Man Candy

by Melanie Harlow

  “So is it OK?”

  I wanted to say no, and Alex had always told me I could have final say over who lived downstairs, but I couldn’t. He barely charged me any rent and always came through with favors for me when I asked. “It’s just one month?”

  “One month,” he promised. “And then he’s out. Maybe even less, it just depends on when his new place is ready. You work so much anyway, I bet you’ll barely even see each other.”

  “Good.” I turned onto my street and noticed a black BMW with California plates parked at the curb. Lights on in the downstairs flat. “Jesus Christ, Alex…is he here already?”

  “Ummm…I gotta go.”

  “What were you going to do if I said no?” I grumped, turning into the driveway. At least he hadn’t blocked it. I’d probably have to clear out the other half of the garage and give him the second space, not that I had time to do that. Already he’s inconveniencing me.

  “Beg. Listen, I actually do have to run, we have an appointment with the florist that Nolan says I have to show up to, but do me a favor and be civil, OK? You heard about his mom.”

  Some of my irritation eased when I thought about his mom. She’d been our housekeeper for as long as I could remember, a single mother who’d also worked nights as a waitress, which left Quinn to fend for himself a lot. Growing up, he’d probably eaten more meals at our house than at his own, although I remember her being a fantastic cook. Our mother, with her graduate degree in biomedical engineering, could hardly boil water, but Mrs. Rusek used to bring over delicious homemade soups and bread and meatballs and pierogies, maybe because she felt guilty about how much time Quinn spent at our house.

  “Yeah, Mom told me when it happened. Cancer, right? Like two years back?”

  “Yeah. He brought her out to California for treatment, but I think he felt guilty that he’d worked and traveled so much she was able to hide her illness from him for so long. He told me she should have seen a doctor long before he took her. I think he blames himself.”

  “That’s terrible.” When I’d heard that Mrs. Rusek had died, I’d thought about reaching out to Quinn, even bought a sympathy card, but in the end I’d decided against it. The card was still at the bottom of a desk drawer at work.

  “Then he was in Paris during those attacks. Kind of messed him up a little.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t either, not until recently. We haven’t spoken much over the last few years, we’ve both been so busy, but I think he really needs old friends right now.”

  “So he’s moving back to Detroit for you?”

  “No, but I think it’s part of wanting to go back to when things were simpler or something. He said he’s been feeling kind of lost and wants to ground himself again. Make sure he’s doing the right things with his life.”

  “Hmm.” Inside the garage, I turned off the car, disquieted by the way my heart was thumping. It had been ten years since I’d seen him—and probably at least a month since I’d stalked his Instagram—how annoying that the thought of being next to him again was doing things to me. “So did he quit modeling altogether?”

  “That’s the impression I got.”

  “Maybe he’s lost his looks,” I said hopefully. “Or gained fifty pounds.”

  Alex laughed. “I doubt it. And I really have to go, Jaims. But why don’t you go in and say hello? I’m sure he’d love to catch up.”

  I sniffed. “No, thanks. I’ll keep my distance.” My dignity had suffered enough at his hands.

  “Have it your way, sweet pea,” he said, using our dad’s nickname for me. “Thanks for this.”

  We hung up, and I took a minute to gather myself before going into the house. There was a chance I could get in without seeing him, although we’d share a front and side entrance. Both doors led to a hallway; at the side door were steps leading to the basement, and at the front door were the stairs to my flat and a door to his living room.

  I walked around to the front, my legs trembling. Maybe he wouldn’t hear me come in, and I could get up to my apartment without talking to him. Stop being ridiculous. It’s been ten years. Maybe Alex was right and he wouldn’t even remember that night. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to talk to me. Maybe we’d just ignore each other for a month.

  No chance.

  Before I even got the key in the lock, the door was pulled open and there he was, all huge grin and open arms. “Sweet pea!” he exclaimed, like we were long-lost pals reunited at last.

