My Gigolo by Molly Burkhart Page A

did a booming business if he could afford a ride like that. Or maybe he had a day job, too. She hadn’t thought to ask. She probably wasn’t supposed to ask.
    Frowning, she checked her mailbox—mostly for something to do with her hands—then went back inside. She should call Mike, tell her thank you. She should start the cake so it’d be cooled and ready to frost well before the Pro Bowl this afternoon.
    She should not think about how he had felt inside her. Or she should, but not in conjunction with how comfortable and warm waking up next to him had felt. She could have the one. She shouldn’t have the other.
    The phone rang, and she jumped, realizing she’d been standing in the living room and staring at the door for God only knew how long.
    “Hello?”
    “So how’d it go, kiddo? You didn’t call last night, so I got tired of waiting.”
    “Well…”
    “That bad, huh?” Honest sympathy lurked in her sister’s voice.
    “That good, actually. But kind of bad, too.”
    Before she quite knew how, she found herself telling her sister almost everything. She hadn’t intended to, but the more she talked, the more she couldn’t stop herself.
    “I shouldn’t have let him stay. It just made everything weird, and now I feel like I did something wrong.”
    Mike made sympathetic noises, then broached a question Gabe didn’t want to answer. “Did you…like him?”
    She grunted, sitting on the couch’s arm and slouching. “Sort of. I dunno. I wasn’t really thinking about it. Sure, he was nice and all, but he was just supposed to be a good lay. You know?”
    “It’s okay to find him personable, Gabe. It’s his job to be nice. But you’re not supposed to like him like him.”
    “I know. And I don’t…really. I just, I dunno, feel like I should have asked for his number or something. Do you think he was mad that I didn’t? I didn’t figure it was any of my business, and it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.”
    “No, you were right not to. I’m sure he didn’t expect it of you.”
    Her sister didn’t sound disappointed in her, so she let go of some of her unease. She had done the right thing. He was a male prostitute, and a good one, apparently. He’d probably left a trail of disappointed hopes longer than his trip back to Kansas City. Well, she wouldn’t be one of them.
    The conversation shifted to other things, and she moved on with a smile.
     
    The Kansas City city limits greeted him with open arms, but he couldn’t quite find a smile. He was home, but what did that mean? He had perhaps three friends outside the business, none of whom actually lived close enough to visit. If he went to his favorite restaurant—and by the way, just what was his favorite restaurant?—would anyone recognize him there as a favorite customer? Not likely. If he were recognized at all, it would be as the resident gigolo. Escort. Whatever.
    He absolutely should not have taken that call. It made him feel weird, disconnected somehow. He felt without an anchor.
    Gabe had Mike. She had friends to talk about and places to go where she’d be greeted with a smile. She had a house that was so obviously hers. She talked to total strangers without wondering if they would ask about her rates or wonder if she’d ever been with someone of her own gender.
    He had…his job.
    But he loved his job. Didn’t he? He loved being with a different woman every night. He enjoyed overcoming the occasional shyness and instilling new confidence. The challenge of figuring out what made any given woman coo and sigh thrilled him.
    Hell, he had sex more than anybody he knew. He loved being an escort. Wouldn’t change a thing.
    But she had friends. Family. A life . He had…other people’s fantasies.
    Then again, what was wrong with living out other people’s fantasies? He was in high demand. He was a healthy, active, thirty-year-old man in a sprawling, busy city, and more people knew his name—well, his escort name—than he could begin