The Sexiest Man Alive

by Juliet Rosetti

She stared back. Blinked. Swallowed. “You look sort of familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere—Oh! You’re that Sexiest Man in the World guy!”

  “Sometimes,” Ben murmured, maintaining the eye contact, lowering his voice a notch. “Depends who I’m with.”

  She was wavering; she just needed to be tipped over the edge. Her eyes widened as Ben slowly unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, then pulled off his undershirt and stood there bare-chested. Your own personal striptease, honey.

  Tammi sucked in her breath. Lust? Or armpit fumes? Her gaze scorched from his collarbones to his navel. Eyes glued to Ben’s chest, she groped for a plastic bag and shoved it across the table with trembling hands.

  “Thanks,” Ben said, stuffing his T-shirt into the bag. Now that he got a whiff, the thing was pretty stomach churning—it smelled like fish guts, campfire smoke, and sweat. He sealed the bag and handed it back to Tammi, who wrote “101” on it in black marker.

  Ben paid the registration fee and shrugged back into his flannel shirt. He wasn’t the best-dressed guy here, but he wasn’t actually the sloppiest, either. Men ought to make more of an effort to dress up for events, Ben thought, not at all ashamed of his own hypocrisy. He found a tray of appetizers and devoured most of them, washing them down with wine that should have been advertised as: nine out of ten winos prefer our brand! Standing by the refreshment table, he scanned the crowd, trying to spot Juju and Mazie while remaining unobserved himself. When you were six foot three, blending in was tough.

  He couldn’t help noticing that there were a number of very attractive women in the crowd. Maybe it was time for a little retaliatory flirting. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to pay attention to other women, because when you were in a relationship, you weren’t supposed to be ogling every pretty pair of boobs that came along. But now that Mazie seemed to believe that they’d broken up—well, what was good for the goose was good for the gander. Whatever a gander was—Ben was a little hazy on barnyard anatomy.

  Ben started grabbing bags at random, inhaling. All the women’s T-shirts smelled good, and he guessed they’d all cheated, spritzing their shirts with perfume, which was a waste, because nothing was more arousing than a woman’s own natural body smell.

  Women did not share the same feeling about the natural odors of men, who had not cheated and were drenched in one hundred percent stinky male sweat. If you were dumb enough to call it pheromones, you deserved what you got.

  He grinned, enjoying the grossed-out expressions as the women handled the shirts.

  “Ewwww.” A sound only females could make.

  “Blecchhh.”

  “Yucckk.”

  “Oh, icckkk.”

  They’d wrinkle up their faces, fan their hands in front of their faces, then pass off the bags—using only their fingertips—for their friends to smell. It was so femmy-cute—he loved it when women did stuff like that. He found a pink bag at random and slid it open—and if that wasn’t sexual symbolism, he didn’t know what was. He sniffed. Nice. Essence of female plus maybe a sprinkle of scented bath powder.

  Number 18. A contender.

  So was number 89. And number 34.

  Here was number 76.

  Luscious. He buried his nose in the shirt. Cinnamon. Like pumpkin pie. Did this woman sleep in a bakery? But underneath—he breathed more deeply. Mazie! Eau d’Mazie. The smell that could drive him wild with desire. He was certain it was hers; in fact, he found that he was getting aroused, flagpole pants right here in the middle of all these sniffing people. Good thing the lighting was dim in here. He briefly considered removing Mazie’s bag from the lineup. But that would take all the sport out of this, he decided, deprive him of the fun of seeing her react to whoever picked her shirt. If the guy looked too good, Ben decided, if Mazie appeared to be interested in him, he would simply deck the guy.

  A short man who looked like he belonged at a Star Trek convention opened Mazie’s bag, and it felt like he was peeking through Mazie’s bedroom window. Ben found that his hands were balling into fists. Don’t even think of it, Dumbo.

  But the nerd snatched up number 76 and steamed toward the video camera with his prize. He held up the bag, grinning like Dopey the Dwarf, waiting for the magic to happen. His image flashed on the screen. It took Mazie a while to process that her number was being held up. Ben watched as she wove her way through the crowd, up toward the goober. He furtively followed, stalking her, finding a lurking spot behind a potted palm tree.

