Man Candy (4 page)

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.

“What.”

“I came for a visit, like you said in

my yearbook.”

She cocked her head. “Huh?”

“In my yearbook. You wrote that you

wanted to visit me at school. You said, ‘I

think we could have a good time.’ I

agree. Let’s do it.” Dropping my chin, I

gave her my most winning smile.

Irresistible, right?

She shrank back, wrinkling her nose.

“What the hell is that? Your Flynn Ryder

smolder?”

“Who’s Flynn Ryder?”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s from

Tangled, the Rapunzel movie?”

“Sorry. I missed it. So does he get in

her pants?”

“Not before she hits him over the

head with a frying pan.”

“Ouch.” I leaned right and left,

checking her hands. “Since I don’t see

any cookware in your grasp, is it safe to

come in?”

She eyeballed me and crossed her

arms. “Why do you want to come in?”

“I don’t know, actually.” I mirrored

her posture, crossing my arms. “It’s not

like the welcome has been all that

warm.”

Her arms fell, and her scowl abated

slightly. But just slightly. “Sorry. I’m

just…sort of a private person. And it’s

been a long day.”

“No problem.” Flashing my palms at

her, I turned for the steps. “Just thought

I’d try again to be friendly. It really is

good to see you. Sorry to bother you.” I

hotfooted it down the stairs, figuring I’d

play a little harder to get from here on

out. Maybe she liked a challenge too.

“Quinn, wait.”

Bingo.

Halfway down, I looked up to see

her hovering on the landing, hugging her

stomach, her juicy bottom lip caught

between her teeth. Was it wrong that I

noticed her nipples were hard and poked

through her thin cotton shirt?
Don’t stare

at her tits, asshole. You want her to

invite you in, you have to at least

appear
gentlemanly.

“Don’t go,” she said. “I guess we

could…hang out a little.”

I waited for her to go on, to invite

me in, but she just stood there.

“OK. Should we hang out on the

steps? Or would you like to come down?

Boxes are everywhere, but—”

“No, no.” She sighed, and her eyes

closed briefly. “You can come up.”

Grinning victoriously, I went back up

the stairs and followed her in, shutting

the door behind me. The upper flat

appeared to be laid out just like the

lower, with the living room at the front,

dining room and kitchen in the middle,

and two bedrooms and bathrooms at the

back. It had the same neutral carpeting

and paint colors, although her furniture

was nicer, and she’d added feminine

things like pillows and flowers and

candles. It smelled nice too, sort of

sweet and flowery. Or was that her?

“I was just about to open some wine.

Do you want some?” She put her hair in

a ponytail as she shuffled into the

kitchen. It was dark and wavy and fell

past her shoulders, long enough to wrap

around my fist if I—

Oh, shit. She just asked me a

question, didn’t she?

“Sure.” I leaned against the

doorframe and watched her wrestle with

the corkscrew and bottle, admiring her

from behind. Her sloppy clothing hid her

curves, but her shirt rode up and her

pants slipped down just enough for me to

see a ribbon of pale skin between them.

My dick, which had already noticed she

wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her shirt,

showed even more interest in finding out

if she had underwear on. Clearly it

remembered the lost opportunity from

years ago and wanted to punish me.

“Like red?” She had to rise up on

tiptoe to reach the wine glasses, and I

adjusted myself while she wasn’t

looking.

“Of course. Antioxidants,

resveratrol…what’s not to like?”

“Oh, you’re one of
those
.” Shaking

her head, she poured the wine.

“Figures.”

“One of those what?”

“One of those people who drink one

glass of red wine a night because it’s

healthy, not because it tastes good and

makes you feel like you can get through

another day without hitting someone with

a frying pan.” She gave me a pointed

look over her shoulder.

I laughed. “Can’t a person do both?

Enjoy something because it tastes good

and it’s good for them?”

“I guess. But there are very few

things that fit that description, at least for

me. Everything I like is bad. Here.”

Handing me a glass, she brought hers to

her lips. “Ahh,” she said after a good

long drink. “That’s better.”

