Dr. Billionaire's Virgin

by Melinda Minx

  “I don’t,” I say. “It’s fine. Have him over.”

  “Alright,” Dad says, picking his newspaper up again and holding it up so I can’t see his face.

  He’s probably got a shit-eating grin on behind the paper, but I’m too flustered to care.

  Mason is going to be here, eating dinner with us. Mason Steel, in my house again, after fifteen years. Fuck it. He’s Dad’s guest, not mine. I’ll wear sweatpants, I’ll wear my hair up in a messy bun, wear my glasses instead of contacts, and I’ll make small talk with him. No big deal. Dad invited him, I’m just kind of there. I’m just a bystander.

  When I get home from work, I only have two hours to get ready. I’ve thought it over all day at work, and why the fuck should I dress like a bum? Mason is not getting another chance with me, so I might as well make him really regret that.

  I dig through my closet and find my tight-ass cocktail dress. The one I wore in Boston for dinners where we were trying to secure grants from big donors. The one I haven’t worn in over a year.

  I start to ask myself if I’m putting this dress on for Mason, or for myself, but once I see myself in the mirror, I don’t even care what the answer is. I look fucking amazing. The dress squeezes my hips, reveals a lot of leg, and it presses my breasts together just right. It’s an elegant blue—not quite purple—and it’s totally fucking out of place for a casual dinner between three people at our kitchen table. But I’ve got a plan for that.

  I spend another hour doing my makeup and getting everything just right, when I hear Dad shout up the stairs.

  “You still coming down for dinner?” he yells. “Mason should be here soon.”

  I can smell the lasagna from the stairway. It’s the one thing Dad is really good at cooking.

  “Coming,” I shout.

  But I don’t go down yet. I wait until I hear the doorbell, and then I wait until I hear Mason’s deep voice from downstairs.

  Now I go down.

  I grab my purse and rush down—as fast as I can rush in heels—and move through the house like I’m trying to rush out the door. Like I’m late and—

  I nearly run into Mason’s chest as I turn the corner. He’s filling the doorway between the living room and the foyer, and his stunning blue eyes stare down at me. They widen as he takes me in.

  He’s wearing a flannel button-up and tight jeans. I can see some of the tattoos on his chest through the undone top button. He looks fucking delicious. Like something I should not eat, because I know just how bad it is for me.

  “Mason?” I say, pretending to be confused. “Oh...shit! I totally forgot. Dad mentioned you were coming here tonight for dinner. I—”

  Dad steps in behind Mason. “You’re telling me you forgot, Sophie? Didn’t I just tell you—?”

  “I had the sink running,” I say. “I didn’t hear you clearly.”

  Then Dad sees what I’m wearing. “Jesus, Sophie, where in Tuckett Bay can you even wear a dress like that?”

  “Tillman’s,” I say. “A friend invited me out, but shit, I did tell you I’d have dinner—”

  “Get a bite to eat with us,” Mason says. “And then you can go. It’s still a bit early for Tillman’s.”

  I bite my lip and shrug. “Alright, I guess I can eat something.”

  Dad looks at me from over Mason’s shoulder and rolls his eyes. He knows. Mason probably knows, too, but I’ve at least justified wearing this dress.

  More than justified. Mason can’t keep his eyes off me. He’s going to have to see me the whole time we’re having dinner, and know he can’t have me.

  12

  Mason

  My eyes lock onto her ass as she helps her dad get the lasagna out of the oven. The dress hugs her hips and ass, and it shows a good amount of skin above her knee.

  Yeah. She wants me. That much is for sure. She’s probably convinced herself she can resist me, but she won’t hold out much longer. That dress says it all.

  “Need help with that?” I ask, still staring at Sophie’s ass.

  “Just stay out of the way,” she mutters.

  She lifts the hot tray of lasagna and puts it on the stovetop.

  “Give me one of the oven mitts,” I say, standing right behind her.

