Eye Candy (City Chicks) (9 page)

"No!"

"Come on," he goaded. "You know you want to."

"No, I don't." All I wanted to do was go up to my room—our room—and hide beneath the covers for the rest of the weekend.

Clearly he did not understand the meaning of the word decorum. His brain must have been absent the day they taught that in modeling school.

Or any school.

I suddenly wondered what kind of education he had. Was he one of those wonder models discovered at fifteen and a high school drop out by sixteen?

For that matter, I wondered— "How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-seven."

Dear Mr. Goodbar, he was six years younger than me. I was robbing the proverbial cradle. Sort of.

At least I wasn't 
really
 dating him. That would be worse.

I groaned, wondering when I had begun resorting to rationalization to make everything seem okay.

Phelps climbed off the mini crotch rocket and took me by the shoulders, guiding me down the steps and into the driveway. "This opportunity won't come around every day, you know. I took the official Vespa training course in Italy. I'm a licensed scooter stunt driver." He climbed aboard and pulled me across his lap. "And she has to go back by five."

Before I could launch an argument, he started the engine and roared off toward the street.

I was a captive in his quest of adventure.

We sped through the narrow streets of Southampton. We spun doughnuts in the high school parking lot. We even raced long drives on the golf course, much to the dismay of the golfers and the groundskeeper.

And much to my surprise, I enjoyed every minute of it.

By the time we returned Daffy—so named because of her daffodil yellow paint job—to the rental place I was sad to see her go.

Mental Post-it: look into cost of buying and housing Vespa.

Wait, what was I thinking? I had my baby to feed and care for already. She would only be jealous of a younger, thinner sister stealing my attention.

But it sure would be fun to dash to work through the park on a cute little— No! No cute little anythings, and that's final.

"Ray says his brother can give us a ride."

"What?" I was so busy with my mental debate I didn't hear anything but the end of Phelps' comment.

"I said Ray, the scooter shop owner, says his brother can give us a lift back out to the mansion."

"Oh, okay," I said, not having any other options.

If I had known what that lift would consist of, I would have come up with some.

Ray-the-scooter-guy's bother drove a rickety old farm truck, the kind with two-by-fours nailed around the bed to hold in the piles of potatoes or apples or whatever they harvested in the far reaches of Long Island.

And the passenger seat was already occupied by a giant black and white Great Dane. I didn't think she would understand if I called shotgun.

So Phelps and I rode the five miles back to Jawbreaker's house on the tailgate of the farm truck. At least Rick, the brother, had a relatively clean blanket for me to sit on so my dress didn't suffer the effects of the dirty truck bed.

This was my punishment for even thinking about cheating on my baby.

"You look like a mess," Phelps observed.

Gee, like I expected to look like a Stepford Wife after a ride in a potato truck. I scowled as he lifted me down from the tailgate.

"You're no shining example yourself," I returned.

Though I had to admit, no man ever looked so good in a dirt-smudged black t-shirt with wavy black hair wind-tousled to an Elvis-worthy peak. He was gorgeous, no matter the clothing.

Except for that space suit I had picked him up in.

"We'd better clean up before dinner." And I still had to talk to him about Ferrero's proposal.

He grinned like a schoolboy. "I'll race ya!"

"No, thank you."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Um... no."

"You turned down the Daffy ride at first, too." His eyes sparkled as he poked me in the arm. "And look how much fun that turned out to be."

"This isn't the sa—"

"Chicken?"

"No, I'm just too—"

"Chicken," he declared.

Planting my hands on my hips in what I hoped was a determined nature, I said, "I am not a chicken, I'm just—"

"Afraid you'll lose." He looked at me sympathetically. "You're probably right. Better not to be humiliated like that."

He turned and headed up the steps.

As his foot hit the top step, I blew past him, calling back over my shoulder, "Just waiting to take advantage of your arrogance."

When we hit the staircase in the east wing, he caught hold of my hem and tugged me back. He made it two steps before I grabbed his sneaker and pulled him to the ground. I scrambled past him, just lunging out of his grasp, and bolted down the hall to our room.

I stood outside our door, fingers curled around the doorknob, as he raced down the hall in my wake.

"Guess I get the shower first," I teased.

He grinned as he arrived and covered my hand with his own. "We could always share."

"In your dreams, Elliot," I said, feeling carefree.

I pushed open the door and preceded him into the room. Behind me, I swear he muttered, "Don't I know it."

The cool rush of the shower washed away the remains of the potato truck, leaving only the glaring unasked question. Would Phelps be willing to play the role of muse for Ferrero? And what would it cost me?

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, one fluffy white towel wrapped around my chest, the other vigorously rubbing the water from my short, dark blond locks, I was ready to ask him. 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or some such rot.

"Phelps, I have a proposition for you," I began.

"Mmmm." Sitting in the chair in the corner, he looked up from the book he was reading. "I like the sound of that."

I rolled my eyes. "Not that kind of proposition, you Nutty Bar." Sitting on the bed, I finished toweling my hair and wrapped the towel around my head. "A bus—"

"How do women do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing with the towel." He motioned to my turbaned head. "No man alive can do that."

"Phelps, can you please listen—"

"No straight man, anyway."