  Any hopes I’d harbored about his good looks being the result of countless hours of retouching were immediately dashed. He was even more gorgeous and vibrant in person than in print, a fact I found grossly unfair. I frowned as he scooped me up in his arms and practically dragged me over the threshold into the hall. My God, his body was so hard. Hugging me was probably like squeezing a marshmallow. I wasn’t exactly overweight, but I was short enough that every extra ounce showed. Muscle tone was pretty much nonexistent.

  “It’s so good to see you, Jaime,” he said. “You look great.”

  “You too,” I said before I could stop myself. I didn’t want him to think I still cared—in fact, I wanted him to know I wasn’t fooled by his charm. I wasn’t that silly little girl anymore, the one who’d doodled his name in her notebooks and blushed when he said hi at school and cried herself to sleep when he asked another girl to his prom. That silly little girl was gone, and in her place was a confident, smart, professional woman who knew her worth and, even better, the truth about love. No more stars in her eyes.

  But why did he have to be so hot?

  OK, pull yourself together. No drooling.

  “I’m so glad this worked out.” Quinn let me go but stood too close, his feet planted wide and his arms crossed over his chest. He wore jeans, a gray knit pullover that hugged his muscular chest and arms, and his feet were bare. His hair was damp and messy on top, just like it had been the last time I’d seen him in person. His full lower lip made me want to bite it. Maybe even draw blood.

  “Sorry, I just got out of the shower,” he said sheepishly, ruffling his hair. “Want to come in and catch up? Or maybe go out for a drink? I just need to throw some shoes on.”

  “No.” Trying desperately to shove the image of him in the shower from my mind, I elbowed past him and trudged up the stairs. My cheeks were hot, which meant they were probably turning scarlet. They ruined my poker face every time.

  “Come on, it’s Friday!”

  “I have work to do.” He was naked a few minutes ago. And wet.

  “Did you have a bad day?”

  “No.” Rivulets of water streaming over those muscles.

  “You already have plans tonight?”

  “No.” Steam rising as he stroked himself beneath the spray.

  “You don’t love me anymore?”

  I froze as the shower fantasy exploded into bits, replaced by a humiliation that paralyzed me, one foot on the top step, one hand on the banister. Slowly, I turned my head and glared at him over one shoulder.

  Now the grin cocked up on one side. “Because you used to, you know. You told me.”

  “You need to forget about that.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. “That was a long time ago. Back when I was young and impressionable and believed in love.”

  His brows went up. “You don’t believe in love anymore?”

  “Not the romantic kind. That’s a fantasy used to sell things like lipstick and roses and diamonds.”

  “Pretty jaded for twenty-seven, aren’t you?”

  I resumed heading up the stairs. “I’m not jaded, Quinn. I’m just a realist.” And I’ve been burned before, trusting guys way less attractive than you.

  He said nothing more, and I let myself into my flat. As soon as the door was shut behind me, I leaned back against it, exhaling and fanning my face.

  He still got to me. That was so aggravating.

  I mean, how was I supposed to sleep at night? Quinn
Rusek was one fine piece of man candy, and I had a sweet tooth for him that wouldn’t quit.

  But he’d made fun of me! Again! A nice guy would have at least pretended not to remember what I’d said. Or maybe apologized for humiliating me. Or not have brought it up at all!

  What an asshole.

  A hot asshole—the worst kind.

  Curse you, Alex, and your generous heart.

  And curse you, Quinn, for getting under my skin again. You stay away from me.

  But a traitorous little part of me hoped he wouldn’t.

  (Bet you can guess which part.)

  Three

  QUINN

  Damn, she was gorgeous.

  Standing there at the bottom of the steps, I couldn’t stop smiling. I heard the door to her flat slam shut and then a thump, as if she’d collapsed against it. Poor thing. I probably shouldn’t have brought up the night she told me she loved me, but she was acting so cool, brushing me off like that. If it wasn’t for those flaming red cheeks, I might have thought her disinterest was genuine and just let it go.