  Handshakes, names exchanged, Mazie sneakily wiping her hand on her skirt after a handshake with the idiot. Meaningless chatter, something about Tom Cruise—oh, this was getting good. A vague look of alarm appeared on Mazie’s face, but she stayed polite. Aww, she felt sorry for the guy. Mazie liked to act like a tough chick, but she was all marshmallow inside; she fed the dumb sparrows in her backyard, she walked around ants on the sidewalk, and, when she watched football on TV, she would switch sides to cheer for the losing team if they got too far behind.

  Finally Mazie gave the guy the brush-off. Dejected looking, the man—who Labeck kind of liked now that he knew Mazie wasn’t interested—returned Mazie’s T-shirt to the table. Mazie wandered over to the food table and started nibbling appetizers. This was his chance. He went up to Mazie, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Excuse me—number seventy-six?”

  She whipped around, color flooding her face when she saw it was him.

  “I guess this proves the pheromone stuff works,” he said.

  “You cheated,” Mazie accused. “You saw me with whatshisname—”

  Ben grinned. “No, I didn’t. I picked yours before the short guy did.”

  She scowled. “Did you follow me here?”

  “Yup.”

  “And they let you in?”

  They bantered for a minute, although it was hard for Ben to talk because Mazie looked beautiful and her cleavage was distracting and it was all he could do to keep his hands off her. But her flashing eyes and body language warned him not to even think of it. She was acting as though she couldn’t stand being around him. Was she really serious about breaking up? The prospect left Ben feeling hollow and sick. He wanted to get the whole thing out in the open for once and for all, deal with it, and then move on to the makeup sex part.

  “Mazie,” he said, “couldn’t we—”

  She cut him off, asking him if he wanted to go to a show Sunday night. This threw him off balance. First she was all mad and now she wanted to go to a play with him? A play that would mean three hours of sitting? He made up an excuse about having to work, but he saw immediately from the way her eyes narrowed that he’d said the wrong thing. It was as though she’d flung some kind of challenge at him and he’d failed.

  That was when the two creeps had shown up, followed by Eddie and Rico, the teenagers from Planet Horndog, after which Mazie had gotten disgusted and stalked off. So, a completely wasted night. Ben slugged down the rest of the drain cleaner wine, trying to decide whether to go straight back to his place or to get something to eat first.

  “Excuse me?”

  Ben turned to see a woman smiling at him. He automatically smiled back. She was tall—in heels, she was almost exactly his height. Shoulder-length, honey-colored hair, perfect teeth, nice eyes, legs that went on for miles.

  “Uhh … hi,” Ben said. “Did you pick my shirt?”

  She shook her head. “I got too grossed out after sampling a couple. You wouldn’t believe how awful they are. There’s one that smells like pot, but the complete loser is the guy who smells like he was fishing for about a month and never showered.”

  “Yeah, some guys can be real pigs,” Ben said virtuously.

  “I’ve been trying to get up the courage to approach you all evening,” the woman said.

  Ben groaned. “You don’t seriously believe that Sexiest Man Alive stuff?”

  “Sexiest man?” She looked puzzled, a little put off. “You think that you’re—”

  “No, it’s not me, it’s
—” He started to explain, then decided that this was one of those times when shutting up was the only possible strategy.

  “I’ve seen you out running,” she explained. “You run near the North Point Water Tower some mornings, don’t you?”

  Ben recognized her now. She usually had her hair in a ponytail and wore jogging shorts that showed off her spectacular legs. He’d been so focused on the body that he’d barely noticed the face.

  “You probably never noticed me,” she said. “I usually get in a run around seven o’clock, before I go to work, and you’re probably still half asleep.”

  “Of course I noticed you,” Ben protested. “A guy would have to be dead not to notice you.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet of you. I’m Olivia. Olivia Peele-Harkness.” She had a pleasant, well-modulated voice.

  “Ben Labeck.”

  They shook hands. Ben felt a tingle. Yes, definitely a tingle. Chemistry had always been his best subject. Maybe this night wouldn’t be a dead loss after all.

  “I haven’t seen you out running for a while now,” Olivia said.

  “I’ve been up north, fish—finishing—a project.”

