Eye Candy (City Chicks) (11 page)

So, as the men played on, we eyed each other warily, afraid of this new thread bonding us. When it came down to the last shot, two balls side by side and equally aligned for the perfect shot, Kelly stepped up to take her turn.

She had two choices. Shoot the wicket and win the game. Or. Knock our ball out of play.

Guess which shot she chose. No really, guess.

As I retrieved our ball from a very thorny bush I could almost see the glittering tiara hovering over her golden blonde head, glowing with the glory of my humiliation.

That was the problem with tiara-hunting. Sometimes you had to see another woman crowned.

Phelps handled the win gracefully.

If by gracefully you meant grabbed Kelly around the waist, spun her around like a cotton candy machine, and hollered at the top of his lungs, "Eat that, Fairchild!"

By the time we retired to our room at around three a.m. he had calmed down. Mostly.

"Did you see that last shot?" he called up from the floor. "Masterful I tell you, masterful."

I leaned over the side of the bed.

"I was there, remember?"

If I sounded bitter, it was only because I really wanted to win. Not because it seemed Kelly was everyone's golden child. Jawbreaker's favorite. Gavin's favorite. Now Phelps' favorite. No, that didn't bother me at all.

"Knocked your ball out of play like a real pro." He waved his hands around, presumably reenacting the path of the redirected ball.

"Yeah, she should go on the international croquet circuit." My humor level was at an all-time low. And I had other things on my mind. "We need to talk."

He lifted himself up on one elbow. "Sounds serious."

"Not really." I sighed, thinking over everything that had happened in the last few days. "I just need to know if you are still available for some upcoming business functions."

In the soft moonlight I saw him smile. Not that cocky, arrogant smile that sets my teeth on edge, but a genuine friendly smile.

"You asking me out on a date?"

"I guess," I replied. "What's the going per-date rate?"

He frowned and rose to a full sitting position. "What do you mean?"

"People will expect me to show up with you by my side. At least for now. I just want to know what each date will cost me. A date should run about two to three hours. There are a couple of cocktail parties that will probably be longer, but I figure we could come up with a set rate."

"Oh." Phelps laid back down and folded his arms behind his head. "I almost forgot I was being paid."

That threw me for a loop. He sounded almost wistful. Almost sad.

Great Gobstoppers, Lyd. Get a grip.

The man was 
only
 here because he was being paid. Why else would a wild adventurer with Hollywood looks spend time with a dull Westchester girl at an even duller Southampton party?

"Can we just wing it?" he asked, rolling away from the bed to lie on his side. "I'm too tired to do math right now."

"Sure."

I collapsed back onto the bed, feeling a little guilty for hogging the bed and for something else I couldn't quite name. At least I could do something about the bed. "Phelps—"

"Before I forget." He rolled off his makeshift bed and grabbed something from the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair. "Take this."

I leaned sideways and started to take it, before I realized what he offered me. "No, you earned the trip," I pushed the envelope back into his hand. "When the time comes take whoever you want. Consider it a bonus."

Snatching the envelope back, he shoved it back into the shirt pocket before dropping back onto his side.

Before I could even begin to apologize for whatever I had just done, he bit out, "Good night, Lydia."

Let me tell you, my dreams that night were not about a tubful of hot tamales.

8

Q: What did the cat do when his tail fell off?
A: He went to the re-tail store.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #124

Rather than sit through the tedious Sunday morning brunch—and end up driving back in late afternoon traffic with the rest of the weekend suburbanites—Phelps and I headed back to Manhattan first thing in the morning. He seemed to have gotten over whatever I said to set him off the night before and I was over my momentary fit of jealousy. The three hour drive passed quickly in pleasant conversation. When I pulled up in front of the Lower East Side tenement Phelps called home I felt like we had only just left Southampton.

He bounded from the car, grabbing his duffel from the back seat, and leaned back in the open window.

"You promise you'll call," he joked.

I smiled. "I think we have drinks scheduled Wednesday night at the Watering Hole."

"I'm there," he said, stepping back onto the sidewalk and shrugging the duffel onto his shoulder. "And Lydia—" He ducked down to peer in at me. "—I had a lot of fun this weekend."

"Me too," I replied. Yeah, me too.

With a sigh I waved and pulled out into the traffic on Avenue C. Who'd have thought I'd have so much fun with such an overbearing, arrogant underwear model?

Fiona. That's who.

I grabbed my cell phone, dangling from the charger cable connecting it to the dash, and punched her speed dial. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding groggy and gravelly. "Herro?"

And masculine.

"Fiona?"

"Jacque," the man on her phone corrected. "Hold on."

There was the sound of rustling sheets and a muffled "phone call" before Fiona got on the line. "Who is it?"

"Who's Jacque?"

The other end of the phone sniffed and requested a cup of coffee. Strong coffee. "Hey Lyd. How was the Sailing Saga?"

"Summer Sail Away," I corrected automatically. "It was actually pretty fun."

"Good. Mmmm," she moaned as her cup of coffee presumably arrived. After a very loud gulp, she said, "Phelps is hot, no?"

That sounded an awful lot like a dangerously sticky question. I deftly evaded answering. "Wanna meet for lunch?"

"Lunch, my God, what time is it?" Fiona has never been much of a morning person. More like an after-midnight person. "It's only 11:30. Why are you calling me so early?"

"I just got into town." I merged my baby onto Broadway and continued south. "I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Get dressed. Bring Jacque if you like."

"No thanks," she grumbled. Fiona's love life is like a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans—one night she might get Soap, the next Earwax, and the next Grass. But she kept trying them, one by one, hoping to fine that elusive Strawberries and Cream.

