Man Candy (3 page)

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