The Virgin Society Collection

18. The Virgin Society

18

THE VIRGIN SOCIETY

Harlow

Honey .

He gave me a nickname.

A delicious, sexy one.

Honey’s not a name you give someone you only kiss once. I’ve read enough, seen enough, know enough. I am his honey.

And I’m not going to let one setback get me down. I’ll simply…find a new way to solve the puzzle of Bridger.

I want what I want, and I’m not done getting it— getting him .

The next morning, I do what any smart, Upper East Side girl would do. I call for reinforcements. On the way to work, I send a text to Layla and Ethan asking if they can meet for a quick lunch at a nearby diner that Layla loves.

A working lunch at Neon Diner , I add.

Naturally, they both say yes.

Until then, I’ll be the best damn intern there ever was. I walk into Lucky 21, and I do everything that’s expected of me and more in the morning. I write excellent reports. I take orders from Jules. I don’t even see Bridger, talk to him or text him.

As noon ticks close, I grab my phone with the built-in lip gloss case—purses can suck it—and swing by Jules’s desk.

“I’m going to grab lunch. I’ll be back in forty-five,” I say to the stony-faced woman.

Without even glancing up from her pristine desk, she replies, “You can take an hour. It’s standard for everyone .”

Even princesses.

“Forty-five minutes is fine. I don’t mind,” I say, upbeat. I don’t want to look like I’m taking advantage of my connections.

Though I can’t see her eyes, I have a feeling she’s rolling them. Then, she raises her face. Her mouth is tight. Her dark eyes, piercing. “Are you going to stay here at Lucky 21 at the end of your internship this summer?”

I’m taken aback by the question and the intensity with which she asks it. “I don’t actually know,” I say, trying not to stumble on my own surprise. I didn’t think she was interested in my plans.

She straightens her spine. “If you’re going to apply for an open position, I’d like to know. It’ll help me to focus my… resources .”

Jules, I’m here for one reason, and it has nothing to do with a job .

But she doesn’t need to know I have no desire to work in media. “Thank you. I’ve been thinking about my fall plans a lot. I’ll let you know.”

“You do that,” she says, then returns to typing, tap, tap, tapping away on her noisy keyboard. There’s no dismissal, no goodbye. But that’s no-nonsense Jules for you.

I’ve turned to go when she clears her throat and says, “And if you’re not keen on sticking around, you don’t have to stay late.”

A prickle of fear slides down my spine.

Does she know what I did last night? Or has she noticed me hanging around Bridger’s office at other times in the evenings?

No idea. I swallow back the nerves, then face her once more. The more I seem like a bad girl, the more she’ll think I am one.

“Thanks, but I was that way in school too. Working late. Coming in early,” I say with a what can you do shrug.

Look it up, Jules. I was the valedictorian at Carlisle Academy and I attended a top twenty-five ranked university, earning a double major in French and art history. I’m not a slacker who leaves work early.

On that salvo, I head out to lunch, doing my best to shed my worry over her. I’m allowed to spend time with Bridger. In fact, it’s expected. My dad made it clear Bridger would be the point of contact for my internship. I’ve done nothing wrong with my office visits.

Still, as I leave, I don’t even look at Bridger’s door. I won’t give Jules any bait.

Sixties music plays overhead at the diner. Servers in mint green and pastel pink skirts scurry by. A jukebox offers Elvis tunes.

And from her side of the booth at the retro diner, Layla fans herself. “Holy shit. That sounds hot,” she says when I finish telling my friends the tale of last night.

Layla waves her jeweled hand in front of her face, her collection of silver skull rings catching the afternoon light. Next to her, Ethan whistles at me, with a “Damn, girl. Can you tell that story again?”

I preen a little, pleased they’ve enjoyed my escapades. I sure did.

“I’m going to need to hear it again too since my love life is more nonexistent than mermaids,” Layla adds.

I hold up a hand as a stop sign. “Wait,” I cut in. “I thought you were going out with that guy? The one your mom thought was perfect for you?”

