Eye Candy Read online

  Eye Candy

  Tera Lynn Childs

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  My lower left desk drawer holds a secret.

  Chapter 2

  "That's your ex?"

  Chapter 3

  I eased my silver Passat into a parking spot…

  Chapter 4

  The Summer Sail Away is not just any party.

  Chapter 5

  Sleeping arrangements were easily dealt with…

  Chapter 6

  I was sitting on the front porch—fidgeting, worrying, hoping…

  Chapter 7

  At 4:32 p.m. I set Jawbreaker's pug loose on the beach.

  Chapter 8

  Rather than sit through the tedious Sunday morning brunch…

  Chapter 9

  My first thought was to call the police.

  Chapter 10

  My office looked like a circus tent.

  Chapter 11

  Two hours and countless subway stops…

  Chapter 12

  "Where are you?" I asked.

  Chapter 13

  "Miss Vanderwalk, this is—"

  Chapter 14

  "I mean try it on," I quickly retreated.

  Chapter 15

  When Dyllie finished inspecting every blade of grass…

  Chapter 16

  "Rhonda?" Phelps repeated.

  Chapter 17

  "Um," I stalled…

  Chapter 18

  "You may not quit."

  Chapter 19

  "Buona sera," Ferrero greeted.

  Chapter 20

  Deciding simpler was better, I dipped my key card in the reader…

  Chapter 21

  "Happy birthday, beautiful."

  Chapter 22

  Elliot whisked us back to Milan and the hotel in no time…

  Chapter 23

  No one spoke to me on the flight back to New York.

  Chapter 24

  Gavin sighed as the elevator dropped him off at his apartment.

  Chapter 24

  Elliot hated attending these vacuous society events

  About the Author

  Books by Tera Lynn Childs

  Copyright

  1

  Q: What do you get when you have a cat that eats lemons?

  A: A sour puss.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #41

  My lower left desk drawer holds a secret.

  Looking at the rest of my office you'd never guess. The pristine mahogany surface of the desk is unspoiled by dust or clutter. Every office tool has a place and every file is appropriately color coded. Rows of sales data binders are neatly aligned and in chronological order. The flat-panel monitor is oriented at the perfect ergonomic angle to minimize eye strain and glare.

  But that drawer—securely locked if I'm out of the office for even a second—is the exception to my immaculately professional appearance.

  That drawer is loaded with candy.

  A sweet-tooth soup of peppermints, lemon drops, butterscotches, caramels, lollipops, and atomic fireballs. A treasure trove of red vines, gummy bears, licorice whips, fruit slices, red hots, and tropical dots stacked in disorderly piles.

  My name is Lydia Vanderwalk, and I'm a candy-holic.

  I've known this for a long time and freely confess my dependency. I know I couldn't stop, even if I wanted to.

  I would never, ever want to.

  I live for the sugar rush of a one-pound bag of M&Ms. Sour apple tape got me through my college all-nighters. Every great idea I ever had was Lifesavers-induced.

  When I was four years old, my mom dressed me as Jo from Facts of Life and took me trick-or-treating. Everyone thought I was Michael J. Fox. I was traumatized. When we got home I dumped my booty onto the carpet and started consuming. Amongst the Smarties and fun-size Snickers I found comfort for my costume identity crisis. Candy soothed my pain. And has ever since.

  Next Halloween I was a gumdrop. And not one nearsighted neighbor mistook me for a pink mountain.

  Candy is my coping mechanism, and it's less destructive than other addictions I could have. As far as vices go, it's a harmless one.

  Thankfully, I am skilled at maintaining the appearance of normalcy. And have the metabolism of a hummingbird.

  So when Janice, junior VP of Marketing for Ferrero Couture and my direct superior (otherwise mentally known as Jawbreaker—hard on the outside hard on the inside) barged into my office without so much as a knock on the closed door, I slipped open the drawer, pulled out a Werther's, and popped it in my mouth.