  “Oh?” She cocked her head, looking interested. Every moment Ben spent with Olivia made him like her more. She was exactly his type—tall, blond, and obviously athletic. And his pheromones definitely were responding to her pheromones. “What kind of project?”

  “I do film documentaries.”

  “That sounds fascinating.” She fastened her eyes on him. He couldn’t tell what color they were because the lighting was so dim. Suddenly he very much wanted to know.

  “Would you like to get out of here?” he asked. “Maybe get a bite to eat?”

  “Sure. That would be nice.”

  “I’m not dressed for any place fancy.” An understatement; he wasn’t even dressed for cleaning sewers.

  “Do you like Mexican? There’s a place just up the street that does great burritos,” Olivia suggested.

  “I’m up for that,” Ben said, returning her smile.

  That wasn’t all he was up for.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Juju pulled into the NO PARKING zone in front of Magenta’s shop, a space everyone on Brady Street used as a pickup and drop-off area.

  “Sorry you didn’t get lucky tonight,” said Juju, who had gotten lucky, as measured by the number of men who’d asked for her phone number.

  “That’s okay. I’ll just wait around for Rico and Eddie to turn eighteen.”

  Mazie extricated herself with difficulty from the MINI Coop and waved as Juju drove off, then dug her keys out of her purse. She’d run upstairs to pick up Muffin from Magenta, who’d be dying to hear about the Phero-mates party. He’d lent her the fabulous Jason Wu dress she was wearing tonight and he’d want to know—

  “Mazie?”

  Someone rose from the shadowed steps in front of Magenta’s shop—a large, scary someone who was shambling toward her. She shrieked, bringing her purse up in front of her like a shield, switching instantly into fight-or-flight mode.

  “Mazie—chill, huh?”

  The voice was familiar. Mazie squinted in the dark.

  “It’s Johnny Hoolihan. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Johnny?” She clutched a hand to her heart, which still had not recovered from its adrenaline jolt and was trying to pound its way out of her chest. What was Johnny Hoolihan doing here? He belonged in Quail Hollow.

  “I got tired of sitting in my car,” Johnny said, gesturing toward the large silver Cadillac occupying the NO PARKING zone, “so I got out and waited on the steps. I tried to call you, but I kept getting your voice mail.”

  “H-how did you know my address?”

  “You forget which side of the law I’m on these days, Maze. I can tap into all kinds of privacy-violating databases.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up. Johnny Hoolihan, expunk, once Quail Hollow’s most-likely-to-go-to-hell juvenile delinquent, was now the town’s police chief. Tall, tanned, and broad-shouldered, he looked more like a professional golfer than the tough cop he was.

  “Why are you here?” For an ego-inflating moment, Mazie allowed herself to fantasize that Johnny—who wasn’t in uniform and was driving his own personal sheriff’s auction Caddy—might have come all the way here to ask her out. After all, sparks had flown between them this past summer when Mazie had spent a few days in her hometown.

  “Could we talk inside?” Johnny asked. “This is your place, isn’t it? 1405A Brady Street?”

  She studied him for a long moment. Ben always claimed she was way too trusting of people. Here she was, a small, lone woman about to invite a big man she barely knew into her home. But what the hell—if you couldn’t trust a reformed-thug police chief, who could you trust?

  Johnny followed her inside. He stood at the edge of her living room, scoping out the place, and Mazie felt a little surge of pride in her flat. A fresh paint smell lingered in the air, and as she turned on the lights, the living room sprang to life, looking warm and inviting. The Cézanne-style oil painting she’d bought for a few dollars from a Marquette art student set the tone for the room: jade greens, terra cottas, and cool blues that were reflected in the room’s furniture and accents.

  The only jarring note in her lovingly arranged realm was the blaze orange ice chest in the middle of her fake Persian carpet. Johnny immediately made a beeline for the cooler. A civilized person, Mazie reflected—in other words, a woman—would have noticed your throw pillows, your paintings, your color scheme. A guy, on the other hand, didn’t even see your colors; he saw your cooler.

  Not that she stooped to gender stereotyping.

  “Hey,” Johnny said, sounding excited as he opened the cooler. “Is this bass?”

