The Virgin Society Collection

1. Just So You Know

1

JUST SO YOU KNOW

Layla

I only have to last thirty more minutes. Half an hour is a good faith effort, right? I’m trying, really. It’s not like I’m sitting in this bar across from Bryce Fancypants the Third for my health.

“So, yeah, when Topher came to me about a top-shelf, members-only distillery in Manhattan, I said, I am so in and here’s the check ,” Bryce says, while rotating his tumbler in quarter circles every thirty seconds. I recognize the tactic from a post last week on The Gentleman’s Guide To Dating —do this if you want to communicate power on a date.

Because, of course, that’s exactly how a man should communicate power—by reading articles about how to do so.

“What a great friend,” I say, like I’m reading from a script.

“Topher has been planning this since we went to Princeton together a few years ago,” Bryce adds, no doubt in case I didn’t hear the other three times when he told me he went to the Ivy.

“How fascinating,” I say with a smile. You never know who Bryce might report back to. Like his mother at the tennis club, who’ll tell my mother at the tennis club. Since this date, like all my dates, was her idea.

But dating is like makeup. I know how to put on a good face to make it through the day. I sit nice and straight and say all the right things to whatever Bryce blathers on about for the next thirty minutes, from the money he and Topher invested in the liquor, to the money they’re making hand over fist, to the way they cater to old money, since old money’s the only thing you can trust, right?

When the clock behind the bar strikes eight-thirty, I can taste my freedom. Bryce is paying the tab, and fine, I’ll give him points for that. But after he signs the bill, he slides his credit card back in his billfold ostentatiously, giving me a chance to see that it’s black.

“Soooo,” he begins, running his fingers over his slicked-back blond hair, his gaze lasered in on my breasts. “This was great, Layla. I’d love to see you again. But just so you know, I’m really busy at work.”

He’s just so you know ing me? Does he think I don’t know that’s code for he only wants to fuck me?

I purse my lips to hold back a flurry of put-him-in-his-place zingers. Instead, I keep the stakes in mind and fasten on my best Park Avenue smile. “I love my job, too, and I’m super busy, as well. Text me.”

“Sa-weet,” he says, and he can’t mask the I’m going to score next time smile.

He can think what he wants, but I have a get-out-of-a-second-date-free card, and I’m ready to play it.

We leave the whiskey bar, and when we reach the curb, Bryce clears his throat. “So, I’ll text you, and we can do this again?”

“Sure!” I say brightly. “I’m just going to take off now and head home.”

This is the real test. I have a feeling this barely twenty-six-year-old banker will fail to do the one thing my mother values more than any other— protect her daughter .

Holding my breath, I turn toward Park Avenue. Will he follow or go on his merry way?

“I’ll text you, Layla,” he calls out as he heads off.

Virtual fist pump.

Bryce doesn’t offer to call me a cab, walk me home, or wait till my Lyft arrives. When my mother finds out, she won’t hassle me to see him again.

His fail is my win.

Once I turn the corner, I order the fastest Lyft possible and wait at the curb. My fingers fly as I text my friends to confirm they’re still at Gin Joint. They immediately answer.

Harlow: Get your ass here and give us a report on Chad. Or Thad. Or was it Brad?

Ethan: We’re placing bets.

Of course they are.

My ride pulls up a minute later, I hop into the black SUV, headed to our favorite speakeasy in Chelsea. There, I find my true loves waiting faithfully for me on a velvet chaise longue.

Harlow looks elegant and artsy with her brown hair clipped back in a silver barrette. Ethan’s the ever-cool hipster rocker in his skinny jeans and a thrift store button-down, his hair a wild mess.

I flop down between them, then blow out a long, heavy breath.

“Was it that bad?” Harlow asks, voicing the sympathy on both their faces.

“Nine out of ten,” I say, wrung out by the hour with Mister Moneybags.

Ethan lifts both arms skyward. “Yes! Free mojito for me.”

I look from one to the other. “That was your stakes? Like either of you couldn’t affordyour own mojito.”

“Not the point,” Ethan says. “Now, give us the full report.”

“He paid for the drinks,” I begin. “So there’s that. But otherwise, he waved his big, rich dick around the whole time, and then he just so you know ed me.”

