Eye Candy Read online

  The man was only here because he was being paid. Why else would a wild adventurer with Hollywood looks spend time with a dull Westchester girl at an even duller Southampton party?

  "Can we just wing it?" he asked, rolling away from the bed to lie on his side. "I'm too tired to do math right now."

  "Sure."

  I collapsed back onto the bed, feeling a little guilty for hogging the bed and for something else I couldn't quite name. At least I could do something about the bed. "Phelps—"

  "Before I forget." He rolled off his makeshift bed and grabbed something from the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair. "Take this."

  I leaned sideways and started to take it, before I realized what he offered me. "No, you earned the trip," I pushed the envelope back into his hand. "When the time comes take whoever you want. Consider it a bonus."

  Snatching the envelope back, he shoved it back into the shirt pocket before dropping back onto his side.

  Before I could even begin to apologize for whatever I had just done, he bit out, "Good night, Lydia."

  Let me tell you, my dreams that night were not about a tubful of hot tamales.

  8

  Q: What did the cat do when his tail fell off?

  A: He went to the re-tail store.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #124

  Rather than sit through the tedious Sunday morning brunch—and end up driving back in late afternoon traffic with the rest of the weekend suburbanites—Phelps and I headed back to Manhattan first thing in the morning. He seemed to have gotten over whatever I said to set him off the night before and I was over my momentary fit of jealousy. The three hour drive passed quickly in pleasant conversation. When I pulled up in front of the Lower East Side tenement Phelps called home I felt like we had only just left Southampton.

  He bounded from the car, grabbing his duffel from the back seat, and leaned back in the open window.

  "You promise you'll call," he joked.

  I smiled. "I think we have drinks scheduled Wednesday night at the Watering Hole."

  "I'm there," he said, stepping back onto the sidewalk and shrugging the duffel onto his shoulder. "And Lydia—" He ducked down to peer in at me. "—I had a lot of fun this weekend."

  "Me too," I replied. Yeah, me too.

  With a sigh I waved and pulled out into the traffic on Avenue C. Who'd have thought I'd have so much fun with such an overbearing, arrogant underwear model?

  Fiona. That's who.

  I grabbed my cell phone, dangling from the charger cable connecting it to the dash, and punched her speed dial. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding groggy and gravelly. "Herro?"

  And masculine.

  "Fiona?"

  "Jacque," the man on her phone corrected. "Hold on."

  There was the sound of rustling sheets and a muffled "phone call" before Fiona got on the line. "Who is it?"

  "Who's Jacque?"

  The other end of the phone sniffed and requested a cup of coffee. Strong coffee. "Hey Lyd. How was the Sailing Saga?"

  "Summer Sail Away," I corrected automatically. "It was actually pretty fun."

  "Good. Mmmm," she moaned as her cup of coffee presumably arrived. After a very loud gulp, she said, "Phelps is hot, no?"

  That sounded an awful lot like a dangerously sticky question. I deftly evaded answering. "Wanna meet for lunch?"

  "Lunch, my God, what time is it?" Fiona has never been much of a morning person. More like an after-midnight person. "It's only 11:30. Why are you calling me so early?"

  "I just got into town." I merged my baby onto Broadway and continued south. "I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Get dressed. Bring Jacque if you like."

  "No thanks," she grumbled. Fiona's love life is like a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans—one night she might get Soap, the next Earwax, and the next Grass. But she kept trying them, one by one, hoping to fine that elusive Strawberries and Cream.

  Clearly Jacque was something foul.

  "Or don't. But be ready or I'm coming up and dragging you out."

  "When'd you get so pushy," Fiona whined.

  "I've always been pushy. I hide it well." Steering my way around City Hall Park, I made for the Brooklyn Bridge. "If you're not ready, I'm inviting Jacque to the Sweet Spot on Friday."

  "God, I'll be ready already."

  As she hung up her phone, she muttered something like "slave driver." But I knew she would be waiting on the sidewalk when I arrived. I'd bet my entire collection of Conversation Hearts.

  Fiona jerked open the door and dove into my car before I could pull to a full stop.

