Eye Candy

by Tera Lynn Childs

  "Lydia, my God," Mom squealed as she ran down the porch steps, "what happened? Are you hurt? Have you—"

  "No, Mom, we're fine."

  "—been to the hospital? Have you—"

  "Really, no one's hurt."

  "—done something illegal? And what—"

  "Of course not."

  "—is that?" She finally stopped to point an accusatory finger at me.

  "What?" I turned in a circle, trying to discern what had her so concerned. Finding nothing, I asked, "What is what?"

  "That, that, that thing under your arm."

  Lifting my arm I saw Dyllie poking her furry head out of my purse. Though the carjacker saw fit to leave us our luggage—my guess was that Ferrero negotiated for that—he did not leave the doggie tote.

  "Oh, this is Dyllie. She's a— um, I'm not sure what she is, actually."

  "A dog?" Mom squealed.

  "Yes, I'm just not sure what kind."

  She looked odd, both horrified and furious, like she could go either way. When she rushed me with arms outstretched, I instinctively tucked Dyllie behind my back. Mom had been a little emotional lately, and I didn't want a defenseless puppy to bear the brunt.

  Next thing I knew, Mom threw her arms around me and engulfed me in an enthusiastic hug.

  "How wonderful, darling," she exclaimed. "I thought you would never get over your fear of dogs. I can't believe you actually bought a pup—"

  "Actually," I interrupted, "it was Phelps who bought me the dog."

  Mom jumped back, as if she just realized that there were other people present. And that one of them was my purported boyfriend. She quickly brushed down the floral apron covering her skirt in a homemaker's instinctive primp for company.

  "Mom," I said by way of introduction, "meet Franco Ferrero, my boss. Franco, my mother, Jeanette Vanderwalk."

  While they exchanged pleasantries I looked at Phelps, uncertain that I could carry on the charade in front of my mother. In two steps he was by my side, his arm around my waist. No turning back now.

  "And this—" I took a deep breath and leaned into Phelps's side. "—is my date, Ph—"

  "Elliot," he interrupted, thrusting out a hand in offering. "Elliot Phelps."

  I blinked what felt like a thousand times, watching as Mom took Phelps's hand in both of hers, welcoming him into her household.

  Why had he introduced himself that way? No matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn't come up with a single valid reason. It just didn't make any sense.

  "Welcome home, gumdrop." Dad emerged on the porch, barbecue tongs in hand and sporting an apron that read, Kiss the Cook. "Let's get these cityfolk settled so we can start the party."

  Just like that, Dad set everyone to action. Ferrero picked up his worn leather briefcase. Phelps hoisted his duffle bag onto his shoulder and grabbed the two suitcases. I tucked Dyllie down into my purse. Mom herded us up the steps and into the house.

  I had told Phelps that we would probably be in separate rooms. My parents were kind of old fashioned in a lot of ways. Which only made their sudden decision to uproot and sail around the world even more peculiar.

  So, when Mom showed Phelps and me to my old bedroom—now devoid of all but a bed and a nightstand—and told us to come downstairs when we were ready, it only added to the shock.

  "I can't believe she put us in the same room."

  Phelps set the luggage and his duffle at the end of the bed before flopping his lean length onto the quilt-covered mattress. "After the day I've had," he exhaled as folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, "I'm just glad to have a bed at all."

  "What?" I asked. Spying a few inches of space, I sat down next to his hip. "You mean more than being stuck in a limo with Ferrero in an artistic tizzy, pulling over to get a trench coat out of the trunk, and getting carjacked in the process?"

  He unfolded one tan arm and rubbed his eyes. I'd never seen him look quite so worn out.

  "I had the gig from hell this morning."

  I leaned down on one elbow and took over his temple massage. Come to think of it, he had been uncharacteristically quiet during the drive up. I had chalked it up to Ferrero's obsessive attitude, but maybe it was more.

  "Tell me about it," I ventured as I rubbed gentle circles across his forehead.

  He smiled a wicked grin. "I spent six hours surrounded by fawning swimsuit models."

