“Fuck me heels?”

“Well, look at them. Who wouldn’t want to fuck you in these babies?” Shiloh says, holding up another set of torture devices in the form of shoes. These look even more complicated than the last pair she let me borrow. I wouldn’t even have to get undressed to shock the public.

“I think I’ll stick to my own shoes tonight.”

She tilts her head to the side giving my white kitten heels a lukewarm twist of the lips. “I just thought since it was your third date and all—well, second-slash-third date.” She brings her head back up and gives me a curious look. “That is when most people…you know. Take things to the next level. Isn’t it?”

“You tell me,” I say, feeling the uncertainty about tonight start to creep in. The last thing I need is a discussion on the birds and the bees. Shiloh has no idea I’m still a virgin.

The thing is, I’m not quite sure her question was rhetorical.

Now, I’m considering her in a new light. Her bedroom is all glam, bigger than mine and Caryn’s because she makes more than us and pays slightly more in rent. There’s an entire wall full of “fuck me” shoes, and a dresser loaded with nail polish in every color of the rainbow. The boring beige walls we aren’t allowed to paint are covered in abstract paintings and cool black and white photos. The bed is fit for a princess with too many pillows and comforters. Besides, she watches Sex and the City nonstop. I just assumed she was relating to it, not getting tips.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” she says, tilting her chin up in such a way that she seems more confident, which is telling. “There’s no rule about when you have to put out.”

We both stare at each other for a brief, awkward moment. I feel the laughter come and let it bubble to the surface. After a moment, she catches the same bug and begins laughing as well.

“Your dress is really pretty at any rate,” she says once we’ve recovered. I’m wearing a yellow twirl sundress with wide straps over my shoulders. I’ve curled my blonde hair and pushed one side back, held in place with a gold comb. It adds a sort of Veronica Lake sexiness to an otherwise prim outfit. At least it’s comfortable.

“Well, it will have to do. Again, he wouldn’t tell me anything about tonight. Just dress comfortably and nice. I guess we’re not impressing anyone tonight.”

“Think it will be as fun as last week?” she asks.

“Nice try,” I reply with a grin. She still hasn’t let up about what really happened on my date last weekend. “I swear it was only dinner and coffee.”

Once again, we hear the doorbell ring, and once again, Caryn remains firmly planted on the couch, not bothering to answer it. The two of us rush out after the third chime, both giving her hard, exasperated looks.

“I’m not your fucking doorman,” she grumbles as she flips the channel on the TV.

“She and Eric are on the outs again,” Shiloh whispers in my ear, low enough to be drowned out by the TV.

Shiloh answers the door, plastering on that dazzling smile that could bring any man to his knees. Fortunately, Rhys only seems to have eyes for me. I’m the first to get a smile as soon as the door is opened. He holds it until Shiloh greets him.

“Hello, Rhys. Nice to see you again,” she sings.

“Shiloh,” he says, nodding at her with a smile. The effect it has on her is immediate. Her cheeks dimple and color with pleasure. Who could blame her? Any woman would love to hear her name spoken in that sexy voice of his.

As if to illustrate the point… “Prynne,” he says, focusing hard on me again. I’m sure my cheeks are even more pink and dented.

“Rhys.” It’s all I can manage to squeak out. I doubt he even hears me over the sound of the TV blaring, which I suspect Caryn has increased in volume since Shiloh opened the door.

I don’t bother re-introducing my third roommate, instead taking Rhys’s arm and leading him out. “Let’s go.”

“Be good, you two!” Shiloh teases as we pass by. She gives me a wink that I hope Rhys doesn’t catch. I roll my eyes at her and drag Rhys down the stairs. I stop when I see the car that’s idling in front of us, double-parked in the street. I don’t think I’ve seen a shiny, black, obviously chauffeured Town Car outside of Manhattan, certainly not in this part of Queens.

“Is that yours?”

“For the night at least,” Rhys says, stepping ahead of me to lead the way. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

I’m not sure whether to feel flattered or worried. Wasn’t last weekend special enough? What could possibly top that? The only hint I got from him was that ambiguous phone call at work about him wanting to expose himself to me. I stop when I remember one tiny fragment from our adventures at the Sexton Hotel. Rhys mentioned something about “new experiences” as though he knew I was still a virgin. Could that be what he has in mind for tonight?

This isn’t how it’s done is it? Shouldn’t we at least have had a discussion about it? At the very least, he should be enough of a gentleman to confirm that I am or am not a virgin. I think about Shiloh’s remark that the third, or second-slash-third date is when this thing usually gets done and my feet seem to cement themselves even more securely to the pavement.

Rhys feels the pull of my arm and looks back, his brows raised questioningly. I stare back, wanting to go ahead and just ask the question. Are you planning on deflowering me tonight?

“What is it?”

“I—I can’t have sex with you tonight!” I blurt out, feeling like a child yelling: stranger danger!

