Matt eyed her skeptically. “A quarter mil for pool statues?”
Claire grinned and led him to the door, whispering, “If I don’t get you at least that much, I’ve totally lost my touch.”
She smoothed her chignon and swept the door open with a bright smile, then introduced Matt to his potential patrons. The wife was a barely-out-of-her-teens, surgically-enhanced wonder that made Zoe look flat-chested, and her husband looked like he could have babysat Moses. Matt launched into his spiel, handing around the pictures he’d taken and discussing possible poses. He directed the bulk of the information at the husband and ignored the obvious flirtation of the wife. Once the fossil determined that Matt was only going to be polite to the girl, no matter how often she pressed her boobs on him, he relaxed and became all business about costs and materials. Teen Bride pouted as her husband studied the same picture of Zoe for several minutes, then declared Chris “too short” and Zoe “obviously fake.” Matt covered a laugh with a cough when Claire stomped his toes under the table, then he offered to find different models. Geezer allowed that he didn’t care one way or another about the male, but he insisted on the woman in the picture.
Gathering up his test shots as the couple argued, Matt left Claire to work out the details. Chuckling at the sweet victory it was going to be to tell Chris his perfect pecs weren’t good enough and thinking about the short list of potentials he could on call to fill the position, Matt made his way through the gallery on his way out. A victory drink was definitely in order before he had to meet Zoe. He was looking down at the folder in his hand, loosening his tie and already calculating what materials he needed to get started, when a sound drew his attention.
Just when he thought his day couldn’t get any better, there was Pretty Lady, studying Matt’s favorite piece with a soft smile. She ran her fingertips along a small detail before stroking the larger curve with her whole hand, chewing her lower lip as she circled the statue and studied it from every angle. Matt eyed the curve of her cheekbone in profile as it arched into the flat plane of her cheek and wished for his camera.
On impulse, he walked up behind her and murmured, “I know the artist. I can work you a deal on that one.”
Pretty Lady gasped and stumbled forward, nearly toppling into the sculpture, and Matt grabbed her waist, pulling her back against him to save a year’s hard work from crashing to the ground. A soft whisper-scent of sunshine and skin tickled his nose, so much nicer than Zoe’s cloud of Juicy perfume. Soft hands covered his as the woman twisted from his grip, taking a step forward and two to the side. She turned, wearing a crooked smile, and hitched her beach bag higher on her shoulder. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stalking me, Surfer Dude.” She looked Matt up and down, coloring. “Sorry, I guess I shouldn’t make assumptions.”
Matt leaned against one of his bigger pieces and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. “Meeting a friend. Believe me, I’d rather be dressed like me today.”
Pretty grinned. “I guess you would.” Matt found himself fascinated by the bathing suit top strings that lay taut over the hollows of her collarbones.
She noticed him looking and raised an eyebrow. It was Matt’s turn to flush. “So how’s the…?” He pointed to her head, and she groaned.
“Mild concussion. I spent the night in the hospital, throwing up.” She grimaced. “You probably could have done without that factoid, right?”
Matt shrugged. “Dealt with the possibility and reality of a concussion every time I’ve gotten on a board since I was ten. Surfers learn to check each other out after wipeouts, generally—can’t call the ambulance every time. You wouldn’t believe the gnarly injuries I’ve seen over the years.” He shifted to rest his arm against the sculpture.
She looked around before leaning forward to whisper conspiratorially, “I don’t think we’re supposed to touch the statues.”
Matt laughed and nodded toward her hand, which was smoothing over a large curve of his abstract. “Hello, pot, meet kettle.”
She snatched her hand away from the statue and held both of them behind her back while a guilty smile washed over her face. “I can’t help myself. I know it’s bad for the medium, but I’m a sensory person. I feel like I can’t really appreciate a sculpture unless I can touch it.” She raised a finger to stroke the marble in front of her. “This is lovely,” she said softly.
“Sculpture is meant to be touched, no matter what anyone tells you.” Matt watched her hand, seeing in the bone and sinew along the back, the strength beneath the softness. “It’s a great compliment to an artist if their work can draw a reaction like yours.” He straightened when she smiled. “Have a drink with me, pretty lady? I’ve had a great day, and I’d love to celebrate. Maybe you’ll even tell me your name?”
