Honey by Jenna Jameson Page A

hard on yourself. How do you even know what league you’re in until you try? Why not take a class, one class, and see how that goes? There’s the New School or SVA or … ” He stopped when he saw her gaze glazing over.
    â€œClasses and camera equipment cost money,” she said, looking beyond him toward the green market which showed signs of winding down.
    So do shoes , Marc felt like saying, but for once kept his mouth shut—sort of. “Why not make like the Nike ad and ‘Just Do It?’”
    She slid the phone back into her purse and looked back up at him. “Maybe I will … someday.”
    In Marc’s assessment, someday usually equated to never, but tough as it was, he kept his lip buttoned and his judgments to himself—for now. Instead, he said, “You know I may still be a lowly ER resident, but I do okay for myself. I have some money set aside, and I’d be happy to—”
    â€œI will not take money from you.” Her fierce look took him aback. He hadn’t seen anything like it since that first day, the morning when he followed her back to the Park Avenue apartment.
    â€œAt least hear me out first before deciding.”
    â€œI’ve already decided,” she said, her expression softening, though her voice held firm. “Besides, you disapprove of me. Don’t trouble yourself to deny it. It’s true.”
    â€œI do not … well, who cares what I think? I just—”
    â€œI do not accept money from disapproving gentlemen,” she answered gamely.
    Mark bit back a groan. Another Audrey quote! From Breakfast at Tiffany’s , he believed. In the spirit of being a better … friend to her, a couple of weeks ago he’d streamed it from Netflix and watched the whole thing through. Though he’d never been a fan of old films—the whole “Sally Tomato” subplot was supremely silly—this one was more entertaining than he had reason to expect. Or maybe it was his knowing how much the movie meant to Honey that had made it of interest to him.
    â€œConsider it as a loan if that makes you feel more comfortable,” he conceded, though he never meant for it to be anything but a free-and-clear gift. That Honey wasn’t prepared to accept it in that way called for some creativity on his part. He paused to regroup, an idea tickling the corners of his mind. “Or maybe we could work out some sort of barter agreement.”
    Her gaze narrowed. “What kind of barter?”
    Her suspicion was as apparent as her uniquely pretty mouth. A few months ago he might have been offended, but not so now. Now he got it—her. It wasn’t that she distrusted him specifically. It was men as a whole. Not for the first time, he wondered what relationships might have preceded the one with Winterthur. Though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, he was starting to suspect she hadn’t ever had a real adult boyfriend.
    Marc circled back to her question. What could he reasonably—and respectably—have her do for him that, above all, wouldn’t get her into hot water with Winterthur? Jiggling his knee, he thought for a moment. Eureka—he had it. His mother, when she visited, was always on his case about his apartment. Not only was it a “wreck” so far as mess went, but apparently it was so uninviting as to merit being called Spartan, or so she complained. Along with being low on time and patience for fixing it up, Marc was afraid he didn’t have the taste. Fabric swatches, paint chips, draperies, and home décor items—it was all part of a foreign world he couldn’t begin to figure out.
    But he bet Honey could. He thought back to his first, and only, time inside her apartment. Despite her “boyfriend” busting the place up along with her, he remembered it as sophisticated but also charming. Someone had obviously taken considerable time and care in