

I’ll never meet a more gorgeous man. It can’t be humanly possible. I memorize his face, the touch of his hand holding mine, the way his eyes regard me. My heart aches, because, in this moment, I know it’s our goodbye. Tears start to fill my eyes, and I pray he says something, anything. Finally, he does.

“Tessa.” My name rolls off his tongue in a slow, reverent way. He doesn’t seem mad, relieving some of my fears. I still believe he’s dismissing me. Though his voice and eyes may say differently, his guarded stance is clearly telling me goodbye. “Thanks again for all your help today.”

He lifts my hand to his mouth and grazes my knuckles with his lips. My knees almost give way. I feel his soft touch in hidden places that ache for him. If only he’d let me in. He blinks and drops my hand, then a second later, his eyes blaze anew at me, making me wonder what he truly feels.

“On the way back to the city, I emailed the manager at the hotel,” he says, tossing his head back toward the building behind him. “I told him to comp all your meals, even your hotel minibar while you’re here.”

“You don’t need to do all that, really. It’s too much,” I stammer on, confused by all his goodness, yet odd aloofness. What am I missing? “You’ve done more than enough by giving me all the contacts, plus I got to meet my favorite author. I’m still pinching myself.”

“Good luck, Tessa,” he says, straightening his perfect tie. His eyes shutter to a cooler version of himself. The heat is gone. I bite my lip as tears threaten again. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“You too, Barclay,” I whisper. His head tilts, and for a brief second, I think he’s going to say something to me. Instead, he turns and walks back to his car.

I stand alone on the sidewalk with a hand at my throat and watch him pull away. I wave at him like a lovesick teenager, but he doesn’t turn around in his seat. Probably for the best.

I walk through the buzzing lobby of my hotel. Happy people and smiling faces surround me, eager to see what this city has to offer. I feel as if the best thing about Manhattan just drove away.

Exhausted from the day’s roller coaster of emotions, I drag my feet down the hallway to my room. When I place the keycard over the lock, a green light glows, and I turn the door handle. Once inside my room, I notice a red-foil balloon shaped like a strawberry floating in the air. A long yellow ribbon connects it to a platter of chocolate-covered strawberries sitting on the desk.

“Barclay?” I ask in the quietest whisper. My chin trembles. He remembered.

Instead of walking over to the desk and opening the card lying next to the strawberries, I collapse onto the crisp covers of the bed and let go of the tears I’ve been holding at bay, releasing the tightness in my throat. I curl into a ball and sob.

I’ll feel better once I cry this man out of my system. The problem is, I don’t want his help or gifts, though I appreciate all he’s done. What I truly want is him.