I’d often wondered if the size of my considerable posterior was directly related to my love of Gorgonzola. If the size of my thighs was exacerbated by my craving for Edam. Probably. But I could live with big thighs and a grabbable ass. Live without Roquefort? Perish the thought!
As I approached La Belle Fromage, I felt the fontina sending out a tendril or two. Come here, Natalie, lay your gentle head down on these pillows of Camembert, or cradle a chèvre against your lovely bosom. And here, Natalie—come sit by this English cheddar, a cheeky bastard but strong and capable, willing to prop you up if you are tired from your long journey underground . . .
“Never skip lunch again,” I muttered to myself as I pushed open the heavy oak and lead-glass door.
“There she is!” a voice sang out, and my favorite cheese monger, Philippe, came around the counter.
“My beautiful Natalie. I worried when I didn’t see you! It’s almost six o’clock, I was almost ready to close up!”
“Had to work a little late.” I smiled, leaning in for the double kiss but with a curious look. “How’d you know I’d be stopping by?”
He rolled his eyes in a way that only a Frenchman could get away with without seeming rude. “Être vénère. You think I don’t know the habits of my best customer? Always on Friday, always on your way home. ‘How’d you know I’d be stopping by’ indeed . . .” He walked around the counter muttering, knowing I’d follow. The shop was almost empty, just one other customer. Younger guy, knit cap, with a few blond curls escaping. Bottle-green eyes that met mine in the mirror behind the case. I let the tiniest smile creep over my face as I checked out a display just to his left, making sure to make eye contact once more.
Good boy, come this way. He grinned at me in the mirror, and I pretended to not see it. I played with the edge of my coat, letting my fingers do their lingering along my collarbone. He put down his Gouda, picked up a cheese log, and from the way he was holding it, I knew I’d hit pay dirt.
Mmm, start out the weekend with a quickie? Good goddamn I’m good.
Knowing that I had the pup right where I wanted him, I headed over to the counter where Philippe was still going on and on about how well he knew me and how I alone appreciated his perfect palate. I paid attention, but mostly my eyes were on the Cheese Mecca that beckoned.
Philippe prided himself not only on having one of the most complete selections of French cheeses, of course, but on finding the most interesting and wonderful local cheeses from all over the Northeast. He knew my favorites, he knew what I liked, and he knew what I loved.
“Now then, you must try this. I’ve been sold out of it all week, but I just got more in for the weekend business. Taste this!”
I tasted this and that, a little here and a little there, my toes curling inside my shoes as he placed slice after slice of heaven in my hand, where it quickly disappeared into my nearly panting mouth.
“Now then, this one is really going to knock your shoes off,” he cried, pulling a new round from the case with a look of delight.
“Socks, not shoes.”
“Oui, of course.” He leaned across the counter with a spoonful of something rich and dense.
I opened my mouth, he slid it in, and the second it hit my tongue, I moaned.
I knew that taste. I dreamed of that taste. I moaned again.
I heard a small cough from behind me, and I knew Knit Cap Quickie Guy was very aware of the sounds I was making. I didn’t even bother blushing; I was enjoying this too much. To be clear, I was enjoying what was in my mouth.
I opened my eyes to find Philippe standing there, grinning widely, delighted that he’d picked exactly the right one. This cheese was killing me.
“Where did that come from?” I asked, delicately licking my lips, already knowing the answer.
“It’s brand-new, from a small dairy in the Hudson Valley. Bailey Falls—”
“—Creamery,” I said, the word creamery falling from my lips like a caress.
I knew the man who had made this. Strike that. I was aching to know the man who had made this. Know him, and know him.