Clearly Jacque was something foul.

"Or don't. But be ready or I'm coming up and dragging you out."

"When'd you get so pushy," Fiona whined.

"I've always been pushy. I hide it well." Steering my way around City Hall Park, I made for the Brooklyn Bridge. "If you're not ready, I'm inviting Jacque to the Sweet Spot on Friday."

"God, I'll be ready already."

As she hung up her phone, she muttered something like "slave driver." But I knew she would be waiting on the sidewalk when I arrived. I'd bet my entire collection of Conversation Hearts.

Fiona jerked open the door and dove into my car before I could pull to a full stop.

"Drive," she demanded. "Just drive before he tries to follow us."

"That bad?"

She looked at me and rolled her eyes in a "you have no idea" gesture. "Carmella's. I need a pitcher of Bloody Maries."

I did so without question. With my calling and rousting her from bed before noon and forcing her to contend with nightmare Jacque so early, she was probably at her breaking point. One more tremor and the whole thing would blow.

As we wound our way through construction-heavy streets, I allowed her to sit in disgruntled silence behind the protective shield of her mirrored Oakley sunglasses.

Not until we were safely seated with a Bloody Mary in her hands and a Mimosa in mine, did conversation begin.

"The weekend," she grunted between gulps. "Details. Spill."

"Phelps is... something different."

"Shook your foundations?"

"Not exact—" I stopped as her eyebrow shot up from behind her sunglasses. "Alright, yes. He rocked my world—that what you wanted to hear?"

Fiona, ignoring my concession, waved the waitress over to order another drink.

Well, if she saw going to act so smug about her matchmaking, she wasn't going to get any details from me.

"I have some fantastic news," I squealed, deftly changing the subject. "Ferrero is going to use my jewelry in the Spring collection."

"That's fantastic," she exclaimed as she whipped off her sunglasses. "What's the catch?"

"The catch?" I echoed.

"The catch." Her dark brown eyes bored into me with the intensity of all her Italian ancestors. "The hook. The price. The big 'but' at the end of the sentence."

"Not really a catch," I explained. "More like a mutual exchange."

"Oh God, not of body fluids?"

"No! Of course not." Sweet Saltwater Taffy, where did Fiona come up with these things? Her mind resided permanently in the gutter. "He wants me to be his muse. His muse. That's all."

She scowled, as if weighing the pros and cons of such a situation before making her assessment.

"Just so long as his paws stay on the right side of the sketchpad." Then she smiled. "This is a great opportunity for you. Hey, we could probably get you some covers."

Our waitress arrived with Fi's third Bloody Mary—hair of the dog and all that—and our lunches. Fiona drooled hungrily over her stack of butter-slathered pancakes. She is one of this I-can-eat-anything-and-still-look-like-a-supermodel women—even violently hungover she looked runway-worthy in her black sleeveless turtleneck, denim micro-mini, and knee-high leopard print boots. Me, I had to balance my candy-rich diet with a carb-free fruit and cheese plate. After two days of heavy gourmet meals, I'll have to hit the gym for two sessions a day for a week.

And I would still take a pass on her magazine offer.

"Keep me off the magazines, thank you very much."

She cut off a giant forkful of pancake and shoveled it into her mouth. "Think of the publicity for your jewelry," she said around the mouthful of syrupy fluff. Waving her fork across the table in recreation of a headline, she added, "The new face of Ferrero: LIV Jewelry creator Lydia Ilene Vanderwalk."

Oh no, I was beginning to see the possibilities in this grand scheme, too. But first I had to see the Phelps plan to fruition.

"We can talk about this when it becomes more of a done deal." And how better to distract her attention than with juicy news. "Guess who I was paired with for the croquet tournament."

"You had a croquet tournament?" She washed down the pancakes with a generous gulp of Bloody Mary. "What kind of stiff hosts a party with a croquet tourney?"

"Jawbreaker." But Fiona has latched onto the wrong detail. "And she paired me with Gavin."

"That witch."

"That was my initial reaction, too. But," and I really had to think long and hard before admitting this, "it wasn't that bad."

Of all the scary things that had happened over the weekend, that had to be the most unsettling. Gavin and I working as a team. Something, in retrospect, we had never done as a couple. It was always him and me. Or him versus me. No matter my achievement, he had to top it with one of his own. If I got a 3% raise, he got a 5% raise. If I got a one-line quote in 
InStyle
, he got a full interview in 
Money
. Nothing I ever did was good enough to top his latest achievement. And the last thing I want in a relationship is constant competition. I get enough of that at work.

So it was startling that Gavin and I worked together as croquet partners. He wasn't trying to top my shots, he was trying to top Phelps.

And, much to my amazement and—to some degree—horror, it felt kind of nice.

Not that I was about to admit that to anyone. I was barely able to admit it to myself.

Besides, this time Fiona latched onto the right detail. "Then who played with Phelps?"

I managed not to roll my eyes as I said, "Kelly."

"Hell, I wouldn't know who to cheer against." She chewed and swallowed the last of her pancakes and moved on to the untouched grapes on my plate. "Gavin or her. Equally deserving of my booing."

"We were tied going into the final wicket, but Kelly knocked our ball into the bushes." That still grated, even though I would have done the same. "She and Phelps won a trip to Italy for fashion week."

"Together!" Fiona spit a half-chewed grape onto her plate. "Of all the devious, underhanded—"

"Not necessarily together," I soothed. "There were four sets of tickets. They can each take someone."