  She was dressed, as usual, like an aging Vegas cigarette girl. Shoulder-padded silver blazer with a deep-v neckline, tight black pants, and eye makeup that made Cleopatra look like a bare-faced virgin. She thinks she's the Donatella Versace of Ferrero Couture. She's an executive, for Good&Plenty's sake—a design diva she is not.

  In my black Armani pantsuit and lilac Tse cashmere shell I felt deliciously like Belgian chocolate next to a bag of carob chips.

  "Have you seen the new GQ?" she asked.

  "Uh-uh," I hummed around the toffee. The buttery sweetness melted into my tongue and improved my overall sense of well-being.

  She plunked the magazine on my desk and smirked. I flicked my eyes to the cover and back to her, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance and disguise my annoyance at her intrusion. My gaze flew immediately back to the slick image on the glossy cover. Gavin!

  Now Jawbreaker's smirk made sense.

  Here came conversation #3,524—not that I'm counting—about the Lamentable Loss of Gavin the Great.

  "Isn't this your fiancé, Lydia?" she said, gloating. "Oops, I mean your ex-fiancé."

  Right, that was a slip-up.

  If I could manage to scalp her hip-length platinum tresses and braid them into a fashionable tiara without getting fired, I would. That might even become the next hot trend from Ferrero Couture. But as that was a remote possibility, I held my tongue and started mentally ranking my favorite Jelly Belly flavors.

  Toasted Marshmallow, Cotton Candy, Buttered Popcorn...

  I smiled politely.

  Green Apple, Juicy Pear, Strawberry Cheesecake...

  "Imagine all the women chasing after him now."

  My smile brightened.

  Crushed Pineapple, Watermelon, Grape Jelly...

  "Have you tried to get in touch with him? Maybe there's still a chance—"

  I had to stop her before my head exploded and a rainbow of Skittles drizzled down over my immaculate office. "Haven't I told you,"—Jawbreaker—"Janice, about the new guy I've been seeing?"

  I regretted those words almost before they left my mouth. I am such a horrible liar, but when Jawbreaker started down the Gavin path, I couldn't help myself. So I came up with the one thing sure to stop her in her tracks: a boyfriend.

  Unfortunately, she was a seasoned social veteran and her path changed faster than you can say Reese's Pieces.

  "How wonderful," she cried, not meaning it at all. "You simply must bring him to the Summer Sail Away next weekend."

  Summer Sail Away, my mind echoed. The end of summer gala at Jawbreaker's Southampton tres posh estate—her husband owns a very successful import/export business. The fashion industry event of the season. All the senior VPs will be there. All the board members will be there. Ferrero will be there. Half the fashion world will be there.

  Never before had I been graced with an invitation.

  As senior account exec, my social profile never ranked high enough to warrant an invite. And, since my status had not recently changed, I had to assume Jawbreaker thought she was pulling one over on me.

  Show up stag after the whole extremely small world of fashion heard about this new beau? It would be poor, pitiful Lydia. And a liar to boot.r />
  I could always not show up.

  But I wanted a promotion. A rumor had been circling that Jawbreaker was about to be promoted to senior VP of Marketing. And I would do anything to get her current job. The gala would give me the chance to prove I was more than a brain with a knack for numbers. A chance to show Ferrero that I was VP material and could schmooze with the best of them.

  A chance I couldn't pass up.

  With the KY Clique—my trio of nemeses at Ferrero—out to get my current job I had to seize opportunities where I could.

  "Wonderful," I replied, knowing my farce was worth it just to see the scowl crease Jawbreaker's brow. Botox can't fix everything. "What time should we be there?"

  Kelly showed up first. She is the most aggressive of the three KY girls and Jawbreaker probably ran to her with the gossip of my previously unheard of boyfriend the moment she left my office.

  The KY Clique came on board at Ferrero as marketing interns in May following their barnyard—er, Barnard graduation. From the start they settled for nothing less than full control of the house. I have an under-the-table wager with Marlene in accessories that the house will be Ferrero, Kelly, Kathryn & Karyn within five years. Three if they hit a stroke of luck or juicy gossip earlier.

  And I might have just handed them that lucky gossip on a jewel-encrusted silver platter.