“I’ll take it,” I told Philippe, my voice breathy. I looked left and saw the other customer, the guy who just moments ago I was considering bringing home for a Friday Night Special. He now paled in comparison to—
Long tanned fingers
Beautiful strong hands
No no. Save it until you get home and can enjoy. No mental pictures right now, get home before you—
Ink. Up one forearm and down the other. At least as far as one could tell—the ink disappeared via biceps covered by a thin cotton tee. Did the ink go all the way up? Circle around his neck and back? Did the ink go all the way down? Cutting along his torso, snaking around his hip to—
Get. Out.
“I’ll take all three, Philippe. Can you wrap those up for me?” I said, dabbing at my brow. Pulse racing, I handed over my money, collected my delectables, bestowed a “sorry, it’s not happening tonight” smile on Former Mr. Wonderful, who was looking so hopeful it was almost pitiful.
I hurried out of the shop, fifty dollars’ worth of cheese under my arm, and headed home. Needing something to change the images in my head, I turned on the mental soundtrack that I almost always had playing.
Cue “Fireball” by Dev.
What, you don’t have a running mental soundtrack?
As I walked quickly down the street, I was aware of the glances I was getting from men. I didn’t need to look in the reflection of the windows to know what I looked like. Long, bouncy strawberry-blond hair, pale Irish skin, likely still flushed from my heated imagination. Deep-blue eyes, almost indigo, set off by an array of freckles across my nose and cheeks.
My body was poured into a deep-green wrap dress, accentuating my true hourglass figure. Rather than slouch my tall body around town, I kicked it up even higher by wearing ridiculously high heels, the higher the better. I’d learned to walk across the old cobblestones of Lower Manhattan, and I could walk in heels almost better than in sneakers. These golden peep-toe pumps weren’t practical at all, unless you wanted to make sure your legs looked fantastic. Which I did.
Size-eighteen women weren’t supposed to show off their legs, which I did. They weren’t supposed to show off their cleavage, which I did. Size-eighteen women were supposed to wear trench coats in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, and somebody better cancel Christmas if they wore a dress that showed off some cleavage. Size-eighteen women were supposed to dress like they were apologizing for taking up too much space. Fuck all that noise. I took up space. I took up space in a city where space was at a premium, and I never apologized for it. And right now, I knew exactly how much space I was taking up, strutting down Fourteenth Street to the song playing in my head, with a bag full of delicious and already fantasizing about my favorite pastime.
Oscar the Dairy Farmer.
I made the last turn onto my street, feeling the smile that broke over my face every time I did. I was incredibly blessed to be able to live where I did, the way that I did. Most gals in their twenties in this city were lucky if they shared an apartment with only two other girls, and I knew plenty who shared with more than that. I lived alone, a luxury, in an apartment I owned, an unheard-of luxury.
Well, technically my father owned it. But it was in my name. So according to my own version of the rules, I owned it . . .
I grinned back at the pumpkins and gourds that peeked merrily over the brownstone stoops. Halloween was only a few weeks away, and decorations were going up all over town. As I clicked up the stairs to my own home, a gaggle of white Lumina pumpkins glowed in the twinkle of the streetlights. Juggling my purse and bags, I unlocked the front door, then paused to gaze up at my building. Three stories with an attic, it was three separate apartments, with my own on the first floor, or parlor floor. The other tenants had been here for years,
and helped me take great care of the building. We shared the garden out back, and the fourth-floor attic was a shared storage space.
It was converted from a single-family residence back in the fifties, and much of the original woodwork and detail was still intact. The main central staircase had been preserved when it was closed in, making each apartment a self-contained unit sharing the same stairs. Beautiful honeyed wood shone brightly in the entryway, with an original period mirror poised just inside. A bronze umbrella stand, complete with antique parrot-head parasol, stood proudly in the corner, another shared item.
I let myself in my own front door, which had been rescued from a salvage yard when my father renovated the building years ago. The original renovation had been done on the cheap, with ugly flat steel doors. My father had scoured antique shops and architectural salvage dumps until he found beautiful mahogany doors, likely pulled out of another brownstone in the city. Replacing them throughout the building made it feel more homey, and certainly more fitting for a house built in the late 1870s.