“Mom thinks he’s perfect because his family’s like triple-yacht wealthy, and he won’t try to steal her makeup empire,” Layla says.

“The important metric of your romantic life, of course,” Ethan puts in.

“So I went out with him once. He was all let me tell you about my stock portfolio level of boring,” she says. “Ergo, my sex and love life is mermaid level.”

Ethan grabs a fry from Layla’s plate. “Sidenote: My last date thought she was a mermaid.”

Layla frowns. “Did she have a fishtail?”

“Or is she one of those I want to be a mermaid girls?” I ask, snagging a fry too.

Shaking his head, Ethan waves a hand breezily. “Like, in a past life she was a mermaid.” Then he leans closer. “Enough about me. Tell us about that kiss again and don’t leave out a single detail. Layla needs to use that story when she tests out her new toy tonight from Date Night For One.”

“Ooh, that’s Veronica Valentine’s company,” I say. “I read her Tales of a Naughty Virgin column.”

“She’s like our leader,” Layla adds.

But before I get distracted, I return to the important topic. I need insight. “Guys, help. I feel like I’m at an impasse. I don’t know what to do next. To convince him we could be good together,” I say.

Good in bed for sure.

Maybe even good out of bed.

But one thing at a time.

Layla furrows her brow, takes a minute. “Look, odds are nothing will come of this,” she says, ever pragmatic.

I nod, taking the truth on the chin. “I know.” Do I ever know.

“But maybe he needs something from you,” Layla offers helpfully.

“Yeah, he needs her panties removed and her body spread out before him,” Ethan stage whispers.

I snort laugh.

Layla slugs him again. “I meant something…emotional, philosophical, you ball-carrier.”

“Oh, right, that ,” Ethan says, then shrugs helplessly. “Testosterone. What can you do?”

That’s the question, though. “What can I do?” I press, staying the course.

Layla taps her finger against her chin, and I think hard too, replaying last night for the millionth time.

But I focus on the words this time, not the intimacy.

His This is too risky.

Bridger’s worried, understandably, that someone would find out about us. “He must need reassurance that I’m trustworthy,” I say, like I’ve just answered the right question in class. “That I will keep not only his secrets, but this secret.”

Layla’s blue eyes brighten. “Oh yes, that’s it, baby,” Layla says, offering a palm for smacking.

Ethan does the same.

“And I can definitely keep our secret,” I add. After all, I’ve spent the last several years of my life amassing an absolutely pristine track record of keeping things to myself. I’ve never once breathed a word of Dad’s affairs beyond the vault of my two best friends, who I met all the way back in grade school. We’ve seen each other through our parents’ divorces and my mother’s death, through family addictions and disorders, and through good nights, bad mornings, joys and victories.

“So you need to let him know you’re not about to blab,” Ethan adds.

Except, am I such a good secret keeper? I wince, a little embarrassed over how I just disproved my point here at this lunch. “But I told the two of you,” I say, like a confession.

Layla pulls a you’ve got to be kidding me face. “We rent space in your brain. We don’t count.”

“This is the vault,” Ethan says, drawing an air circle around us. Then he drops that hand onto the Formica. “We could even be a secret society, the three of us.”

“Yes!” Layla says, enthused. She slams her palm on top of Ethan’s.

“I want in,” I say, adding my hand to theirs.

“You’ve been in,” he adds. “And now we swear allegiance to…what’s our society called? Do we use The Virgin Club? After our favorite dating column?”

We’ve all grown addicted to a helpful, sex-positive dating column under that name. We share it with each other every week, along with our comments on positions, ideas, approaches, strategies. But I have a name unique to us.

It’s perfect. With a sly smile, I whisper, “We’re the Virgin Society.”

Layla regards me with mischief. “And I nominate you to be the first one to break her virgin vows,” she says with a devilish smirk.

And I want Bridger to be my first. “I accept your nomination.”

Tonight at the gallery, I’m going to steal Bridger away, tug him into a nook or alcove, talk to him, reassure him, and let him know I’ll look out for his honey and him.