Man of the world, p.11
Man of the World, page 11
“You sound just like Mom. He’s very nice, and he digs my wheels.”
“Yeah, well, tell him he’d better be a gentleman or your big brother will beat him up.”
Annie’s voice gets sly. “Maybe I don’t want him to be a gentleman.”
The tables are turned; now she’s going to make me squirm. “Gah! Annie, you’re my sister. Stop that!”
“Make me.”
I shake my head and laugh. “Maybe my sympathies are with this boyfriend of yours after all. I hope he knows what he’s getting into.”
“If he doesn’t, he’ll figure it out soon. Listen, I gotta run and get back to the butt-kicking. Just wanted to check in with you and say hi. Mom and Dad can’t wait to see you out here in September … I’m even kinda looking forward to it myself.”
The tug of guilt grows stronger. I need to somehow figure out how to see more of them without actually moving back there permanently.
“Thanks for holding down the fort, sis. I’ll be home soon. I miss you.”
“Miss you too, you big galoot. Peace, love, and soap, brother!”
I grin. Our private-joke sign-off is the motto of our parents’ original company, the little handmade soap business that they turned into a multi-million-dollar company.
“Peace, love, and soap to you too, Banana Girl.”
I hang up. Sunlight sparkles off the clear blue Pacific. I turn to see if Carina is still there, but she’s rolled up her mat and gone inside, taking my distraction with her.
I don’t get as much done as usual for the rest of the day. I go through the motions of writing and letting Princess out, but my daily nap eludes me, and the novel I’m reading can’t hold my attention for more than a few minutes at a time.
When I look out my kitchen window in the evening to see Carina walking toward the beach, Princess on a leash beside her, my mood suddenly brightens, and I realize I’ve been looking forward all day to seeing her. Chatting with her is always enjoyable, and maybe talking over the nagging sense of obligation I feel for my family will help put things in perspective.
A few minutes later, I make my way down the rickety wooden steps that lead to the beach. She’s sitting in the sand, her back to me, while Princess runs around.
“Good evening!” I call out as I make my way over to her.
She shifts in the sand to look at me. She’s wearing denim cutoffs and a man’s linen shirt, her long, smooth legs stretched out in front of her. Despite the casual outfit, she still manages to look as if she’s posing for a high-end clothing catalog. I wonder if the shirt belonged to Mario or one of her other men. Credit to his taste, whoever he is; it’s an expensive-looking shirt, and she looks amazing in it.
I have a brief and unhelpful vision of her wrapped in one of my oxfords and nothing else, and I suddenly can’t make eye contact with her because I’m sure she’ll be able to read my mind if I do. Instead, I keep my eyes on the sunset, though in my peripheral vision, I can see her gaze climbing my legs. My skin is tingling under her scrutiny, and I suddenly forget what I wanted to talk about.
“How was your day?” I manage.
Her face, glowing in the setting sun, tilts up at me. “Good, thanks. How was yours?”
I can hear it in her voice, and I’m finally sure:
She is definitely trying to seduce me.
13
Carina
It turns out I suck at seduction.
Frankly, I’m surprised at how bad I am at it. I thought it would be easier, but I guess I’ve been spoiled by years of guys making plays for me; now that the shoe’s on the other foot, I realize that there’s more to attracting someone than just being attractive.
I’m trying to be subtle enough that I won’t come across as desperate while still keeping myself in Drew’s line of vision. I take every reasonable opportunity to talk to him, I think he sometimes watches my early morning yoga routine, and we frequently meet on the beach in the evenings, where we sometimes talk about work and family and other things and sometimes sit in companionable silence.
But I can’t seem to move the dial from flirt to femme fatale.
Still, Drew keeps showing up, so maybe I’m doing something right.
On Friday, I come home from a long day of trying to figure out how to pass off sugar cookies as health food. More and more, I think I need to find a new job, or better yet, a new direction in life. Work, which used to be fun, is increasingly draining.