Her smile dimmed when arms wrapped around Matt’s waist.
“Hey, sexy,” Zoe whispered. She kissed him on the chin. “I couldn’t wait. Thought I’d find you here.”
Pretty eyed Zoe’s barely-there dress and carefully crafted bed-head, and her lips twisted sardonically. She slid her sunglasses off the top of her head and over her eyes. “Maybe some other time, Peter Pan,” she answered, waving as she walked out into the late afternoon light.
“Who was that?” Zoe asked.
Matt watched Pretty cross the street. “Tourist. She cracked her head the other day when I was walking by, and I was asking how she was.”
“Oh. Cute for being middle-aged.” Zoe straightened the front of her dress and adjusted herself so that even more boobage spilled out of the deep V-neck.
“Ouch.”
Zoe smiled. “It’s different for guys, Matt. You’re still at the hottie end of the scale and can’t seriously be considered middle-aged for at least another ten years. Ready to go?”
“Sure.” Matt smoothed his hand down Zoe’s back and led her toward the door, slipping on his own sunglasses. Just as they reached the exit, he hesitated and pointed back toward the sculpture Pretty had admired.
“Zoe, what do you think of that?”
She glanced back and shrugged. “Nice. What’s it worth?”
Matt realized that for all she’d enjoyed his sculpture, Pretty hadn’t put that admiration in terms of money. Nice. Of course, now she thought Matt was a pervy old guy. He wrapped his arm around Zoe’s willing body. Maybe he was being stupid to not just enjoy the woman beside him. He tried to pay attention as Zoe chattered about her plans for the evening.
Now he just had to live through them.
Chapter Four
“ABBY, YOU SNEAKY BITCH!” Sarah’s voice preceded her as she struggled up the walk, arms loaded with shopping bags. She stopped, grinning, when Abby dropped her BlackBerry and grabbed the book beside her. “Gotcha, babe. Stop answering work calls, or I’ll throw the CrackBerry into the big ol’ blue.” She dropped the bags she was carrying where she stood and ventured back to the car for a second batch of groceries.
Abby marked her page in the newest Nick Hornby novel with a ribbon, wishing for another hour of quiet. It would have been nice to read some of the book she’d been anticipating for months. She thought about telling Sarah about Clint’s latest stab at undermining her, but discarded the idea. Sarah would just tell her to quit again, and that was a path Abby didn’t care to revisit.
Rising from the wicker settee Sarah had wedged into a corner of the porch, Abby dropped the book on a cushion and eased the screen door open, hoping that the bottom hinge would hold out until either she or Sarah started feeling Mr. Fix-Ity. Groaning as she picked up the bags Sarah had been carrying, Abby shuffled toward the porch stairs. Sarah zipped past her with a similar load before Abby struggled into the kitchen.
“Holy God, woman! Do you have arms of steel or what?” Abby dropped the bags on the floor in front of the cabinets.
Sarah smiled and shoved some cans into the cupboard. “That’s what my morning bike rides are doing for me. I keep telling you to get up, get moving, get—”
“A life
?” Abby suggested, ducking as Sarah swatted at her. “Yoga every other afternoon is enough for me. This is my freaking vacay. There’s no way I’m getting up at the butt-crack of dawn to haul my ass up and down the roads around here, even if it does mean getting to peek at the group leader’s ass in bike shorts.” Sarah colored. “Didn’t know I knew that, huh? I’m not blind. What is he, about twelve?”
Sarah leaned against the counter. “Twenty-six, thank you very much. The face may look twelve, but the body…” She thumped her head against the refrigerator. “All for naught, I’m afraid. Some chick brought him a water bottle and a kiss on the cheek this morning, and she’s as built as he is.”
Abby started putting the contents of her bags into the cupboard. “So, basically, you’ve been killing yourself every morning for a gander at a nice ass, and you never even asked around if he was attached? Poor you.” She envisioned Sarah’s sweaty, red face when she got back from her rides and laughed.