“Aww, how sweet that he’s down to bone you ,” Harlow says.

With an apologetic shrug, Ethan reaches for his yummy-looking mojito. “Yeah, sorry about… men .”

“Nothing a drink can’t cure.” I bat my lashes at him, then the cocktail.

Ethan waves down a pretty redheaded server named Martina and orders a mojito for me, too, as Harlow asks, “So, did he pass the Mayweather test?”

I can’t hide my glee. “Nope. Said see you later on the sidewalk. Didn’t even offer to call me a cab.”

Ethan gasps. “Left Mama Mayweather’s precious darling to travel the perilous city alone? How helpful of him to eliminatehimself from consideration. I mean, douchebag behavior, but you’re off the hook.”

I smile like I got away with a theft. “I do love it when they make it easy.”

I’ll text my mom later with an update. She usually needs time to research the next nice, well-educated, family-centric candidate. Translation: she wants me to settle down with a rich boy from Park Avenue who’s got a family she trusts, and to take over her makeup empire before I’m twenty-five. I’ve got two years, but the clock is ticking loudly.

When the server returns with my drink, I take a sip of the mojito, my skull rings glinting under the chandelier. The cocktail does the final job in erasing my mood from the bad date. When I set it down, I say, “But it’s all for the best it didn’t work out. I have a lot on my plate, so it’s fine.”

“Or maybe you just need a change of scenery,” Harlow suggests. “A different vibe. What if you go out with someone tomorrow when you’re in Miami? You could get on the apps and see who’s there.”

How would I even have time for that? “At the Innovation conference? I’m going there to learn and network.”

Ethan whispers under his breath, “Fuck a hot dude at night.”

I slug his shoulder. “It’s supposed to be an amazing event. So many great speakers and business visionaries. Mikka Halla is the closing keynote. He wrote an amazing book about harnessing creativity in technology. I devoured it, and I’ve wanted to hear him speak for a long time.”

“Is he hot?” Ethan asks, wiggling his brows.

“He’s fifty-three,” I point out.

“And…is he hot?”

“Shut up. Even you don’t go for guys that old. And I am not going after Mikka Halla. He’s not my type.”

“Does he not like good girls ?” Ethan teases.

“And are you sure you’re going to be such a good girl in Miami?” Harlow goads. “The sun, the heat, the beach. You know how it goes.”

“Of course you’ve plotted my deflowering already,” I say to Harlow. She’s the ultimate planner. That’s how she got her own happy ending.

Ethan stirs his drink with the metal straw, giving me that look. “Babe, the conference is full of your type.”

“Oh, you must mean other app nerds who are hoping to go big and desperately want to succeed without their mother’s success,” I say dryly.

“Yes, Layla. That’s exactly what I meant.” He clears his throat, then says, “But maybe Miami will be just what you need.”

“You’ll be away from New York,” Harlow chimes in.

“No interference from Mama,” Ethan adds.

“Lots of men who tick all your boxes,” Harlow says, then grins. “Like, the older box . ”

In case I didn’t know my type. Still, I manage a protest of sorts. “That’s not always true. I liked David Bancroft in college.”

“You liked him as a friend,” she corrects.

“But I dated him for a couple months.”

“It was practically platonic,” Ethan adds.

To be fair, my relationship with David wasn’t platonic, but it ended amicably and I’m still good friends with him.

But even so, I don’t want to mix business and pleasure. I only have a few years to make my app go big. “I should focus while I’m there, guys.” But I can feel my resolve weakening as I picture… men in suits .

“You can focus by day,” Ethan whispers in one ear.

“Have fun at night,” Harlow seconds in the other. “Just imagine men who don’t tell you how much money they make.”

“Because they’re confident in who they are,” Ethan adds.

“Since they’re self-made,” Harlow adds.

A whoosh travels down my belly. They make such good points. “You’re making this hard,” I grumble.

“And there’s one more thing, Lola Jones …” Ethan emphasizes the name I use professionally for my app and my brand of online makeup tutorials. I registered for the conference under Lola Jones, as well. I don’t like to traffic in the cachet of the Mayweather last name, especially when it comes to my burgeoning makeup dreams.

Ethan pauses dramatically, takes a drink of his mojito, and sets down the glass with panache. “Imagine a man your mother doesn’t set you up with.”