I change into old shorts and a shirt of my dad’s that I borrowed and “forgot” to give back, then, to get my mind off work, I finally turn my attention to the fennel tarte. I picked up some fennel at a farmer’s stand on the way home, and now I get to work cutting up the thick bulbs, filling the small kitchen area with licorice fragrance, then braise the pieces in vegetable broth seasoned with orange peel. I brush the puff pastry with butter, arrange the fennel slices on it, place it in the oven at 350°, set the timer on my phone, and call Princess.
We walk down the little path between the two houses closest to the water, then down the wooden steps. I let the little dog off the leash, and she runs around barking, just as excited as she was when we moved in two weeks ago.
I sit on the sand, watching her, wondering if Drew will show up tonight, and if he does, if I’ll be able to move that dial at all.
“Good evening!”
My heart jumps up into my throat. I’m flooded with disproportionate relief, excitement, and nervousness at the sound of Drew’s voice. Still seated in the sand, I force myself to move slowly as I shift around to face him.
I can talk to just about anyone, anywhere. I love asking questions and listening to what people say. I may be insecure and neurotic, but shyness has never been my problem.
Until now. Suddenly, my heart starts beating in my throat, preventing my voice from working properly. My mind, normally full of questions and observations, is suddenly empty.
It’s Westley, your old friend, I tell myself. He’s nice and easy to talk to, which is part of why you’re doing this. It’s no big deal.
But if the whole thing goes to plan, it will be a Very Big Deal indeed.
Drew comes and stands next to me, his hands deep in his pockets. “How was your day?” he asks.
I stay seated at his feet, allow my gaze to wander up his long, muscular legs, then give him what I hope is a confident and sexy smile. I’m glad my hands are buried in the sand, otherwise he might see them shake. Fortunately, my voice does not. I somehow manage to collect my thoughts enough to answer. “Good, thanks. How was yours?”
He looks down at me briefly then trains his eyes on the sunset again. “Fine.”
Silence descends. I can’t think of a single thing to say.
I lean back on my hands, spreading them until I brush Drew’s ankle with my wrist. The feeling of his skin against mine sends a pleasant thrill through me, but he shifts his leg away. Damn. I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky, stretching my legs out in front of me in what I hope is a suggestive pose.
“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” I say.
“Very nice,” he replies.
More silence. Oh come on, Drew, give me something to work with!
My suggestive pose is putting a crick in my neck. I sit up straight again. Inspiration, albeit not terribly original, strikes: “How’s the book going?”
He shrugs. “Good. Sent another chapter to my editor this morning, went over some of her notes in the afternoon.”
“Will you be able to meet your deadline?”
Stupid question. Sounds like I’m doubting his abilities.
He nods, still looking out at the ocean. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been meeting deadlines for years. I’m more worried about the quality of the book. I just want it to be good, you know?”
“I can’t wait to read it. I’m sure it’s going to be a huge bestseller!”
Too gushy! Why am I suddenly so bad at talking?
He gives a short laugh. “Well, I don’t think it’s going to compare with the latest Stephen King. It’d be nice if it got decent reviews, though.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great.”
Pathetic.
“Oh, my publicist got in touch with your contact at the LA Lecture Club,” Drew adds. “Looks like it’s a go for next spring. It was really nice of you and your mother to put us in touch.”
Don’t really want to talk about my mom. “Oh, no problem! I’m sure you’re an amazing speaker. I’ll definitely go.”
Cringe. Kiss ass a little more, why don’t you?
“Thanks.”
Drew continues to stand there, looking toward the horizon. The longer I continue to sit at his feet, the more awkward the whole thing feels. Should I stand up? Suggest he sit down? Maybe ask him to help me up, thereby giving him a reason to hold my hand?
I’m clueless.
