He sighs. "You're not going to like it."

I take a big gulp. What happened to Mr. Fuck-Your-Brains-Out? "Try me."

He shrugs and runs a hand over his head, an it's-your-funeral look plastered on his face.“There are countless Nicoles. I’m not even sure who the Nicole you’re referring to is. It's all just a bunch of sloppy one-night stands. Though sometimes they stretch into a few weeks of f*ck-buddy-ism."

“So these women just have sex with you and want nothing more?” I snort my condemnation. I shouldn’t be judging. Sleeping with a guy without emotional attachment doesn’t make you a whore. It can even make you a feminist.

Ty gets into my face, gathers my hair into a ponytail and grazes his five o’clock stubble near the sensitive area at the back of my neck. “Jealous, Barbie?"

I snort my amusement. “Please. It's just that I heard Nicole saying that you were with three girls at once. Is it true?” I not try to choke on my words, to look indifferent.

Please deny this. Please say it isn’t true. Pretty, pretty please.

I mean, really? A foursome? A threesome is a stretch. A foursome is a Bourne Ultimatum mission.

Ty drops his hands from my face and bites his inner cheek, looking away. "This is not a good first date topic," he says evenly.

I have my answer.

I choke back my anger. “So what’s all this crap?” I motion around us with my hands.

“You’re different,” he replies.

“Bet you never used that one before.” My legs push me upward. School assignment or not, this dude just told me in the middle of our first date that he’s hooking up with a shitload of girls, sometimes four at a time, and Brain has had enough. It’s getting ballsy.

“Sit down,” Ty orders calmly.

“Take me home.”

“You’re mad because I told you I sleep with other girls?” He is mumbling to himself, almost as if it’s the first time he’s met a girl who isn’t okay with this.

“Wow. You worked that out quickly. Are you sure you want to stay in the XWL and deprive the world of science of your incredible brain?”

I grab the scotch bottle by its neck and zigzag my way toward the door.

What the hell was I thinking? He is a famous, probably semi-rich, athlete. His whole reputation rests on the premise of his alpha maleness.

I push the door open and stride for the trees. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get away. Everywhere he touched me stings like fire, his skin infected with so many past girls who dirtied him up for me.

The black night swallows me, and the wooden cabin disappears from my sight. But worry is for calculated, levelheaded people. My head’s a giant mess right now. I’m expecting him to storm out, to stop me, to explain himself. But with every step I take, I realize that this may not happen and that I'm ultimately screwed.

My chucks smack the ground, the decaying leaves, my body and face whacked with branches and mist. Brain shuts down, Hormones are gone, and Heart is pouting in the corner. Legs are the only ones who seem to work, and I have no freaking clue where they’re taking me.

I stop dead when the earth curves into a hill, surrounded by nothing but blackness and chirping crickets.

My fingers wobble as I tug my cell out of my jacket pocket. The screen lights up before my eyes, but there’s no service, seeing as I’m in the middle of nowhere. Worry converts to panic. I turn on the phone’s flashlight and explore my surroundings.

Knee-high grass. Creamy fog. And the unmistakable scent of fear oozing from my pores.

I know there’s a country road right in front of me, but even drunk I recognize that staggering onto the dark pavement is not the brightest idea. I take another sip of expensive scotch, squatting down and sitting on the damp grass beside the road. I polish off the rest of the bottle with a few gulps and pluck a blade of grass in frustration.

What am I doing? Who goes on a date with a scummy MMA fighter who has STD written all over him? Actually, this is probably one of the few things he hasn’t inked on his body yet. I’d like to think I have more respect for myself than to become his flavor of the week, but thinking is not really my strong point right now.

I mentally bark at myself, Hormones, you stupid idiots! Brain, you gutless nerd!

I balance myself into a standing position. I need to try to find my way back to the cabin, despite the unsteadiness from the liquor. Then I feel a warm, strong hand on my waist. I turn around, surprised, and before I know it, two firm hands grab me by my midriff, swooping me up into a cradle hold.

“What the hell!” I scream, kicking my legs like a toddler.

“Shut up, Barbie. I’m taking you home. You were a bad first date.” I hear Ty’s familiar voice and let out a relieved groan.

“You aren’t getting your own Bachelor season either,” I sniff.

Ty laughs as he continues carrying me, striding briskly as if he is carrying a case of beer and not a 125-pound grown human being. I feel his iron-hard chest beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. His flexed biceps rub against my back; his defined six-pack presses against my waist.

But most of all…I feel drunk.

“Live by yourself?” I slur.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Your clothes smell too good. Someone else does your laundry, right?” I hiccup.

He offers me a You’re-Crazy-but-Cute smirk.