“Yeah, yeah…laugh it up.” Sarah tried to frown, but ended up chuckling herself. “We need to get out tonight and drown my sorrows. I’m a woman on the edge.”
“Gonna ask bike guy? I mean, you get up early for him, the least he can do is stay up late with you.” Abby tried to keep a straight face and failed utterly.
“Very funny,” Sarah said with a sniff.
“Don’t worry. He might not be serious with this girl, and I have faith that you’ll bring the boy toy around by the end of summer.”
Sarah shoved a six-pack of beer into the fridge before turning with a sly smile. “Oh, and speaking of nice asses, guess who I ran into in the grocery store.”
“Hmm?” Abby said, trying to get another box onto the already overloaded shelf.
“The butt-shaking beauty? Gorgeous eyes? Wicked smile? Fingers that make me drool just to look at them? That voice I can feel in my hooha?” Sarah rattled off a list of attributes until Abby held up her hand, laughing too hard to speak.
“Okay, okay! You saw Matt. So what?”
“Oh, so now it’s Matt.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Well, the reason you’re a sneaky bitch, besides the work calls—we’ll discuss them later—and thank you so much for asking, is because you didn’t tell me you saw him at a gallery the other day. What’s up with that?”
Abby shrugged. “Didn’t seem worth mentioning. He shops in the junior section.” She gave a rundown on the chance meeting with Surfer Dude.
Sarah frowned. “Well, shit. He didn’t look the type. I’m damn sorry to hear that.” She put the last of the cold items into the refrigerator. “He asked about you.” Her slanted smile showed that she picked up on Abby’s interest. “How’s your head, how you’re enjoying your vacation, if we’re getting settled in, if we need anything—he didn’t know what a loaded question he was asking there.” Sarah chuckled. “Normal, everyday stuff. Not the type at all.” She shook her head.
“What’s ‘the type’?”
“Oh, you know. So busy he doesn’t have time to talk to a woman anyway, so who the hell cares if she’s got a brain, or so insecure about getting older that he needs a sweet young thang to stroke his ego and make him think he stopped at thirty-hot.”
Abby laughed. “That’s what I called him—Peter Pan.” She closed the final cupboard door and put the shopping bags in the broom closet. “Not worth worrying about, even if he did seem nice.” A wistful note crept into her voice, and she braced herself for another attack, but Sarah was muttering to herself as she worked two beers out of the crowded fridge.
“I always think Peter Puny at those times, but that doesn’t work out in this case. The wetsuit does not lie.” Sarah slipped her sunglasses over her eyes before gesturing toward the back door. “Speaking of wetsuits,” she said again, “shall we, m’dear? The eye-candy should be rolling in any minute now, and I’ve gotta find a new perversion to dwell upon.”
They headed to their early evening hangout, plopping down on the beach chairs they’d established a few yards down the beach. Sarah adjusted the large umbrella, and they settled back to enjoy the passing entertainment of people walking by. Those who’d gotten used to seeing them every evening smiled and waved.
Sinking lower in her chair, Abby stretched her legs out of the shade and into the sunlight. “I don’t ever want to leave this beach,” she said, leaning her head back against the canvas. “I’m getting some color for the first time in my life.” She held her leg up for Sarah’s inspection, and Sarah obediently raised her glasses to look.
She patted Abby’s arm and generously didn’t mention her own long, deeply tanned limbs, courtesy of a Turkish grandmother. “From pasty to merely pale. Good job, girl. Maybe by the end of summer you’ll be the color of light toast.”
“Bitch,” Abby accused without conviction.
Sarah sat up straighter and raised her glasses to squint at the water. “Here they come.” She gave Abby a sideways glance and smirked. “Don’t expect your man, unless he lives right on the beach and doesn’t mind getting wetsuited up for a real short ride. Not much time left to surf.”
“I don’t have a man, but if you’re talking about the butt shaker, who cares? He’s a candyman.”
Sarah started to giggle. “As in ‘made of candy’ or ‘melts in your mouth’? ’Cause I’d gladly be the taste tester.” She raised her bottle to take a sip of beer.