Rhys stares at me for a moment, then laughs.

I feel my irritation set in and tear my hand out of his. I cross my arms, staring at him tight-lipped until he stops laughing.

“Prynne,” he begins, giving me a slightly patronizing look. Then, he closes the distance between us until I have to crane my neck to look up at his face, only inches away from mine. He’s close enough to kiss me, but he doesn’t. “When I decide to fuck you, I’ll give you plenty of fair warning. You’re going to need it because when I’m done, it’ll be an experience you’ll never forget. I promise you that.”

I want to stay indignant, but that voice pours over me like honey, the exotic kind I see at all those farmer’s markets in this city. The kind of honey that’s “infused” with things like lavender or cinnamon or cloves. Rhys’s voice and those intoxicating words are like the perfect fusion, ruining me for any other mundane, sweet words oozing from another man’s lips. My eyes close involuntarily as though I actually am fully immersing myself in the taste of exotic, couture honey.

“Open your eyes,” he says softly.

I reluctantly open them and find his eyes, the hint of blue visible even in the night, staring back at me.

“We’ll have plenty of time for everything you want to explore, Prynne. Everything.” I feel a mild quiver shake me at the promise of that. “But like I said, tonight it’s my turn to expose myself. Now, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Before I can ask for clarification on that—it’s been on my mind ever since he called me at work—he grabs my hand and leads me to the car. The chauffeur already has the door open, and I feel my face heat up, wondering how much of that he saw and heard. If he did catch any of it, it certainly doesn’t show as he nods with a smile, greeting me with a “ma’am” as I slide into the back seat ahead of Rhys.

“So where are we going for dinner tonight?” I ask, as soon as the driver is securely in the front seat, starting the engine.

Rhys gives me a mocking frown of disapproval. “Now, what fun would it be if I revealed everything at once? Didn’t you learn anything from last weekend? Slow and steady, Prynne. It’s always a winner.”

My eyes dart anxiously toward the driver in front, which makes Rhys laugh. I realize it’s silly thinking he’d decipher anything about what happened last weekend from Rhys’s ambiguous language, but still!

He just laughs again.

“You enjoy teasing me, don’t you?”

“Of course. What man wouldn’t? The way you crinkle that adorable nose of yours and twist those plump lips. The color in your cheeks. Teasing you is its own reward.”

I roll my eyes, but not without a grudging smile, then turn to look out the window, trying to get a clue as to where we’re going. We’re headed back towards Manhattan, which is no surprise. Based on what I saw of Rhys in Belmont’s last weekend, he would probably be the type to stick to Manhattan.

I wonder what Rhys would think of Rutherford, Missouri, more importantly, the Flanders Flock. I wonder if he even watches the show. I know that the audience includes the expected family-values core group, looking for something wholesome and kid-friendly to watch on TV. There are also a surprising number of dissenters clogging the comment boards with a diverse mix of vitriol ranging from feminist outrage, to reality TV hate, to anti-religious rants, to political trolls who are absolutely certain that the Flanders lean too far right, or too far left, or too much in the center.

Then there are the oddballs, whom I always found more amusing than annoying. Like the woman who absolutely hates the color green, which she thinks we wear too much of. There’s the man who makes sure to air his outrage over the fact that my father taught his daughters how to change a tire and hunt, as those are “men’s duties.” In all fairness, my parents never bought too much into the more stringently sexist parts of the Quiverfull movement. The most amusing objector was the weird nature-lover who thought that the Flanders had appropriated bird culture for our own materialistic aims.

Even people who don’t view the show have at least heard of us. On a very—very—slow gossip day, a few of us managed to make an appearance in People Magazine or even on TMZ (go figure).

Which is exactly why I dye my hair Champagne Blonde—obviously chosen for the name—by Revlon every four weeks and put colored contact lenses in my eyes first thing in the morning when I wake up.

“You know, I was thinking about last weekend,” Rhys says in such an intimate tone that I bring my attention back to him. “Any secrets you have, they’re safe with me.”

In the darkened car I can barely see him, only catching glimpses of his face like flashes in the night as we pass underneath streetlights. But I don’t need to see him. Rhys’s voice is his medium, excelling at conveying everything his touch, gaze, even his body language needs me to know.

“I don’t have any secrets,” I lie. After almost six years, it’s second nature to me, practically etched in my vocal cords. I’m Prynne Dawson. Period.

I’m surprised to find a soft, almost silent laugh fill the air in the back of the car.

“What?” I ask, feeling my guard come up.

“Nothing,” he says, with a bit of self-deprecation in his voice. “Let’s drop it. Forget I said anything. We’ll just enjoy the evening.”

I’m more than happy to take him up on that. Still, my mind won’t let go of the fact that he’s somehow found a crack in my facade. What is it that he thinks he knows about me?