  I’m close enough to smell her. I put a hand on her bare arm, and she tenses, but doesn’t shove me away.

  She peels the oven mitt off and places it on the counter. I let go of her arm and take it.

  “Let me slice it,” I say, grabbing the right knife from the block. “You don’t want to get pasta sauce on that nice dress.”

  “Fine,” she says.

  I see her pick up the bottle of wine I brought from the table. “You want me to open this now?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Pour us all a glass.”

  I grab the hot tray with my mitted hand and start to slice the lasagna up into square pieces. When I’m done, I wash the knife and dry it with the towel hanging on the oven handle, then slide it back into the knife block.

  I turn around and see Sophie drinking from her glass, with two fresh glasses on the table beside her.

  “Not going to wait for us?” I ask.

  “I do need to get going, Mason,” she says. “Eventually.”

  “Mmhmm, who you meeting at Tillman’s?”

  “No one you know,” she says.

  I grin and sit down. Hank comes in through the back door with green leaves in his hand.

  “Here we go,” he says, running water over them in the sink. “Fresh basil from my garden. It’s the killer ingredient that really makes my lasagna better than anything you can get in a restaurant.”

  He pats the basil dry and dices it up a bit, then sprinkles it over top of the piping hot cheese.

  “I can’t wait to eat, Hank,” I say. “It looks and smells amazing.”

  “Hank,” Sophie says, staring me down. “You two are on a first name basis now?”

  “I insisted!” Hank says from where he’s standing by the counter, “Mason’s all grown up now.”

  She bites her lip and stares down into her wine.

  Hank brings us each a plate and pops the oven open, and the smell of garlic hits me hard.

  “Sophie’s favorite,” he says. “My garlic bread is the only thing that can compete with my lasagna.”

  “I’m not eating garlic bread tonight,” Sophie says.

  “Planning to kiss someone?” I ask, giving her my most obnoxious smirk.

  Her face turns as red as the tomato sauce, and her nostrils flare. “No, I mean, I’m going out, Mason, I didn’t spend all this time looking nice to smell like garlic.”

  “I might go out later tonight, too,” I say, grabbing a piece of the garlic bread, “But I’ll risk the garlic breath.”

  I bite into it. It’s nice and buttery, and the garlic is just right. “You’re missing out,” I say.

  “I know what it tastes like, Mason,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. I can see her eyeing the bread; she really wants to eat some. She knows in the back of her mind, though, how this night could end, and she doesn’t want our first kiss in sixteen years to be tainted by garlic bread.

  She looks up at me chewing, then down at the bread. I already smell like garlic now—she’s realizing it—and the only guy she’s thinking of kissing tonight is me.

  She grabs a piece and bites in.

  We all start to eat together, washing down the amazing lasagna with sips of wine.

  “The basil really does make this go the extra mile, Hank,” I say. “This is the best lasagna I’ve had in sixteen years.”

  “It’s the only lasagna you’ve had in sixteen years,” Sophie says, glaring at me.

  I grin back at her. “Nope, I had some at an Italian place in Germany a month ago. Your dad’s is way better.”

  Hank tries hard not to smile, but he’s shit at hiding his emotions. His whole body puffs up with pride as he fails to hide his smile. I’m not bullshitting him, though, it’s easily the best lasagna I’ve ever had.
r />   “More wine, Sophie?” I ask, grabbing the bottle.

  She covers her glass with her hand. “No, I need to be able to drive.”

  “How you getting back?” Hank asks.

  “I’m not going to drink a lot there,” she says.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay longer?” Hank asks.

  “I should really go now,” she says, her voice doesn’t quite sound certain.

  Hank stretches his arms out and lets out a massive, bear-like yawn. “Man, I’m feeling tired. Must be the wine. You know what, why don’t you two go out together? You said you were going to go out later anyway, right Mason? You can keep Sophie safe tonight—”

  I see her jaw clench up. “I don’t need him to keep me safe!”

  I laugh and lean back in the chair, as if she took a swing at me.