I carried my bags through the living room with its shiny pocket doors and eighteen inches of intricately carved crown molding, in through the dining room and its waist-high chestnut wainscoting, on into the galley kitchen with its marble tiling and butcher-block counters. Setting my bags down as I slipped out of my shoes, I listened to the relative quiet. Relative because it was never truly quiet. Cars honking over on Bleecker, a faraway siren, and the ever-present background hum of 1.6 million people living in twenty-two square miles.
It had been a great day. I’d landed a great account based on my unconventional yet killer pitch. I had the entire weekend to look forward to. I had a bagful of luscious cheese to indulge in. And I had a headful of luscious images to indulge in. Pouring a glass of red wine, I let my mind run wild . . .
Oscar. His name was Oscar. I know this because my best friend, Roxie, had clued me in, knowing him from the small hometown she had recently moved back to. Her boyfriend lived on the farm next to Oscar’s. Before I knew this, I only knew him as The Hot Dairy Farmer I Crushed On at the Union Square Farmers’ Market.
I had it bad for Oscar. I’d lived most of my adult life able to date pretty much whomever I chose. A late bloomer, I’d spent much of my teen years hiding my ample body under big sweatshirts and a loud mouth, never letting boys close and certainly never letting anyone under the big sweatshirts. My freshman year at culinary school (a disastrous decision considering I could burn water, but a great decision considering I met my two best friends, Roxie and Clara), I embraced my curves, my natural good looks, and realized that confidence went much further than a small ass in tight jeans.
I’d spent the first part of my life as an observer, watching the world as it went by instead of participating, particularly when it came to men. I’d watched my girlfriends fumble through relationships, watched guys run circles around them, especially when the girl lacked confidence. I learned things about how men and women operate by listening and watching and remembering.
I’d had one boyfriend, just the one, and when it ended, it ended badly. It nearly broke me, in fact, and when I came out the other side of it I was determined to never let a man define me again. Moving across the country and enrolling in culinary school on a whim, I found a new family of friends that welcomed me with open arms.
No one knew me. No one knew my story. No one knew I was the ugly duckling, and in a school where everyone was as in love with duck fat as I was, no one blinked an eye at a pretty (which was news to me), chubby girl who was finally finding her way back out of the dark.
When I finally found my own confidence, I took my sharp tongue (honed from years of defense humor) and my surprisingly good looks (a mother with gorgeous Celtic genes mixed with a Viking-like father) and used every trick of the trade I’d observed over the years on the opposite sex.
I found a certain kind of power in walking into a room where I knew no one, and figuring out how everyone ticked. Narrowing in on the best-looking guy in any room, and going on the offense. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be timid. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be shy. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be grateful for any male attention, and to feel especially honored if a good-looking man paid attention to them.
Fuck all that noise. I took the best-looking guy home with me whenever and however I pleased. Confidence went a long way. You walk into a room armed with the knowledge that you can have anyone you want? You can literally have anyone you want.
Plus I had a sweet rack. Which always helped.
I made up for lost time, dating as much as I could, discovering what men liked and what men loved. And when it became apparent that a career in the culinary arts was not in the cards for me, I said good-bye to my new best friends, packed my bags, and headed east. I crashed back onto the scene in Manhattan, unpacking confidence and a touch of cheeky along with my new sexy clothes, determined to keep the party going New York style.
Enrolling at Columbia, where I’d had been accepted my senior year of high school but deferred while I played line cook in Santa Barbara, I discovered a newly untapped talent for writing quick and edgy copy. I spent four years pursuing an advertising degree, dating almost nonstop the entire time, and when I graduated at the top of my class, I had my pick of junior copy editor positions at several New York advertising firms.
Mmm, professional men. I loved it.