  "Drive," she demanded. "Just drive before he tries to follow us."

  "That bad?"

  She looked at me and rolled her eyes in a "you have no idea" gesture. "Carmella's. I need a pitcher of Bloody Maries."

  I did so without question. With my calling and rousting her from bed before noon and forcing her to contend with nightmare Jacque so early, she was probably at her breaking point. One more tremor and the whole thing would blow.

  As we wound our way through construction-heavy streets, I allowed her to sit in disgruntled silence behind the protective shield of her mirrored Oakley sunglasses.

  Not until we were safely seated with a Bloody Mary in her hands and a Mimosa in mine, did conversation begin.

  "The weekend," she grunted between gulps. "Details. Spill."

  "Phelps is... something different."

  "Shook your foundations?"

  "Not exact—" I stopped as her eyebrow shot up from behind her sunglasses. "Alright, yes. He rocked my world—that what you wanted to hear?"

  Fiona, ignoring my concession, waved the waitress over to order another drink.

  Well, if she saw going to act so smug about her matchmaking, she wasn't going to get any details from me.

  "I have some fantastic news," I squealed, deftly changing the subject. "Ferrero is going to use my jewelry in the Spring collection."

  "That's fantastic," she exclaimed as she whipped off her sunglasses. "What's the catch?"

  "The catch?" I echoed.

  "The catch." Her dark brown eyes bored into me with the intensity of all her Italian ancestors. "The hook. The price. The big 'but' at the end of the sentence."

  "Not really a catch," I explained. "More like a mutual exchange."

  "Oh God, not of body fluids?"

  "No! Of course not." Sweet Saltwater Taffy, where did Fiona come up with these things? Her mind resided permanently in the gutter. "He wants me to be his muse. His muse. That's all."

  She scowled, as if weighing the pros and cons of such a situation before making her assessment.

  "Just so long as his paws stay on the right side of the sketchpad." Then she smiled. "This is a great opportunity for you. Hey, we could probably get you some covers."

  Our waitress arrived with Fi's third Bloody Mary—hair of the dog and all that—and our lunches. Fiona drooled hungrily over her stack of butter-slathered pancakes. She is one of this I-can-eat-anything-and-still-look-like-a-supermodel women—even violently hungover she looked runway-worthy in her black sleeveless turtleneck, denim micro-mini, and knee-high leopard print boots. Me, I had to balance my candy-rich diet with a carb-free fruit and cheese plate. After two days of heavy gourmet meals, I'll have to hit the gym for two sessions a day for a week.

  And I would still take a pass on her magazine offer.

  "Keep me off the magazines, thank you very much."

  She cut off a giant forkful of pancake and shoveled it into her mouth. "Think of the publicity for your jewelry," she said around the mouthful of syrupy fluff. Waving her fork across the table in recreation of a headline, she added, "The new face of Ferrero: LIV Jewelry creator Lydia Ilene Vanderwalk."

  Oh no, I was beginning to see the possibilities in this grand scheme, too. But first I had to see the Phelps plan to fruition.

  "We can talk about this when it becomes more of a done deal." And how better to distract her a
ttention than with juicy news. "Guess who I was paired with for the croquet tournament."

  "You had a croquet tournament?" She washed down the pancakes with a generous gulp of Bloody Mary. "What kind of stiff hosts a party with a croquet tourney?"

  "Jawbreaker." But Fiona has latched onto the wrong detail. "And she paired me with Gavin."

  "That witch."

  "That was my initial reaction, too. But," and I really had to think long and hard before admitting this, "it wasn't that bad."

  Of all the scary things that had happened over the weekend, that had to be the most unsettling. Gavin and I working as a team. Something, in retrospect, we had never done as a couple. It was always him and me. Or him versus me. No matter my achievement, he had to top it with one of his own. If I got a 3% raise, he got a 5% raise. If I got a one-line quote in InStyle, he got a full interview in Money. Nothing I ever did was good enough to top his latest achievement. And the last thing I want in a relationship is constant competition. I get enough of that at work.

  So it was startling that Gavin and I worked together as croquet partners. He wasn't trying to top my shots, he was trying to top Phelps.