That does sound like my type.

But I’m not traveling to Miami to find a man. I don’t need a man. I don’t want to rely on someone. I never want to experience again the pain of losing someone I love. Felt it. Some days, I still do.

Only, I sure wouldn’t mind going on a date where I didn’t have to report back to anyone except my friends.

Just in case, when I’m packing for the conference later that night, I include a red, cap-sleeve dress with white polka dots.

Well, it does make me look like a good girl.

I spend the first day of the Miami conference in sessions from morning to night, as focused as a high-end Nikon. The next day, I meet with platform partners and marketers, showing them the growth I’ve achieved on my own with the makeup app I started a year ago. With “The Makeover,” you upload a photo of your bare face, and it offers color and style suggestions paired with how-to tutorials from yours truly—AKA Lola Jones. I’ve been creating those videos and building a solid following online for more than five years. My little app has been chugging along all on its own, but we want to go big. After those meetings, I send a report to my partner, Geeta, back in Brooklyn.

When the sessions end for the day, I stop in my room for a quick change into beach gear so I can join some business school friends for volleyball. Once I put on a red bikini, I hit the sand, playing against MBA-ers from another school as the sun dips lower in the sky. I’m poised at the back of the net, waiting for our opponents to serve, when I spot a tall, broad, well-built man walking through the sand.

Hello .

Light blue swim trunks hug his hips, showing off his golden skin and his V cut. My eyes travel up his strong body. Just the right amount of chest hair covers firm pecs. He’s maybe in his late thirties, and he’s heading toward the surf with purpose. I only catch a glimpse of his chiseled profile. A trim beard lines his square jaw, and crinkles form at the corner of his eyes. He looks just my type.

“Heads up!”

I jerk my gaze away just in time to dodge a volleyball to the face. That would have served me right for gawking.

Volleyball victory still burns in my thighs the next morning as I stroll across the hotel mezzanine, on my way to my next session. I’m checking the conference app on my phone when my skin tingles. I look up and glimpse another echo of yesterday—that same, strong, sturdy man from the beach.

He crosses my path, talking to a small group of attendees as he walks.

There’s an intensity in his powerful stride as he makes his way toward double French doors that lead into a VIP room at the end of the hallway.

I stop in the doorway of my next session, stealing a few more seconds to shamelessly stare at him from this angle.

When he reaches the destination, he holds one of the French doors open for the attendees with him. Like a gentleman should. Once the last of the group disappears in the room, his gaze strays back down the hall, checking out his surroundings like a bodyguard checking for threats.

His dark eyes find me, and he doesn’t look away for several tingly seconds. He just stares at me, unflinching, unashamedly. A tiger checking out his prey.

His eyes travel down my body, lingering briefly on the tattoo on my shoulder.

Then, he turns and goes inside.

I spin around, drawing a steadying breath as I smooth a hand over my sleeveless black dress with the cherry print.

You’re here for work, Lola Jones.

I touch my conference badge; the skull-shaped rings on my fingers are a reminder too. I started the Lola brand when I was a senior in high school and desperately needed to become another version of me. Someone without news stories of family tragedy trailing her. Someone not bound by a promise.

Lola is carefree, independent, and happy-go-lucky. Lola earned my going-out money during college.

Lola can create a hell of a seductive smoky eye and design a terrific user interface for an app.

Most of all, Lola is just Lola. Here, I’m not the daughter of Anna Mayweather, the woman who founded a global billion-dollar makeup empire. Or that girl whose family was torn apart one dark evening in Manhattan.

With that, I march inside and settle down in a chair. I cross my legs. Open my tablet. Listen attentively.

Only, near the end of the session, my mind briefly wanders to the other room. Who is that guy dressed up in the smart, tailored clothes by day and dressed down in a sexy swimsuit by night? What is he doing here at the conference? And…will he go to the ocean again this evening?

Too bad I won’t be playing volleyball then, since I’ve got a networking dinner to attend.

But really, it’s not like I’m going to stalk him on the beach. I’m not even going to look up who’s speaking in the VIP room right now to see if I can figure out who he is.

I’m here for my business. I’m not here for a man.

No matter how fast my pulse continues to race.