  His eyes flashed open and before I could react he reached around my neck and pulled me flush across his body. Settling me across his chest, he clasped his hands over my lower back and held me close.

  I closed my eyes and absorbed the feeling of every single inch of his fitness model body. I found myself sinking into him. Startled, my eyes jerked open, only to find him fully relaxed against the pillow, his own eyes dreamily drifted shut.

  "Poor baby," I cooed, laying my head down on his chest. Mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, my mind drifted.

  How long had it been since I felt this way? So content. There was something about this wild man that, paradoxically enough, soothed my mind. He might not be the kind of guy I would settle down with, but he sure was the kind that made me feel like a princess. And most of the time I didn't even remember that he was seven years younger.

  Most of the time.

  He was fun and exciting and always came up with ways to shake up my life. Like when he—

  "Hey," I admonished, shaking him out of our contented slumber, "Why did you introduce yourself to my mom as Elliot Phelps?"

  "Because that's my name," he answered sleepily.

  "Your what!"

  "My name." His eyes drifted open and he looked at me with the blurry admiration of a puppy dog—not that Dyllie would ever stoop to blurry admiration.

  "No," I argued, "your name is Phelps Elliot. Fiona told me. You told me. I saw it in a magazine."

  I rolled off his chest and off the bed to better project my indignation. He sat up, stretching the beautiful, tight t-shirt-clad chest.

  "I'm sure you did." Stifling a yawn, he jumped out of bed and pulled me into a hug. "But my real name is Elliot Phelps. Elliot Richard Phelps, actually. Famous Faces thought Phelps Elliot sounded a little more fashionable. A little less—"

  "Geeky?" I supplied.

  He frowned. "Exactly."

  Okay, that might have been a low blow. "But why didn't you tell me the truth before?"

  "Never came up." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter, but the wariness lurking in his bright blues said it did.

  And none of this explained... "Then why did you tell my mom the truth? Why not just keep up the façade."

  "It wasn't a façade, Lyd. It was just... easier." He looked away for an instant before meeting my eager gaze. "I didn't want any half-truths between us anymore."

  Holy Hot Tamales. There was some kind of intensity in his eyes, in his entire body as he confessed this. He might as well have said I want there to be more between us.

  My first instinct was to run. To back away and never, ever mention this again.

  But his arms tightened around me before I could flee.

  Forced to look at him, to answer, I faced the deep down realization that maybe I wanted there to be more, too.

  My eyes dropped to his mouth, so full and masculine and begging to be kissed. To kiss. He licked his lips and I lost the ability to breath. At that moment I had to kiss him, or die.

  Suddenly I knew that all those romance novels were on to something.

  And I needed to find out more.

  Framing his beautiful, chiseled cheeks with my hands, I looked up into his searching, questioning eyes. Phelps, the man who drove me around Southampton on a yellow Vespa, would never reveal that much uncertainty. But Elliot, the man who came home to meet my parents with an open heart, showed a vulnerability that tugged at me.

  In answer to his silent question, I lifted onto my toes and kissed him.

  Right there on the mouth in my childhood bedroom.

  It was like m
agic. He tasted better than any penny candy or gourmet sweet ever could.

  His arms tightened around my waist, pulling me into him as his tongue nudged my mouth open. I willingly let him in.

  We were as close as we could get, but I needed to be even closer. Finding the hem of his t-shirt, I tugged it up to reveal his washboard abs. The instant my fingers touched his heated flesh, I knew what real lust felt like.

  Never one to be overtaken by passion, I felt the red-eyed monster take over, urging me to uncover more skin, feel more, reveal more. Lust was carrying me away.

  Until my mother burst in.

  "Oh, my, dear, I didn't— I mean, I'm sorry to— well, color me embarrassed."

  I tried to jump away, but Ph— Elliot held me close.

  "What is it, Mom?" I asked as I continued to struggle, finally breaking free of his embrace just as another figure stepped into the doorway.

  "Well, you see, there's a young woman here who claims to know your Mr. Phelps."

  After seeing to it that my clothes were back in order—it seemed that he had done some uncovering of his own—I looked up.