“As in ‘wanna piece of candy, little girl’?” Abby did her best “old perv” voice, and Sarah spewed golden ale down her front.
“I can’t believe you, woman,” she sputtered out. “Now it looks like I’ve been in a wet T-shirt contest.” She held her drenched shirt out from her body and flapped it around. “If there’s anyone around here who likes teacup boobs, they’re gonna get an eyeful. Or at least a pupil full.” They both snorted laughter at the thought of that happening in the silicone capital of the world. Abby closed her eyes and took another swallow of beer, relishing the heat of the day and the cold drink sliding down her throat.
“What do you think he does, anyway? The Candyman?”
Abby shrugged. “Doc, maybe? Your bike god deferred to him when I turfed it. Now shut up and let me enjoy the sun.”
“Showtime,” Sarah murmured. After weeks of this, Abby knew Sarah would be leaning forward and shading her eyes until she thought the surfers could see her, then she’d sit back and coolly look around like she didn’t even notice they were walking through the waves at the shoreline. “Aren’t you going to watch?”
“Nope,” Abby answered, not even opening her eyes. “You tell me if there’s any good man meat to peep at.” The sounds of the gulls wheeling overhead and the repetitive whisper of the water on the shore had nearly put her to sleep when Sarah whistled.
“I’ll be damned if he didn’t make it,” Sarah said, poking Abby in the side with a wickedly sharp fingernail. “Open your freakin’ eyes! Your man is on his way in. Skipped the wetsuit, though. I’ll bet he didn’t want to miss you.”
“Oh, shut up,” Abby groaned. Still, she raised her head and scanned the shoreline. The first surfer to hit the beach was Candyman’s companion from the first day, the dimpled blond, who ended his ride at the shore. He waved at Sarah and Abby, grinning, and Sarah waved back. As the second rider came into shore, Blondie gestured for Sarah to come down toward the water, and she acquiesced. When she got there, Abby watched her talking animatedly to both him and a new guy with an oh-my-God body. He stared at Sarah in open admiration as he peeled the top half of his wetsuit to his waist and shook his short black hair to spray her with even more liquid. Sarah laughed; so did Abby, because Sarah’s drying shirt was wet again, and the slight breeze off the water made it abundantly clear that she’d skipped the bra. Abby could tell the exact moment when that occurred to her friend: she went from hands clasped behind her back to arms crossed in front of her in an instant.
Abby was giggling so hard that she nearly missed the arrival of the third rider as he waded through the surf at the shoreline, carrying his board and pushing his hair
back from his forehead. He stopped to talk to the others, and she heard his surprisingly young laughter, not at all the deep chuckle that she imagined rolling out of that chest. Matt set his board down on the sand and straddled it, crossing his arms and listening as the dark-haired man spoke. He laughed again, and Abby had to smile at the joy in the sound, even as she admired the long muscles of his back, wondering what he did to accomplish that perfect round symmetry in his thick shoulders and corded arms, more characteristic of a gymnast or swimmer than a gym rat. Matt’s hands shifted to his hips, drawing her gaze to his clinging board shorts. Damn, something could outdo the wetsuit.
With her mind wandering dangerous and wonderful paths, her eyes drifted up again, watching the muscles in his back bunch and twist when he moved—wait. Moved?
Her horrified eyes shot up to meet Matt’s. You like? he mouthed, looking at his own backside. He grinned and motioned for her to join them.
Abby see-sawed her hand in a “so-so” movement, laughing at his exaggeratedly hurt expression. She rose from her chair and waved as she headed toward the house. Looking back as she reached the door, she noticed that Matt had walked up the beach a few yards and was watching her. She felt a curl of tension—attraction coupled with anticipation—and had a sudden impulse to call him to her. He raked his hand through his hair, which was beginning to dry into wild waves and tiny curls around his neck. Dragging her mind firmly back to a reality that included his girlfriend, she forced a pleasant smile and waved again before closing the door. With a sense of regret, she walked into the living room and flopped on the couch.
The Art of Appreciation Page 4