The Virgin Society Collection

14. Yes, I am

14

YES, I AM

Milo

Drew points at me like I’m suddenly a celebrity. “You’re a character in a dating column,” he explains, grabbing his phone as I try to make sense of his gibberish. He taps repeatedly on the screen while talking a mile a minute. “The writer is anonymous, but she calls herself Your Friendly Neighborhood Virgin , and there’s a guy she has a crush on who appears in her stories. His name is Mister Sexy Pants.”

The hair on my arms stands on end. Is he pulling my leg? I mean, that’s the kind of shit friends do to each other.

I want this to be real so badly. It’s too good. Too thrilling. Too wickedly sexy. But he’s got to be full of it.

“You read a column on dating and virginity?” I ask.

Drew stares at me, dead-eyed. “Try to read what women say, and maybe you’d learn a thing or two about the fairer sex.”

“Hey, now! I’m on a dating intel blackout. But that’s not the point. Who is this Mister Sexy Pants?”

“ You are ,” Drew declares, plunking his phone in front of me and pointing to it.

I read the headline: Things We Assume About Virgins . Then the date. The piece ran the day after I crashed into her. With my breath held, I devour every delicious word. When I reach the middle, my breath hitches.

Do you remember Mister Sexy Pants? I mentioned him a few columns ago when he introduced me to the pleasures of ogling men in tight pants.

Today, I met him for real. And even though my valiant dog tried to defend me against a potential attack from his bike, and even though I accidentally flashed him my panties, he was still a perfect gentleman.

Holy shit.

That is us, all right, which makes me—I steal a glance at my tight-fitting burgundy pants—Mister Sexy Pants.

As I read on, my temperature climbs. She describes a fantasy about this gallant guy coming home from work, fucking her on the balcony, and making her a panini.

All the clues add up. She acted jumpy when I mentioned National Sandwich Day, like she’d been caught. Then, when Zara commented on my style, Veronica said pants were the worst.

Lies.

All sweet, lovely little lies to cover up her secret identity.

She’s a sexy superheroine. Veronica Valentine by day, and The Virgin Club writer by night.

My employee has a wicked, crazy, dirty, filthy, beautiful crush on me, and she wants me to bang her on her balcony.

I figured out her secret, and it’s incredible.

This is the best worst discovery of my life.