  My jaw dropped at the sight of the extremely pregnant woman in the doorway.

  "Rhonda?" Phelps and I exclaimed at the same time.

  Then Phelps ran up to embrace the woman I had last seen on her knees in front of my fiancé.

  16

  Q: What kind of nut sounds like a sneeze?

  A: A cashewwwww.

  — Laffy Taffy Joke #12

  "Rhonda?" Phelps repeated.

  I watched in horror as he ran forward and tried—unsuccessfully—to lift the obscenely pregnant Rhonda into a twirl. Though he couldn't get her off the ground, he threw his arms around her neck and returned the hug she gave him.

  "You look fat," he teased.

  "Pay no attention to him," Rhonda advised me. "He's been incorrigible since we were children."

  I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Ph— Elliot explained. "We're cousins."

  Cousins? Well that explained the big bear hug. But that didn't mean that she was welcome in my bedroom. Or my house for that matter.

  Of course, it wasn't really my house to begin with, and it wouldn't even be in my family for much longer, but that was moot.

  “Rick called me as soon as he dropped you off,” Rhonda explained. “Said he thought he recognized Elliot from the family reunion three years ago. And when I found out he was accompanying you, I rushed right over.”

  All this happy coincidence was making me ill. "If you'll excuse me," I said rather curtly, "I need to change for dinner."

  I shut the door on three bewildered faces.

  Whatever actually happened that night in Gavin's office, I was not ready to forgive all the involved parties. Rhonda may have found herself a new man—a husband even, if the nine-month bulge and impressive solitaire were any indication—but that didn't mean she was entirely innocent.

  What kind of secretary kneels before her half-naked boss, no matter the situation?

  My shoulders slumped. I knew I had been rude. Mixed feelings about kissing Ph—Elliot, getting caught by my mom, and facing the woman responsible for breaking up my last relationship overwhelmed me. Definitely mitigating circumstances.

  A soft knock roused me from my recriminations. I figured it was most likely my mother, or maybe Ph—Elliot.

  When I called out, "Come in," the last person I expected to see was Rhonda.

  "Lydia," she said gently as she closed the door behind her, "I'm sorry if my presence has upset you."

  "It hasn't, really, it's just that,"—I fidgeted with the hem of my blouse—"it was a surprise."

  "We used to be friendly. Before..."

  I sighed. "Yeah, before."

  "I never knew what happened." She stayed next to the door, as if afraid to venture too far into the room. "What happened between you and Gavin."

  She glowed with the inner light of expectant motherhood. A woman ready to nurture, and willing to use that nurturing instinct on me.

  "Actually, Rhonda," I confessed as I lowered onto the bed. "What came between us was,"—my brained screamed out the word you, but my heart knew the real answer—"me."

  "I don't understand."

  As I started to explain what I saw that night, what I thought I saw, Rhonda walked over to the bed and sat by my side. Tears came as I recounted how betrayed I felt at the thought of Gavin cheating on me. And with a woman I considered a friend.

  "Sweetheart," she soothed, rubbing a reassuring hand along my back, "you know that never happened."

  "I-it just looked that way," I sobbed, "I was so sure of what I saw."

  Rhonda patted her protruding belly. "This little angel will be our third. I've been happily married, and fully satisfied thank you very much, for five years. I would never cheat on my Rick." She leaned in for emphasis. "And if he cheated on me, I'd chop off his wiener and throw it in the blender on puree."

  She spread her arms and I turned into her hug.

  The tears didn't stop. My heart hurt.

  "Did I make a horrible mistake?" I asked.

  "If you were that quick to judge, even in the most compromising of circumstances, there must have been something lacking in your relationship to begin with. No woman confident in her love and her man's love so readily believes he's cheating. If it hadn't happened the way it did, it would have happened another way. Your relationship just wasn’t right."

  What she said made sense. I had always believed that if a woman has doubts about the man she's with, then he's not the right man. I had never wanted to acknowledge that I had doubts about Gavin. I wanted to believe that our relationship was perfect, that we were made for each other, that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, we would be happy forever.

  Yeah right.