  “I’m not going to drink tonight,” I say. “I gotta get up early for work. I can drive you, Sophie, I’m going into town anyway. I know you don’t need me to keep you safe, but at least let me give you a ride.”

  “Fine,” she says. “I’m going to use the restroom, then we can go.”

  She gets up from her chair and storms out of the kitchen, her hips swaying hypnotically with each step.

  Hank looks over at me with a smug grin.

  I lean in toward him, my elbows digging into the table, and I say to him in a low voice, “What are you smiling at, Hank? You can tell I’ve got her. It’s only a matter of time now. Didn’t you want me to drive her away?”

  “Watch it, Mason,” he says, still smiling. “Talking about my daughter like that.”

  I look him over, trying to figure out why he’s smiling. I can’t quite figure it out. “What’s your game?”

  “Good strategies,” Hank says. “Have multiple victory conditions, right?”

  I nod.

  “Either you run her out of town, or you bring some life back into her. I thought the first option was more likely, but it looks like I was wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sophie was like a zombie this past year. I’ve never seen her so angry and flustered since you came back here. You’ve woken her back up. It’s only a matter of time now until she realizes she needs to get out of here.”

  I grin. So I really have had the effect on her I suspected? That means—

  Hank grabs my forearm, squeezing me with every last ounce of his old man’s strength. He locks eyes with me.

  “You woke her up, Mason,” he says. “But I swear to God, if you fucking hurt her again, I will drive you out of town.”

  We get into my car, and I look over at Sophie. My car. It’s a mid-2000’s sedan, not my old Camaro.

  “What?” she says. “Drive.”

  “If we’re going out together,” I say. “Don’t you think I’m underdressed?

  I point down to my flannel shirt and jeans. “I can at least get a sports coat on. That’s about as fancy as it gets in Tuckett Bay, right? Sports coat and flannel?”

  “You’re just looking for an excuse to get me to your place?”

  “It’s on the way,” I say.

  “Fine, get a sports coat, I’ll wait in the car.”

  I start the car and pull out of her driveway. “I got an apartment over on Broadwell.”

  “Okay,” she says, crossing her arms.

  I give up on the small talk, waiting until we reach the apartment to try with her again.

  When I pull up to the building, I take out the keys and stop, looking over at her.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I want to brush my teeth while I’m in there. And floss. You sure you don’t want to come in?”

  “I’m fine waiting in the car,” she says. “Do you usually floss after each meal?”

  “No,” I say. “Only when I think I’m going to kiss someone after eating garlic bread. The person I’m planning to kiss didn’t eat any.”

  She stares daggers at me, but there’s something else behind the anger, something that gets me rock-hard. “Who do you think you’re going to kiss?”

  “You know,” I say, grinning. “You sure you don’t want to come in? Maybe you can help me pick out what to wea—”

  “Fine!” she says, hitting the button on her seatbelt. “I will come in, okay?”

  I smile and nod, and I rush around the car to open the door for her. I take her hand as she steps out. She doesn’t fight me on that.

  I let go of her hand after a few steps. I’ve got her where I want her already, so I want to make her hungry for more. This is not the time to come off as desperate.

  I open the door to my place and let her inside.

  She looks around my place—which is nearly empty—then back up at me. “Seriously, Mason? Where do you even sit?”

  I shrug. “I just moved in, haven’t bought much furniture yet. I got a bed, though.”

  I smirk at her. Let her interpret that how she wants.

  Her cheeks flush a bit.

  “Be right back,” I say.

  To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed how empty my place was. After sleeping on cave floors and in desert tents, things that most people consider necessities strike me as complete luxury. Things like couches, chairs...shit, I really should have gotten some furniture if I was planning on bringing Sophie over here. She probably thinks I look crazy.

  I brush my teeth and floss, taking my time. I want Sophie to stew for a little bit.

  I open my closet and see the single coat I have. It doesn’t really match my shoes, but I only have one pair of shoes anyway. I put it on, taking note that in addition to furniture, I need more clothes.