Fortunately, Princess comes dashing up to us just then, barking. Drew bends down to scratch her head then lowers himself all the way down so that he’s sitting next to me in the sand, just close enough that I can feel the warmth of his bare arm next to mine. I stretch my legs out and lean back a bit, allowing my arm to brush his ever so slightly. A zing of excitement darts through my chest.
He doesn’t move away this time.
We sit there, not saying anything. The sun is low in the sky and a cool breeze plays on my face, at odds with the heat that’s building in my center. Does he feel the same nervous anticipation that I do? Is he as aware as I am of the tiny electric sparks that seem to jump at the spot where my arm brushes his?
Suddenly the alarm on my phone goes off.
“Damn it!” I straighten up, breaking our skin-to-skin connection and the charged silence as I make an ungainly fumble for the phone in my pocket. “Sorry about that,” I mutter, turning it off.
“You need to be somewhere?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I made a savory fennel tarte. That was my five-minute warning to get it out of the oven.”
Talking about oven timers = not sexy.
I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice even. “Can I bring it over when it’s done? I’d love to know what you think of it.”
He narrows his eyes at me, looking like he’s trying to find the right words for something. “Look, Carina, you don’t need to keep making me food. It’s really no problem to let your dog out a couple times a day. I don’t want you to feel obligated to me.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly. “I just really like cooking. And I like it better if I can share it with people. You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to.”
He stares at me for a long moment, frowning. I wonder if I’m being too pushy, too needy, or just too weird, but then his handsome face breaks into a completely unexpected grin.
“How do you stay so skinny?” he asks with a chuckle.
Relieved that he’s not put off, I smile back. “Oh, I just like the challenge. I just want a taste … and then I lose interest.”
Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize that they could have a double meaning and decide to take advantage of it. I tilt my head down and look up at him suggestively, letting a hint of a smile play around the corners of my mouth.
His eyebrows lift and though the grin doesn’t disappear, it fades into something more serious as his eyes grow darker.
“Just a taste? That’s all you want?”
The air between us suddenly feels charged, both dangerous and exciting.
“Usually. Sometimes if it’s really good, I’ll try it a couple of times.”
He lets out a short huff of breath and looks out at the sand. Then he looks at me again and the smile is back, a lazy grin this time. “Well, maybe I could come by? I wouldn’t mind tasting some tarte.”
His eyes have grown darker, and there’s no missing the suggestive tone in his voice.
My heart is in my throat now, pounding so loudly I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make myself heard over it. “Okay. It’ll be a few minutes before it’s ready. I just need to let it cool.”
He smiles again, and this time the sight sends a bolt of pure lust rocketing straight through to my core. “Hotter the better as far as I’m concerned,” he replies. He stands and holds out a hand. I take it and he helps me to my feet. He doesn’t let go until we’ve walked up the rickety wooden steps and across the quiet street. When we stop right in between his house and mine, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.
“I have some white wine in my fridge. Would that go well?”
“Oh, that would be perfect!” I hope it’s nothing too sweet, then remind myself that this isn’t actually about the food.
“Let me go get it. I’ll be over in a few minutes.” He gives me a look full of lazy confidence then turns and wanders back toward his house. I swallow hard. My heart is racing, my skin feels electrified, and a swarm of butterflies have taken over my stomach creating a sensation somewhere between nausea and exhilaration.
A heady sense of excitement rushes to my head, while flat-out lust, seasoned with a dash of pure terror, consumes the rest of me.
I stoop down to pick up Princess and attach her leash to her collar again. My hands are trembling. “What do you think, girl? Should I do this?”
Princess wiggles and licks my face. I take a deep breath of the cooling air and try to get my nerves under control.
“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
14
Drew
At the back of my mind, trying to break through the haze of lust, a little voice is telling me that while an affair with the girl next door sounds like a couple months of easygoing fun, it could get horribly awkward.
The smart thing to do would be to stay home. To read for a while, go to bed early, and commit myself to being just friends with my pretty neighbor.