"Phelps!" I hadn't meant to shout, but he had a way of stretching my patience like Tangy Taffy, until it spread so thin little holes appeared and grew until all that was left was a shredded lace of sticky candy.

"Can you please," I asked, calmly regaining my restraint, "listen to my proposition." When he looked ready to joke again about my choice of words, I added, "My 
business
 proposition."

Though he looked a little disappointed, he nodded.

"Are you familiar with the Ferrero menswear line?"

"I'm a professional model, babe, of course I know Ferrero Men. I think I have one of last season's shirts—the ones with all the heavy-duty zippers—from a shoot for Vanity Fair."

Ugh, I remembered those shirts. Not only were they ugly, but no man wearing one made it through airport security without a strip search. There had been a lot of store returns on that one.

"Right, well, Ferrero is apparently looking for a muse," I explained, wondering how on earth you ask someone to be a designer's inspiration. "He, um, asked me to be his muse for the couture collection, and—"

"His muse, huh," he interrupted. "The man has good taste."

I tried to fight my pleasure at the compliment. But it was no good. Any woman would be flattered to be asked to be a famous fashion designer's muse. And, try as I might to hide it, I was just as susceptible as the next woman.

"Yes, well, that's only half the bargain."

Phelps was beginning to look a little bored. I needed to get to the heart of the proposition.

"He apparently needs a special menswear muse, too."

He shrugged, clearly not getting my meaning.

"You," I blurted. "He wants you to be his muse."

"Me?" Phelps asked, incredulous.

For the first time in our twenty-four hours' acquaintance—and that was twenty-four solid hours with no potty breaks or anything—he sat speechless. He chewed on his generous lower lip, his dark brows lowered in thought.

He looked like he wanted to decline.

Like he was trying to find the right words to tell me to go piss off. No, no, no. I was not about to lose this opportunity.

"I'll pay you, of course," I rushed out, "for all the time spent as Ferrero's muse. I don't know how much time being a muse demands, but I'm sure we can work something out. We can sketch out a payment plan and—"

"Lydia, what are you rambling about?"

"What?" I paused in my babbling for only a second. "I just wanted to assure you that you wouldn't be doing this for free. That I'll still pay you—"

"Why the hell would you have to pay me?"

I blinked at him, not really understanding his question. "I don't know if Ferrero plans to pay you—or me, for that matter—for this, but I'll p—"

He shook his head and laughed. "I would pay to do this."

"What?" Now I was really confused.

"I don't know what you're getting out of this deal," Phelps said, "but this is a golden opportunity for my career. I mean, what model wouldn't want to be the muse of a couture designer?"

"You'll do it," I parroted.

"Of course I'll do it," he confirmed. "This will skyrocket my career." He stood and approached the bed, looming over me. "Why are you doing it?"

My first instinct was to make up a more legitimate and less, well, selfish reason. But he stood there, steadily meeting my gaze and probing my soul with those brilliant baby blues.

I rose up on my knees to meet him eye-to-eye. "Because he wants to use my jewelry in the collection."

He looked unconvinced, as if he knew there was more to my decision. He was right.

"And because this will give me the advantage in the next promotion," I confessed, admitting to even myself for the first time how much beating out the KYs and triumphing over Jawbreaker meant to me.

"Well then," he said, extending his hand, "I guess we're partners in muse-dom."

7

Q: What do you call a hotdog in a bun?
A: An in betweenie weenie.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #53

At 4:32 p.m. I set Jawbreaker's pug loose on the beach.

I didn't mean to. Really. It was an entirely accidental occurrence. Mostly.

When I came downstairs after the potato dirt shower, the little monst— um, darling started nipping at my feet. My fabulous new pair of grass green Sigerson Morrison slides with the cute flower cut-outs. The heels now bear several indentations that look remarkably like canine bites.

Where the little mon— um, darling had been until that point I had no idea. He had probably been sequestered in a bedroom or something. Or mingling along with the guests and was only now pestering me because Jawbreaker had given him the attack command.

I should have known there was a reason the French doors leading onto the deck were no longer wide open. I should have thought it at least a little odd.

But no, I just flung open the door, hoping to escape onto the deck and close the little mon— oh, okay, he was a monster, off in the house, safely insinuating a pane of hurricane glass between him and my Sigersons.

Then I heard the scream.

"Miissterr Puuggssleey!!!" Jawbreaker wailed as the little monster—now the little escapee—squeezed through the closing door and raced across the teak decking as fast as his stunted little legs could carry him.

Quite fast, surprisingly enough.

"What have you done?" Jawbreaker cried as she reached my side, staring plaintively after the fast disappearing sight of Mr. Pugsley—no really, that's his real name—stirring up sand behind him as he made for the surf.

"I'm sorry, Janice. I had no idea he could run like that."

She glared at me like I had just eaten the last of a theater-sized box of Junior Mints before the previews even started.

"You did th-that on p-purpose."

Oh no, those looked suspiciously like tears. I didn't know heartless corporate robots could cry. I guess when their Mr. Pugsley just beat feet for the beach, all stereotypical bets are off.

Before I could stop myself—or realize what I was doing, for that matter—I put my arms around her shoulders.

"Don't worry," I soothed, "we'll get him back."

"Last time he didn't come home for three days." She sobbed and pressed her face into my offered shoulder.

I felt her tears wetting my second-of-the-day Lilly Pulitzer.