  Kelly knocked—the simple courtesy the first sign she was up to something—and entered on the pretense of needing my opinion on an overseas marketing campaign. A blatant ruse as my region covers the Western United States.

  "Oh," she squealed as I tried to not-so-subtly urge her out of my office. "Janice told me about your new beau. He sounds like a prince."

  That's funny, because I don't remember telling Jawbreaker anything about him. Because I don't know anything about him. Because he doesn't exist.

  "I mean, it's not as if just anyone can measure up to Gavin, but a girl's gotta try, right?"

  "Mmm-hmm." Hopefully a vague enough response to derail conversation #3,525—not that I'm counting.

  I'm never that lucky.

  "It's about time you moved on to someone new. Two years is far too long for someone your age to stay single, you need to do your hunting before all the big game are shot."

  Like I need relationship advice from a revolving door whose idea of taking a relationship to the next level is giving the guy her real phone number.

  Her monologue didn't warrant any input on my part, so I contented myself with neatening up a stack of papers on my desk while she talked on.

  "I can't believe you never mentioned this new guy before. He must be something special if you've been keeping him all to yourself," she cooed. "And we all get to meet him at the Summer Sail Away."

  Suppressing the sudden and overwhelming urge to scream, I lunged for my candy drawer. Within seconds I had a Meltaway in my mouth. The sweet sugary goodness could almost make up for the news that the KYs—low chicks in the hen house—were already invited to the Summer Sail Away. It took me a fabricated boyfriend and an ex on the cover of GQ to earn one.

  I should have gone to Barnard.

  "Hi Kelly," twin high-pitched voices squealed.

  Kathryn and Karyn bounded into my office. I was surrounded by KYs with no means of escape.

  They looked so similar. They could be triplets, with their matching golden Licari highlights, black von Furstenburg wrap dresses, and black Manolo slingbacks. I can usually tell them apart by their nails—Kathryn is natural and unpolished, Karyn is French-manicured, while Kelly is all-acrylic and more than a little scary around ripe fruit.

  "We heard about the new boyfriend,"—I checked the nails—Karyn exclaimed.

  "Shame on you for keeping him a secret,"—unpolished—Kathryn chastised.

  "But," Kelly interrupted, "he'll be at the Summer Sail Away."

  "Ooh, I can't wait."

  "We can evaluate his TIP for you."

  His what? I needed a KY-to-English dictionary.

  "His Total Income Potential. Maybe his TIP will be almost as high as Gavin's."

  "Not likely!"

  I gave up trying to figure out which one spoke. Dizzy, I desperately grabbed for another Meltaway.

  I felt like a spectator at my own execution. Only I had handed the man in the black hood the axe and pulled my hair out of the way as I laid my head on the block.

  Mental Post-It: Try not to make up non-existent significant others in the future.

  The cab dropped me off in front of my apartment building at six o'clock. I had never been more relieved to get home for the weekend. As my Ferragamo pumps clicked across the marble floor I could think of nothing but my welcoming garden tub and the Lush peppermint bath bomb that awaited me.

  I was almost to the elevator when the doorman called out my name.

  "Miss Vanderwalk," he shouted across the entry hall. "Miss Vanderwalk, I have a message for you."

  My shoulders sank. Only one person ever left messages with the front desk.

  I turned, a polite smile glued to my face. "Good evening, Howard. I hope she didn't launch into hysterics this time."

  "No ma'am," he smiled. "Just asked me to have you give her a call when you got home."

  Howard was a kind man. Generous and friendly to a fault, he often went out of his way to help the tenants of the West 76th Street building. Most of them repaid him with an upturned nose and a Starbucks gift card at Christmas. With three growing boys to raise, he didn't need coffee. I always slip him an extra Ben Franklin at every holiday.

  "Thank you for the message, I keep telling her you're not my answering service, but you know how she is."

  "No problem, Miss Vanderwalk. She's a pleasure to talk to." He beamed, as if it really were a pleasure to talk with my mother. "Will you be going out tonight, Miss?"