  And, much to my amazement and—to some degree—horror, it felt kind of nice.

  Not that I was about to admit that to anyone. I was barely able to admit it to myself.

  Besides, this time Fiona latched onto the right detail. "Then who played with Phelps?"

  I managed not to roll my eyes as I said, "Kelly."

  "Hell, I wouldn't know who to cheer against." She chewed and swallowed the last of her pancakes and moved on to the untouched grapes on my plate. "Gavin or her. Equally deserving of my booing."

  "We were tied going into the final wicket, but Kelly knocked our ball into the bushes." That still grated, even though I would have done the same. "She and Phelps won a trip to Italy for fashion week."

  "Together!" Fiona spit a half-chewed grape onto her plate. "Of all the devious, underhanded—"

  "Not necessarily together," I soothed. "There were four sets of tickets. They can each take someone."

  Fiona grinned. That self-satisfied, troublemaking grin that made me understand why she and Phelps got along so well. And confirmed my suspicion that her assurance that Phelps was pure eye candy was downright manipulation.

  She could be a calculating matchmaker when the mood stuck.

  "You and Phelps in the most romantic country on earth? Sounds like the perfect recipe for love."

  I threw a grape at her, nailing her square between the eyes. "He's not taking me. Why would he?"

  Fiona popped the grape into her smiling mouth. "We'll see about that. I'll just have a talk with our young man..."

  I forked a bite of triple-crème brie and savored the smooth flavor. Personal experience dictates that ignoring Fiona is the best course of action. Ignoring and distracting.

  "So, Fiona. Tell me about Jacque."

  "Fair enough."

  And we spent the rest of lunch in the blissful absence of conversations about men. Hired or otherwise.

  When I got home I made the mistake of checking my voicemail. One message from Bethany. Two from Dad. Sixteen from Mom.

  They knew I was going away for the weekend, I swear I told them ten times, but when I called home the first thing I heard was, "Where have you been!"

  "In Southampton." I rolled my suitcase into the bedroom and started mindlessly unpacking. "Did you need something?"

  After setting two piles of folded clothes onto of the silver-gray silk duvet, I sorted into "Hang Up" and "To Cleaners" piles.

  "The sailboat arrives next weekend," Mom said. "We're having a Bon Voyage get together with our friends and neighbors and wanted to make sure you can come."

  "Of course I can come," I answered as I slipped one pile into the drycleaners bag. "What day and time?"

  "Saturday at six."

  One by one I hung up my dresses and slacks on matching wooden hangers. "Need me to bring anything?"

  "You could bring one of your friends..." she said with a deliberately pregnant pause. "Or a boy. A boy friend. A boyfriend. Unless..."

  I sighed at my mom's version of subtle manipulation. Her "unless" signaled something as subtle as Fiona's taste in fashion. As I placed my shoes back in their labeled homes in the wall of plastic shoe drawers in my closet, I took a deep breath.

  "...you want me to introduce you to Barbara Davenport's son. He's a doctor."

  Like that would cure all my relationship ills. Maybe if he was a therapist. Or a candy manufacturer. Now that'd be something.

  "No thanks," I declined politely.

  "A radiologist," she persisted. "Top of his class at Harvard Medical School. He works at a private hospital in—"

  "Really, Mom, I'm not interested."

  Grabbing my toiletries bag I headed for the bathroom and unpacked an endless array of small bottles and Prada travel treatments. As I looked at the collection of travel-sized products in my bottom drawer, a wanderlust longing hit me. It had been over three years since I'd been out of the country. And that had been a one-nighter in Paris to visit Gavin on a business trip.

  One night in the city of lights just didn't count.

  Suddenly, I really wanted that trip to Milan. Maybe I would go anyway. On my own. Turn it into a real vacation.

  "He lives in the city. Not far from you." Mom's sales pitch interrupted my dreams of Italy. "He knits sweaters. For cats. Isn't that darling?"

  L-O-S-E-R. Mom was really scraping the barrel with this one. She must have been getting desperate to get me hitched before they flee the hemisphere. Definitely stemming from the generation that didn't believe a woman could take care of herself.