  But I hadn’t been able to resist trying to get a rise out of her—to see if that girl I knew was still there underneath that frosty exterior, the little spitfire with the big eyes and bigger mouth, the one who believed me when I told her hanging by her knees from a tree branch would stretch her bones and make her legs longer, the one who’d gotten so mad when she found out I’d made it up that she’d stomped on my foot, told me she hated my guts, and vowed she’d never talk to me again. (She lasted two days.)

  Recalling the way she’d stomped up the stairs just now, I laughed a little. Oh yeah, she’s still there.

  And what about that girl who’d followed me into the bathroom and put her hands on me…was she still there? The one who had no idea how tempting she was, how badly I’d wanted to kiss her, how uncomfortable I’d been with the feelings I had for her. I’d practically lived at the Owens house growing up—Alex was my closest friend, and Jaime was his younger sister! A good friend just didn’t do that. And Mr. and Mrs. Owens had been so generous to my mother and me. For fuck’s sake, they were paying more than half my college tuition. Even at eighteen, I was old enough to recognize there was a line there that should not be crossed.

  But God, I’d wanted to. I’d wanted to cross that line with every part of my body, hard and often. I’d thought about it for months, been tempted a million times. In fact, I’d almost asked Alex if he’d be OK with my asking her to the prom, but chickened out. Instead I’d asked Danica Newman, and while she blew me at the hotel party afterward, I imagined she was Jaime and came so fast I almost forgot to give a warning. But that was as close as I’d ever thought I’d get to the real thing.

  So of course when she came on to me in the bathroom during the party, I’d reacted badly. I hadn’t meant to laugh, but what else was there to do? I was off guard and nervous and so fucking turned on, I couldn’t help it. It was so unfair, like God was testing me, seeing if I was really worthy of her family’s generosity. The one girl I couldn’t have was the one I wanted, and there she was with her hand on my dick, her perfect tits filling out that red bikini, and that pouty little mouth begging to be kissed (seriously, the number of times I’ve jerked off to the memory of her in that red bikini is staggering). I’d been so close to giving in.

  And then she told me she loved me, and I lost it.

  It was just so sweet, and her eyes were so sincere. She trusted me. She’d have done anything I wanted her to.

  I couldn’t take advantage of it.

  Believe me, in my fantasies, that night went down a whole different way, but I stand by my choice to be a gentleman.

  Except now I was being punished for it!

  OK, maybe I shouldn’t have poked at her just now, but fuck, that’s what felt natural with us—I hadn’t seen her in a while, but sometimes being with someone from your past is like going home again. No matter how long it’s been, you don’t forget the way.

  I went back into my temporary digs and sat on the couch, thinking about the last ten years, and how far from home they’d taken me. Although modeling had never been my dream job, I’d jumped at the opportunity to make the kind of money the scout had promised—and he hadn’t lied.

  The amount of money I made shocked me—enough to live well in L.A. and pay off all my mother’s debt, make it so she’d never have to clean houses again (although I couldn’t convince her to leave her house or her restaurant job). Enough to cover all her medical expenses after I discovered how sick she was. Enough to make the end of her life as peaceful and full as possible.

  But not enough to buy her time.

  It made me pause and take stock. Ask myself some questions.

  Life was short—what did I want to do with mine? What did I want to learn, accomplish, leave behind? What memories would I cherish when it was time to look back? What would matter most?

  The amount of money in my bank account?

  The number of beautiful women I’d fucked?

  The square footage of my house?

  As impressive as those figures were, I realized they’d be meaningless in the end. And after the bombings in Paris, where I witnessed firsthand how quickly and cruelly life can be snuffed out, I knew I had to change things. I just didn’t know how.

  Alex had been my first call.

  We hadn’t been as close in the last ten years of our lives as we’d been in the first eighteen, but we had the kind of friendship that didn’t require a quota of check-ins or a constant stream of updates. He might have grown up in a six-bedroom Tudor with a three-car garage and a pool in the yard while I grew up in a tiny two-bedroom bungalow on a street lined with the century-old homes of servants from another era, but we got each other.

