Page 37 of Keeping The Virgin

“Absolutely.”

He leans back in his chair and plays with the stem of his glass. “I was hard on you about the shakers.”

I don’t think Cage does apologies, so I take this for what it’s worth. “I’ll learn. It’s just that I’ve never been to a place where movie stars eat and billionaires order bottles of wine that…” I glance at the Cabernet Sauvignon. “I’ll bet this costs more than an entire month of what I earn shelving books at my school’s library for extra dough.”

“Then enjoy it, Karini. But not too much of it, if you know what I mean.”

“Aye, captain.”

For the next two hours, Cage coaches me on what to talk about and not talk about with Mr. Vasiliev. What it boils down to is this: If the man asks about how we met and other personal details, I’ll let Cage handle it.

By that point, I’ve got a wonderful buzz going from the second glass of wine the waiter poured for me while Cage took a quick phone call outside—the Cabernet Sauvignon is doing wonders to relax me during this trial run, and I won’t blow it for Cage. I want so badly to do well that I need to be relaxed. He’ll never know I’ve nipped a little more. And he’ll be extra happy that I’m in such a good mood when we finally get home.

And when we get there, will we be going to Cage’s room again?

What carnal adventures does he have in mind for me tonight?

After we finish dinner and Cage takes me back into the limo, I lean my head against his shoulder in the backseat. Soft, mellow music—something more suited to Florida than New York—plays over the speakers.

“You should limit your drinking at the Vasiliev dinner,” he says. “No champagne on the limo ride there either.”

“Okay.” I just won’t tell him how much I’ve had tonight and things will be cool.

“How much wine did you have?”

I hold up my hand and indicate a smidge with my fingers.

He tenses up next to me. I believe he senses a wee fib from the “girlfriend.”

“We still have the art gallery to go to,” he says tightly. “A friend of a friend is opening it with a photography showing.”

I slip my hand into his. “Can’t we end the lessons here tonight and just go home? I crushed it in the restaurant. After the shaker incident, I mean.”

I don’t know if it’s the handholding or the word home that spooks him, but he tenses up even more. I realize too late that I misspoke—his home isn’t my home, and I shouldn’t get too comfortable in it. Also, I suspect that to Cage, holding hands is far too intimate.

How weird is that after we’ve done way more personal things with each other?

He takes his hand out of mine, and as I flush, I sit up straight.

“Indulge me,” he says. “You need more practice as my ‘girlfriend,’ and this is one more opportunity to hone your act.”

Boy. Demanding much?

But I don’t argue. He’s paying me for my time, so I tell myself to suck it up, and when we arrive at the small, trendy little gallery in Chinatown, I put on my girlfriend game face.

After we leave the limo, Cage slips my arm through his. There’re actually a few photographers outside to snap our pictures, and I relax and smile for the cameras. Not too big, not too small, but just right.

Cage doesn’t correct my behavior, so I’m going to take that as a win. It’s our first photo together. Mr. Vasiliev will probably be seeing it in the society columns.

I’m just buzzed enough to not care about that fact either. If my family and friends see me with Cage Bryant in the media, I’ll just tell them my end-of-summer adventure was really an adventure, and it was sadly short-lived. Hey, if the royals in England can hang with commoners, why can’t I hang with a playboy billionaire?

Also, I’ve had worse things happen in life than a society picture. Just ask Liam.

We enter the art gallery with all its white walls and black-and-white photographs: portraits, landscapes, shadows and angles. There’re lots of people wearing severe black outfits—totally out of my element, and I suddenly feel alienated. Servers wander around with trays of champagne, and I eye them.

Right away, a svelte woman with square-framed glasses swans up to Cage. “He made it!” She talks to a short man with a white goatee and porkpie hat who’s come up behind her. “Cage made it!”

My “boyfriend” takes her by the hand and kisses it, then he shakes the hand of Trendy Man.

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