  "I'll just call Dustin and tell him you'll—"

  "No!" If I didn't stop her now, she'd have the wedding planned and pack us onto the sailboat for the honeymoon. "I'll bring a guy, okay?"

  The shocked silence from the other end of the phone was a little disconcerting. I mean it's not like I never have dates. Maybe since Gavin there's been a little lag, but— who am I kidding? Phelps was the first thing resembling a date I'd had in two years.

  "Oh," she finally managed. "Okay."

  If he could provide enough diversionary tactics to see my way through Mom's matchmaking until she and Dad sailed into the sunset, he was worth every penny.

  Mental Post-it: Call Phelps Monday morning.

  I sat down at my perfectly clean desk Monday morning, ready to tackle my immense To Do list. I had already called to book Phelps for Saturday night. If only all my tasks would prove that easy.

  Pulling the neat stack of Monday items from my top desk drawer, I started to dig my way through.

  Ferrero popped in at 9:02.

  "Chica," he said in his increasingly fake Italian accent and I was certain he used the endearment because he still couldn't remember my name, "how is my beautiful muse?"

  "Just muse-y," I replied with more cheek than necessary.

  "Wonderful, wonderful." He looked around my office, a room he had never before visited, and nodded enthusiastically at the mahogany bookcases, tan canvas and leather armchairs, and Lempicka reproductions. "Pristine, elegant, sophisticated. Just like you."

  "Thank you." Why, I wondered, was Ferrero eyeing my office like I eyed the candy aisle at D'Agnostino.

  "This room is the perfect atmosphere." He scuffed his Gucci oxford along the Calvin Klein carpet with reverence. "So soothing. Calming."

  Ferrero lowered into the armchair on the left and looked around the room, as if gauging the view from the seat. He then stood, moved to the chair on the right, and did the same thing.

  Artists, I thought, shrugged, and went back to the pile.

  First task: Call Saks Fifth Avenue in San Diego to arrange preparations for trunk show.

  Well, I couldn't very easily—or politely—make a business call with Ferrero in the room, so I moved that note to the bottom of the pile.

  Second task: Pull up numbers for second quarter sales
of men's accessories.

  Ugh. My brain was not alert enough to compute a stream of numbers. That just might put me to sleep. Slipped that one to the bottom, too.

  I looked up to find Ferrero dragging the side table next to the door toward the armchairs. He tugged it into place between the two and then sat in the chair on the right and reevaluated.

  He smiled to himself and I went back to the pile.

  Third task: Create PowerPoint presentation on implications of new advertising campaign for three o'clock meeting.

  Okay, this I could do.

  But I would need reinforcement.

  I clicked open PowerPoint on the computer—ignoring the urge to check my email with willpower of steel—and pulled open my lower left drawer.

  My gasp could be heard for a three block radius.

  "What is it, cherie?" Ferrero asked, slipping now into pseudo-French, and looking up from rearranging a shelf of photographs.

  I could only shake my head in shock, but I did manage to close my mouth. He took this as a sign that all was well. "This room will be perfect, I have decided."

  "W-what?" I stammered, dragging my gaze away from the drawer. "What h-have you decided?"

  My whole body started to shake, like after a really hard yoga class when my muscles just gave up any pretense of working in their state of utter exhaustion. Like after I downed a whole 10-pack of Pixie Stix in ten minutes and my blood turned to sugar water.

  I grabbed the arms of my chair to hide the quivers.

  "This will be my creative center," he decreed. "The Spring Collection will be designed in this room. I shall have Antoine move my things in here this afternoon."

  With a flourish and a swirl of his knee-length lilac kaftan, Ferrero exited my office.

  I knew he had just announced he would be taking over my office, my personal space, for the duration of the upcoming season design, but my brain could not begin to process the loss. Instead, my wide-eyed gaze dropped back to the open drawer.

  For several long minutes—until my assistant came in with a peppermint Frappuccino and shook me out of the trance—I just stared. Unseeing. At the empty drawer.

  All my candy was gone.

  9