But I’m not thinking with the smarter part of me. I’m thinking with the hormonal, don’t-get-out-enough, haven’t-been-laid-in-six-months part. I unlock the door to my house and wipe my suddenly sweaty hands on my shorts as soon as I know I’m out of sight.
Even if my job lent itself to long-term relationships, my relationship with Pilar left me too wrung out to consider anything serious anytime soon. There was a lot of passion, a lot of fights, and a lot of passionate make-up sex after the fights, mixed with hyper-competitive attempts to scoop each other on the same stories. Thank God we weren’t competing for the same readers, or we probably would have killed each other.
I’m not sure if I was truly in love with Pilar, or her with me, but animal attraction seasoned with the spice of drama was addictive in its own way, maybe not unlike the rush of reporting from dangerous places. The adrenaline becomes its own reward.
Carina is more chill, thank God. But I can’t quite reconcile the girl who has one-night stands with Italian models and a harem of men for her friends to bet on with the sweet, cookie-baking girl next door.
I think I’ve made it clear that between my job and my crazy ex, I’m not looking for anything serious, but I want to be sure. When I go over, I’ll make sure she knows that I’m not looking for anything long-term, that I want a relaxed summer without obligation or drama. And if she’s still up for it … well, who am I to look a thoroughbred gift horse in the mouth?
I retrieve the bottle of white wine from the back of the fridge. Except for the occasional beer when I’m out with friends, I rarely drink, but the bottle was a gift from a happy Gentlemen, Inc. client who worked in the wine business, and I may as well make the most of it. No idea if it will really go well with braised fennel tarte, whatever that is, but at least I can bring something to the table.
Optimistically, I grab a couple of condoms and stash them in the pocket of my shorts. I haven’t been with any women since Pilar, whom I haven’t seen since we ended things six months ago, and I have a feeling the first time might be over quickly. I’ll make it up to her on the second round, I promise myself.
I head over to Carina’s house and hear a cheerful, “Come in!” in response to my knock.
When I step in, she’s just turning around, holding a pie dish, her hands encased in two enormous, bright purple oven mitts, making me think of a cross between Raquel Welch and Betty Crocker. The oven mitts are about the least seductive thing I’ve ever seen her wear, and they tell me that she’s serious about actually wanting me to try the tarte.
“Can you put that trivet on the table?” She nods at a ceramic square on the counter.
I place it on the table, where a couple of forks and plates are already laid out, and she puts the pie dish down.
“Smells incredible,” I say, which it does. I heft my bottle. “Would it go well with a glass of pinot gris?”
Her big eyes fly open in delight. “Yes! That would be perfect! How did you know?”
“Just lucky,” I admit. “It’s all I had in the house.”
“Well, it should go very nicely.” She hands me a corkscrew and a couple of wine glasses, then begins to slice into the tarte, holding onto the dish with one mitt-covered hand, while I pour the wine.
We sit down and clink glasses.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“Anytime.” She shoots me a mysterious smile and my confidence that I’m going to score tonight hits a new high.
I wasn’t really sure what to expect from the tarte—I’d imagined something dessert-y, but this is more savory than sweet, a perfect combination of flavors from caramelized onion, licorice-flavored fennel, orange zest, and buttery pastry.
“Oh my God, this is delicious,” I say in all sincerity, trying to convey that I’m not just saying it because I hope to go to bed with her—it really is amazing. She frowns as she chews, looking less impressed than I am. “What’s the matter, don’t you like it?”
She nods slowly. “It’s good … but I think it needs another texture … toasted almonds, maybe?”
I shrug, the nuances of toasted almonds lost on me. “I’m sure that would be nice, but I think it’s great the way it is.”
She nods, more decisively this time. “It’s not bad for a first try.” She sips the wine and I take a moment to enjoy the way she closes her eyes as she lifts the glass to her perfect lips and swallows. “This, though, this is the perfect pairing.” She puts the glass down and opens her eyes, looking straight into mine.
