“So, are you going to do it?” Anna asks, interrupting my sour thoughts.
“Do what?”
“Hang out with him?”
Chewing on my lip, I consider it. “I don’t know. I might . . .”
“Then you should totally do it.” Anna nods.
I can see where her loyalties lie. First, I need some answers.
I grab my cell and dial Sterling’s number.
“Hey, Camryn. Did I forget something at your office?” he asks.
“No, I just . . . I had some questions for you.”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, when you said hang out, what did you mean?”
Anna’s hand flies over her mouth and her eyes widen.
No sense in beating around the bush.
I can almost hear the smile in Sterling’s voice when he replies. “What do you want it to mean?”
Straightening my shoulders, I sit up taller in my chair. “Oh no, you don’t, mister. Before I agree to spend time with you, there are a few things I need to know.”
“Go for it.”
“How many women have you slept with?”
“Pardon?” Sterling coughs.
Anna is on her feet, making slashing motions across her throat with her hand.
“Your number. What is it?” My tone is calm, controlled. I’m actually enjoying this.
“Is that information you need as my publicist, or as the woman I’ve asked to hang out?”
“Just answer the question, Sterling. Or can you not count that high?”
He lets out a sigh, so brief I can barely hear it. For a second, I’m sure he’s going to dodge the question.
“Enough to know what I’m doing. Not enough to make me a total fucking wanker.”
I laugh, despite myself. It’s actually a good response.
“Let me make this clear for you. I like you, Camryn. We’re both adults, and there’s no reason why we can’t hang out and enjoy each other’s company without it turning weird.”
What the hell does that mean? I’m more confused now than before. Maybe this is his last hurrah before becoming a married man.
“I’m not quite sure what to say.”
“We have fun together. Let’s keep it casual and fun; we both deserve that.”
The man has a point.
“But you’re about to be married,” I say.
“Not tomorrow. Not the next day.”
“But soon.”
He exhales. “Yes, and that’s kind of stressing me the fuck out, so I could use a little downtime with someone who gets me.”
I swallow.
“Say yes,” he murmurs.
“Sterling . . .”
“I would never hurt you,” he adds softly.
“Fine, but I’m not having sex with you.”
Anna is now lying on the floor of my office, her face scrunched up in agony, her head in her hands.
“We’ll see,” he says.
A girly bubble of laughter escapes my lips, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. I want to bitch-slap myself for that outburst. But Sterling only seems amused.
“Seriously, don’t worry. Don’t overthink this. Everything will be fine,” he says. “I promise.”
I straighten my shoulders. “Okay then. Wednesday. Where should I meet you?”
Anna breaks out into a huge grin.
“My flat. At seven.”
Sterling’s sexy deep voice sends a tingle down my spine. My cheeks are bright red when I hang up the phone.
His flat. It’s cute that he calls his apartment a flat. How very British of him.
Anna lets out a small squeal as she jumps up.
I hold up my hand. “Not one fucking word.”
“Poop stick,” she says and sticks out her tongue, but goes back to her desk.
I spend the rest of the work day trying to make peace with his explanation, to talk myself into this non-date. I weigh the pros and cons, push the women of his past (and future) out of my mind. But I hate the thought that past girlfriends know intimate details about him—how he tastes, how he fucks, how it feels to sleep beside him all night—all things that I will never know or get the chance to do.
I say good night to Anna and pack up my things. The entire way home, I argue with myself. Part of me wants to just go with it. The other part of me knows this is a recipe for disaster.
My e-mail is full with the first round of applicants, and I know I’ll be spending the evening with a big glass of wine and a bunch of women who could be Sterling’s future wife.
I’m just going to have to tell Sterling. Our hanging out is stupid. Not when there’s so much on the line.
I take a deep breath and remember that he promised it was casual fun, nothing more.
Don’t make a big deal out of this.
But it feels impossible not to.
Chapter Twelve
Sterling
At ten to seven on Wednesday night, I take one last glance around my flat. It hasn’t been this spotlessly clean since . . . well, ever, probably. I straightened, dusted, vacuumed, and sanitized for the last hour and a half.
My balcony, which was the whole reason I bought this place, has been transformed. Over the weekend, I picked up a soft blue outdoor rug with tassels on the ends, along with several large throw pillows in navy and cream. They’re scattered about on the rug, and an overturned basket sits in the center—a makeshift table that holds a bottle of wine and two glasses.
The couple of plants I’ve had out here since I moved in were dead, so I replaced those too. Two large pine-tree-shaped shrubs sit in gold pots and are decorated with white twinkle lights. The city lights in the distance and the soft hum of the distant traffic below add character. It’s cozy and quiet up here, but there’s no forgetting we’re in the middle of New York City. It lends a certain ambience that’s one of a kind. I like it.