  "Yes, at around eight."

  "I'll have a car waiting."

  "Thank you, Howard."

  "Always a pleasure, Miss."

  At least some people are happy doing the job they were hired to do. Unlike certain upstart interns.

  The gold and mahogany elevator delivered me up to the eleventh floor. I dug through my Coach Hamptons tote for my keys, also finding an unopened grape Laffy Taffy which I promptly popped into my mouth.

  Q: Why do phones ring?

  A: Because they can't talk.

  I giggled at the appalling joke.

  The phone started ringing even before I set my purse on the white marble counter. I carefully swallowed the taffy before taking a deep breath and picking up the receiver.

  "Hello, Mother."

  "Lydia," she exclaimed. "Thank God. I was afraid you'd been mugged."

  "I've told you three dozen times how much safer Mayor Giuliani made the city."

  Even after nearly ten years in the city she still thought I was the little country girl from Westchester. As if Westchester was more than 45 minutes away by train. As if Daddy hadn't worked in the city every day until his retirement last fall. As if I walked the sidewalks more than the twenty feet between doors and taxis. Do mothers ever grow out of being mothers?

  "Besides," I said, opening the refrigerator to find my cucumber eye pads, "the NYPD is perfectly equipped to deal with muggings."

  "That's because they have so much practice, dear."

  "I promise I'm fine, Mom." I failed to locate the eye pads, but found a previously lost slice of peanut butter cup cheesecake. "And if I ever do get mugged, I'll call you before the police."

  I slid the cheesecake onto a clean white plate from the dishwasher and grabbed a dessert fork from the drawer. Carrying the phone to the living room, I plopped into my chofa—a combination chair and sofa. Why this is not called a loveseat, I don't know, but the salesman at ABC Carpet & Home was adamant.

  The first bite of peanut butter-chocolate-creamy goodness sends thoughts of Jawbreakers, KYs, non-existent boyfriends, and overprotective mothers to the background.

  Mmmm. Nothing comes closer to heaven.

  "D
id you say something, dear? You're eating, aren't you?"

  One bite was all I could afford if I wanted to avoid a debate on the pitfalls of my candy addiction—my mother was convinced either a) my teeth were all just waiting to fall out, b) my system was one sugar rush from becoming diabetic, or c) I was one costly trip to Dylan's Candy Bar from living on the street. I set the plate on the arm of the chofa and focused on the conversation.

  "No, of course I'm not eating."

  "Food is not a substitute for love, darling. I saw that on Oprah." My mother needed to watch less television. "It's high time you got over Gavin."

  Oh no! Conversation #3,526—not that I'm counting.

  "Mom, I'm not eating. And I am over Gavin." I briefly considered telling her about my NEB—non-existent boyfriend-—but decided that little white lie had already caused enough trouble for the day. "Can we please talk about something else?"

  There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and I knew she struggled with actually letting go of that topic. In the end, she decided to move on.

  "Your father and I have something to tell you." Her voice, muffled as if holding her hand over the mouthpiece, shouts, "Pick up the phone, David."

  "Hello, gumdrop."

  "Hi, Daddy." This is bad. My parents never get on the phone at the same time.

  I'm not saying they're technology illiterate, but they're lucky when they operate the cordless without incident. My attempts to drag them into the 21st century with the addition of a cell phone have been unsuccessful. They won't even call my cell phone because it might give me brain cancer. Even when they fear I've been mugged.

  Maybe that was the problem. "I haven't been mugged, Dad. Mom was just overreact—"

  "That's not what this is about," he interrupted. "Are you sitting down?"

  Why did I feel like my world was about to be swirled around and stepped on?

  "We've decided to sell the house, gumdrop." Dad spoke as if he were commenting on the weather.

  I thought about screaming into the phone. Instead I picked up the cheesecake and shoveled a forkful into my mouth.

  "Lydia?" Dad ventured.

  "Yeth," I answered around a mouthful.

  "Put the candy down."

  "It'th not candy, it'th theethcake—"

  My mother tried to intervene. "Please, dear—"