Men weren't your strong suit, not at all. Not that you didn't like them, you sure did. That was the worst part of it all.

You knew you were beautiful, you were funny, kind, smart, too. But that didn't seem to matter to any guy, at least not any of your interest. You were a picky little bitch, and you'd rather die than letting the wrong person into your heart... Much less into your bed.

Now you had this guy, naked under a robe he'd stolen from your bathroom, his strong masculine scent mingling with the vanilla perfume that came out of the automatic aromatizer every twenty minutes—it kept scaring the shit out of Colin.

You didn't have sex with him! Gosh, no... You'd offered him to hide from his almost daily—or, better said, nightly—hookups in your appartment for reasons you couldn't remember.

After all, he was not the guy you had detailed in your journal every single year since you were seventeen—he wasn't rich, he wasn't stupidly gentlemanly, he wasn't... well, he was kind of hot... Fuck. He was really hot.

Okay, maybe he was your type. Not your fault! Why on Earth did he have to show off those incredible pectorals every minute of the day?

"Wouldn't it be easier if you just had sex in their place instead of waiting for them to leave yours?"

You didn't quite understand his lifestyle, and you didn't want to. He wasn't dragging you to it, at least he hadn't yet. Not that you'd allow him anyway.

"The last time I did that, she had this picture of herself dressed as Cinderella for her sixth birthday on her night table," he sighed as he sat on the bed he'd just helped tidy, his pretty expression reflective. "I would hate to break that little girl's heart."