  “I guess so,” Mazie said.

  “Black bass?”

  “Uh-huh.” What was it about men that made them want to stick a hook in every creature that swam, flew, or crawled?

  He whistled as he hefted the fish in his hands. “They’re beauts, Mazie—they must have gone five, six pounds. Where’d you catch them?”

  “At the lagoon in the park,” she explained. “I tied a shoestring to a ruler and used peanut butter crackers for bait.”

  “Really?” His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. In high school, she remembered, Johnny’s hair had been dark blond and shoulder-length—his nickname had been Bon Jovi—but now that he was in his early thirties, it had dulled to a sandy shade, with a couple of streaks of gray. He broke into a grin as he realized that Mazie was pulling his leg. “Okay—do a number on the dumb country rube. But you seriously need to freeze these beauties, Maze. Unless—you weren’t planning to fry them up tonight, were you?”

  He sounded so hopeful, so hungry, and so pathetic that Mazie changed her mind about tossing the whole fishy mess into the garbage. She led him into her kitchen, handed him a dish towel to wrap around his waist, and put him to work rinsing off the fish. It’d been a while since she’d prepared fish. How had her mother done it?

  Pat the washed fillets dry with paper towels—she made Johnny handle that. Whisk a couple of eggs, then slosh the fillets through the eggs. She didn’t have cornmeal but thought flour would do, so she dredged the egg-soaked fillets in flour seasoned with salt and pepper. Rummaging through her stove drawer, she found the heavy cast-iron skillet her grandmother had given her. Glug in some olive oil, then turn the heat to medium-high.

  Johnny discovered a package of frozen French fries tucked into the bottom of the cooler; He dumped them onto a cookie sheet and chucked the whole thing into the oven.

  “Set it to four twenty-five,” Mazie said. “If you actually know how to turn on an oven.” She was fairly certain Ben Labeck didn’t.

  “Yes, ma’am, me and stoves get along fine. I’ve been cooking for myself since I got divorced.”

  How weird to have Johnny Hoolihan brushing up alongside her in the galley-size room instead of Labeck, Mazie thoug
ht; to feel the electric bristle of his arm hair, smell his aftershave, have his wide shoulders taking up too much room. She kept stealing sideways glances at him. His biceps bulged beneath a casual summer shirt with rolled sleeves, and his well-worn jeans clung very nicely to his butt.

  “Are you thirsty?” Mazie asked.

  Johnny nodded. “Dry as a desert.”

  Her fridge was an ancient, round-shouldered Amana that hummed in the key of G and felt to Mazie like a large, companionable white cat. Mazie opened it, shoved aside orange juice and milk, and found a single bottle of beer in the back—the last of a six-pack she’d bought for Labeck back when she was still the sappy little girlfriend who waited around for him to come over. Tough luck, Fish Boy. She handed the beer and a church key to Johnny.

  “Heineken,” he said, lifting the bottle in a toast to her. “Living high on the hog, Mazie.” He took a long, thirsty pull, chugged a third of it, burped, punched his chest, and sighed contently. “Hey, where’s yours?” he asked.

  “I don’t like beer.”

  “A down-home Wisconsin girl like you—shame, shame.”

  “I know. Uncool. But there’s only enough room on my thighs for beer or chocolate, and when the rubber meets the road, it’s chocolate by a mile.”

  This made Johnny smile. He had one of the best male jaws she’d ever seen, strong, square, and perfectly balanced with his lean face. His eyes were long and narrow, the grayish blue of Lake Michigan in early spring. At the moment, they were lingering on the very thighs she’d mentioned. Reddening, Mazie quickly turned away, setting the bass fillets into the hot oil, because she had the dizzying sensation of standing on the lip of a cliff and teetering. And her with a fear of heights.

  She’d gone to high school with Johnny, who was a year ahead of her and had a reputation for fighting, doping, and drinking—an all-around badass who drew girls to him like moths to a porch light. Johnny Hoolihan—mad, bad, and dangerous to know—had survived one scrape after another, charmed his way out of half of them, and was voted the kid most likely to end up in the state pen. Instead, he’d joined the navy after high school and had returned to Quail Hollow five years later and been hired onto the town’s police force.