I loved men, and I didn’t apologize for enjoying them. I wasn’t looking to get married, I wasn’t looking for someone to take care of me, and I certainly wasn’t looking for a man to take me home and stick me in an apron. But I did enjoy myself.
Did I run into jerks? Sure, that was par for the course. Are there great-looking guys out there who are also assholes? Of course. But instead of shying away, I went crashing right on through, making them want me, making them need me, making sure the thought of sleeping with a big girl as a pity fuck was a thought they’d never have again.
I was confident around men of all sizes, shapes, colors, and political persuasions. I prided myself on being a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and never felt “lucky” or “grateful” when a man dated me.
I overheard a beautiful man once say that fat chicks give great blow jobs, because they needed to make sure a guy kept coming around. That same man gave me incredible head three times a day for a solid week, and I never once sucked his dick. He was lucky. He was grateful. I was grinning.
I dedicated my days to becoming one of the youngest advertising executives in the business. I dedicated my nights to indulgence in all the things I never thought I could have, figuring out what made a man tick and then taking him home with me.
Yet there was one guy who reduced me to mush every time I saw his gorgeous face and heard his gorgeous voice say that one gorgeous word to me, every week at the farmers’ market.
The first moment I’d laid eyes on him, I’d been dying to lay thighs on him. My thighs. On his shoulders. I’d been hit with an instant wave of lust. Months ago I’d been visiting my favorite farmers’ market, visiting my favorite stalls, chatting with some of the producers I’d come to know, as I was here almost every Saturday. A new stall caught my eye: Bailey Falls Creamery, Hudson Valley, NY. Thinking I might have stumbled onto a new source for yummy local dairy treats, I headed over, drawn by the chalkboard sign advertising butter, milk, cream, and . . . oh!
Behind the counter was the best-looking man I’d ever seen. Six feet six inches of stunning. His skin was a deep golden color, tan but swirled through with the lightest caramel. Thick chestnut brown hair was caught back in what looked like a leather tie, but a few wavy pieces had escaped and were strewn about a chiseled face. That perfectly tousled pony would have cost forty dollars at any decent blow-dry bar, but you know he just tugged it back in the morning and ran with it.
The hair framed a sinful face, deeply set gray-blue eyes shone out from under heavy brows, one of which ha
d a slashing scar through the middle. Very Dylan McKay. Except this guy could have broken Dylan McKay with his ponytail alone.
His features were dark and, coupled with the golden skin, hinted at sun-swept island beaches and South Seas waves. I’d ride those waves.
But the ink! Sweet mother of needles, the ink. From across the market I could see the swirls of red, green, orange, and black coating him in full sleeves, stopping just above his wrists.
I’d dated bad boys, and I’d fucked my share. But this guy was like . . . hmm. Cross a bad boy with a supermodel, add a dash of linebacker with a big scoop of Polynesian love, and then you might, just might, have an appreciation for the wet dream across the market from me.
And then he—oh lordy—he pulled a tall bottle of purest white milk from the cold case, twisted the cap, and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Sweet—”
“—Christ,” I finished for the woman next to me, standing there with her mouth hanging open, who’d been lucky enough to witness the same glory I had.
“Almighty,” a third slack-jawed bystander added to the mix, this time a tall stockbroker-looking type, his own mouth falling open in worship.
I immediately pinched myself, certain I’d fallen asleep somewhere and was experiencing some kind of wonderful, but imaginary, dream.
Ouch. Not dreaming.
I began looking around, trying to find the hidden camera, as this was surely a prank show of some kind. The city of New York would never let someone this beautiful just walk around loose like this; it could start a panic.
The two people I’d been staring with had already gotten in line, so it was time to strike, before someone else claimed him.
I straightened myself up to my full height, glad I’d worn something casually sexy this morning. A silky summer shift, it was a little like a bathing suit cover-up, a little like a nightie, and a lot like sexy. I threw my hair back over my shoulder, breathed in deeply, and strutted over to his stall.
Cream of the Crop Page 2