  He’d always be there for me; I’d always be there for him. Period. I’d already been planning on coming in for his wedding, but he’d been the one to suggest maybe moving back for a time, or trying school again, and as soon as he said it, I knew it was the right idea.

  The last two months had been a whirlwind of buying the condo, leasing my L.A. home, shipping my stuff to Detroit for storage, cancelling what jobs I could get out of, moving into a hotel downtown, and enrolling in a couple classes at Wayne State. I’d hardly had time to breathe.

  But things were starting to settle a little, and living here would be so much nicer than staying in a cold, impersonal hotel room for the next few weeks while I waited for the work on my condo to be completed. I’d jumped at the chance when Alex offered last week—especially when he told me Jaime lived upstairs. I’d been really excited to see her again.

  Clearly, the feeling was not mutual.

  I frowned. Should I apologize?

  While I thought it over, I returned to what I’d been doing when I saw her pull in, which was unpacking the few books, pictures, and mementos I’d kept out of storage. A framed photo of my mom when she was younger, and one of us together on the beach in La Jolla before she died. Most of the books were texts for this semester; I was taking a history course, a political science seminar, and a math class.

  But I also had my senior year yearbook, which I’d found while going through boxes in my mom’s attic last week. She’d given the little house to her church in her will, and they used it to provide housing to women and children who needed a safe place to stay, which my mother would have loved. I’d quickly had all her personal things boxed and stored in the attic, and I’d paid for the necessary renovations, but I hadn’t been back there since she left and figured it was time to clean out the place once and for all.

  I’d had no idea how much crap was up there.

  I swear to God, you’d have thought my mother grew up during the Depression or something. The woman saved everything. It was going to take me months to get through it all, and even though most of it would be junk to anyone else, I didn’t want to just throw stuff out without looking at it. It hadn’t been junk to her.

  Picking up the yearbook, I sat on the couch and opened it to
the front cover. It was covered with writing, and I wondered if Jaime had signed it somewhere. I didn’t see her name anywhere in the front, so I turned to the back, which was also full of signatures, farewells, and phone numbers, but not hers. Disappointed, I flipped to the page displaying her junior year photo and saw that she’d written to me there—neat cursive lettering along the white borders of the page.

  Quinn, you will probably never see this because you think yearbooks are stupid and you didn’t ask me to sign it anyway. (I took it in study hall when you weren’t looking. You are over in the corner flirting with someone, surprise surprise.) Well, I just wanted to say I hope you have a great summer and even though I am still mad at you for what you said about how to grow taller (I still can’t believe I fell for that), I’m glad we are friends and I will really miss you next year. Maybe I can come visit you!!! I think we could have a good time… Love, J

  I closed the book, feeling that intense attraction for her resurface. Leaning back on the couch, I stared up at the ceiling. It was quiet up there. Would I be able to hear her television? Her phone calls? Her shower running? What was she doing now? Changing out of her work clothes? I thought about her sliding out of that pencil skirt she’d been wearing, and blood rushed between my legs. I loved a pencil skirt and heels on a woman. Feminine and sexy, but strong too. Was that what grown-up Jaime was like?

  Before I could think it through, I got off the couch and went up the stairs, knocking three times. Sure, she’d brushed me off earlier, but I loved a challenge, and I wanted to get to know her. Maybe I could charm my way into her good graces.

  Truth be told, I’m pretty good at charming my way into tight spaces.

  Four

  QUINN

  She opened the door wearing a gray Detroit Tigers T-shirt with the neck cut out, light blue flannel pajama pants, and fluffy pink socks. Without her heels, she was even shorter than I remembered, and I had to fight the urge to tease her again. But fuck, she was pretty, even with that scowl. Heart-shaped face, big green eyes, puffy pink lips. I’d forgotten about that dimple in her chin—fucking adorable.