  I walk back into the empty living room. “How’s this look? Or should I try another one?”

  She looks me up and down, staying tight-lipped.

  “Well?”

  “You look good,” she says. “But that color scheme is a mess. You have burnt orange colored flannel, a brighter orange belt, and that blazer is grey. It’s kind of a mess.”

  “I thought you said I looked good?” I ask, leaning close into her, my hands pressed against the door frame.

  “You look good…” she stammers. “Despite the mismatch. Try another coat.”

  “I don’t have another one,” I say, smiling down at her.

  “Another shirt, then?” she asks.

  I start to undo the buttons. I get three down before she grabs my hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Changing my shirt,” I say.

  Her hand is still squeezing my wrist. I can feel my pulse slamming against her thumb. Her touch sets my body off.

  “In front of me?” she asks.

  “The tension…” I say. “It’s thick. You know when you go to a movie theater on a Friday night filled with high school kids on dates? You can just feel it in the air that they all can’t wait to fuck each other. As soon as the lights go off, you just know they’re going to be all over each other.”

  She digs a nail into my wrist. “Do you really want to bring up high school with me, Mason? Will that get you what you want?”

  “What do you think I want?” I ask, giving her a look that tells her exactly what I fucking want.

  She lets go of my wrist, sliding her hand across it, to my neck. Her hand slides down my chest, which is exposed from the partially opened shirt.

  “You want it, too,” I say. “We both want the same thing, so—”

  She presses a finger to my lips. “Shut up. And listen.”

  I smile against her finger. I like where this is going.

  “I’m going to leave Tuckett Bay. You’re going to stay here. I do not forgive you, Mason, but I need closure. I will give you what you want, but just one more time. Then I’m gone.”

  I bite my lip. I know I can get her to stay. She can talk now, but she will stay.

  “Going back to high school,” she says. “You know that feeling you get all the time when you’re eighteen years old? Some insignificant little thing happens to you, and it feels like the entire universe is ben
ding for you? That warm burst you get in your chest, like things have changed forever, and you’ll never be the same again? I remember one time when I was sixteen or seventeen, fall had just arrived. I was walking outside with a coffee—it was the first year I’d started drinking coffee—and I sat down at a bench to drink it and watch the leaves. The wind blew a certain way, and beautiful orange and red leaves blew across the sidewalk like magic. I felt like the whole world was there just for me, and that everything would be okay forever and ever.”

  I nod, though memories like that for me are ancient history.

  Sophie continues. “The tradeoff was awful, gut wrenching feelings to things that—looking at them now—really weren’t such a big deal. Wearing headgear to school and having the entire school rip you apart. It felt that it would be better off if I was dead. I didn’t have the guts to actually kill myself, but I fantasized about a meteor crashing through the roof and taking me out. The worst time I ever felt something like that though, Mason, was the day I realized you were never going to write me back again. That you’d abandoned me.”

  “Sophie,” I say, squeezing her wrist.

  She interrupts me, locking her green eyes with me. “I felt stuff like that all the time when I was eighteen, Mason. But the point that I’m trying to make is this: By the time I was twenty-three, I only had those kinds of emotions a few times per year. And now? Now I never feel like that. Everything is calmed down. I realize that nothing was ever as good—or as bad—as I made it out to be. Even what you did to me.”

  Her hand is still on my chest, warm. My heart is pounding against it.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I felt it sometimes in my car, or when I fished so long and hard that my bones ached. But I felt it strongest of all with you, Sophie.”

  She nods. “Memories. Going to a place that made you feel like that before...or being with a person who made you feel it—”

  “Takes you right back,” I say.

  13

  Sophie

  Mason’s heart is slamming against me, but mine is beating even harder. Jesus, how did I get into this position? How many dumb decisions did I make in a row to end up here? There’s no way I can come this far and not sleep with him again, I’ve already crossed that line.