  Gradually the tears dried up and I realized that what Gavin and I had was never a relationship. It was a façade. At least on my part.

  He was the picture perfect boyfriend—two years older, highly successful, dangerously attractive, and willing to settle down. When I looked at him that was all I ever saw. A good catch—a cardboard cutout of the perfect man I could unfold and stand next to on social occasions.

  Gavin was right; I had never really loved him.

  I never even really knew him.

  "How did my life get so messed up?"

  "Sweetheart, everyone's life is messed up," Rhonda countered. She stood and pulled me to my feet. "Most just don't realize it. Now let's go eat, I'm starved."

  "Lydia, you remember Dustin Davenport," Mom called out the moment I walked in the kitchen. She indicated the well-dressed man to her left. "He's a doctor."

  I rolled my eyes—on the inside—and smiled at the Screech-grown-up replica. He wore a black Brooks Brothers suit with the Regis-style gray shirt and gray tie, but his frizzy black hair detracted from his classy look. Maybe if he got it professionally straightened and used a weekly deep conditioning treatment and—

  I stopped myself.

  Judging on appearances again, Dum Dum?

  What good was coming to a life altering realization if you didn't let it alter your life? I was judging Dustin on the same superficial criteria with which I'd judged Gavin and everybody else.

  This was not a path I wanted to continue traveling.

  Forcing myself to relax into an open stance, I stepped forward with hand extended. "Hello, Dustin."

  After five minutes of conversation that concentrated on his medical practice and his relationship with his mother, I knew this was not a guy I could be interested in. But at least I knew, which was a lot better than assuming.

  We all know what assuming did, right?

  Besides, I already had a compatible guy at my side for this party. Who, at that very moment, was buddying up with my dad at the grill on the back porch.

  At that moment, there was nowhere I'd rather be than by his side. I gracefully made my exit and sidled up next to Ph—Elliot. His name was Elliot, and I was determined to remem
ber that.

  "Hey, Hot Tamale," he teased as I slipped an arm around his waist. "I was just thinking about you."

  "Really?" I asked, knowing from the twinkle in his eye that he was full on fabricating.

  "Yeah. We need more barbecue sauce."

  He winked and I twisted out of his reach before he could pinch me on the backside.

  "Just don't get used to this kind of service," I admonished. "This is a one-time-only return to Fifties mentality."

  When I returned with the jar, I paused in the doorway to watch Elliot and my dad deep in discussion about the best placement of chicken parts on the grill. This was not a conversation I would have witnessed between Dad and Gavin. Gavin just wasn't a guy's guy.

  He'd rather go to the symphony than a Yankees game. Preferred opera to Frisbee golf. And at this moment, I didn't know for sure which kind of guy I preferred.

  Elliot—yes! got it on the first try—turned to me, that cocky grin spreading across those full lips. We shared a simple moment of connection as Dad concentrated on the chicken and Mom and Rhonda were in the kitchen chatting with the ever-growing number of arriving guests. One moment of knowing that, of all the people filling the house, he was thinking of me and I was thinking of him.

  Feeling all warm on the inside, I marched across the deck and handed the bottle over.

  "That's the last time you'll see me fetch, mister."

  He reached out the take it, but I pulled away before he could. His brow furrowed in a petulant pout.

  "I expect payment for services rendered." My boldness surprised me, but then again a lot of things were surprising me lately. Even with my dad standing not two feet away, I tilted my head back and offered up my mouth.

  "Oh, you'll be paid." His voice was a predatory growl.

  With the same lightning fast reflexes that must have saved his life on that Class V rafting trip down the Colorado, he snatched the barbecue sauce out of my grip, spun me around, and pulled me flush up against his chest.

  "Here you go, Mr. V." He clutched my wrists in one hand and tossed the sauce to my dad. "Excuse us for a moment, your daughter and I have a payment to discuss."

  Dragging me—well, not really, I went willingly—around the corner of the wrap-around porch, Elliot—gee, that name was really growing on me—led me to the isolated porch swing and lowered his graceful frame onto the seat. When I tried to take the spot next to him, he held me back, swung his legs up on the bench, and pulled me down on his lap.