“What do you like that’s bad for

you?”

“Bacon. Butter. Chocolate. Wine. Ice

cream. Bread. Chips. Cocktails. Things

that are battered and fried.” She took

another drink. “Should I go on?”

“That’s your diet?” I set my wine

glass on the counter and opened her

fridge. “My God, how do you live?” I

asked her, shaking my head. “Ketchup,

mustard, jelly, eggs, butter, and

pickles…what is that, olives?”

“Yeah, but those are for my

martinis.”

“At least you have milk.”

“It’s probably expired. But I do like

cereal for dinner sometimes. And

sometimes I put it in my coffee, if I don’t

have cream.”

“Jesus. No meat, no vegetables…” I

opened the crisper. “One lonely apple.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said, her tone

defensive. “And no one asked you to

look in my fridge, anyway. Get out of

there.” She kicked the crisper shut,

closed the fridge and leaned back

against it, an adorably defiant look on

her face.

I shook my head. “No wonder your

growth is stunted. You know, I was lying

about the tree thing, but I do think if you

ate healthier, you’d feel better. Maybe

even grow a little.”

“This is why I didn’t want to let you

in.”

“OK, OK. Suit yourself.” I should

have stopped there, but something in me

loved the way I could still rile her up.

“But I’d be happy to share some of my

tips for healthy eating and living with

you if you’d like. Do you exercise?” I

took her face in my hands, tilted it this

way and that. Her complexion was

beautiful, her skin like porcelain. “And

look how pale you are—are you inside

all day?”

“It’s January in Michigan!” she said,

leaning away from me. “Of course I’m

pale!”

“Well, a brisk walk outside won’t

kill you. Vitamin D is important.” I

grabbed my wine off the counter and

took a sip to cover the grin on my face.

She glared at me. “This conversation

is over. And if you don’t stop making fun

of me, this visit is over too.”

“I didn’t mean any offense by that,

Jaime. You look perfect. You’re

beautiful.”

“That’s not what you said a minute

ago.”

“What I said wasn’t based on how

you look—it was based on what you eat.

Mostly.”

She cocked her head. “Why do you

care what I eat, anyway? You haven’t

spoken to me in ten years.”

“I know. But you’re like a little

sister to me, and I—”

She groaned and flashed one palm at

me. “Please. Not that again.”

“Sorry.” I had to smile at the blush

painting her face. “How about friends?

Can we be friends?”

“I don’t know.” She eyed me with

skepticism, swirling her wine.

“Oh, you're one of
those
,” I teased.

“One of those what?”

“One of those people who believe

men and women can’t be friends.”

Leaning back against the counter

opposite the fridge, I took another drink.

“At least, not if they’re attracted to one

another.”

“I never said I was attracted to you!”

she blustered. “I’m sure you’ve had

women all over the world fall at your

feet, but I’m not one of them. At least—”

She fidgeted, then stood a little taller.

Well, taller for
her
. “Not now. Not

anymore.”

“Of course not.”

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked

indignantly.

“I would never. I’m just happy to see

you again. I want to get to know you.” (I

was totally laughing at her.)

“And I never said men and women

couldn’t be friends, either.” She jerked

her chin at me.

Fuck, that dimple. I wanted to kiss it.

Actually, I wanted to rub it with the tip

of my cock, but I tried not to think about

that too hard. What was she saying now?

“I have lots of male friends,” she

insisted.

“Oh. My mistake.” While I calmly

took another sip of wine (this took some

effort, since I couldn’t stop thinking

about my dick on her chin), she gulped

hers, clearly flustered. “So tell me about

grown-up Jaime. What does she do?”

“I’m a social media specialist at a

marketing firm.”

“Do you like it?”

“For the most part. Sometimes I wish

I got to do more of the creative stuff,

more of the research and whole

campaign strategy, but I’ve only been at

this a couple years. I get that I have to

work my way up.”

“What do you do for fun? Hang out

with all your male friends?”

She rolled her eyes. “My closest

friends are actually women. Do you

remember Claire French and Margot

Lewiston from school?”

I nodded. “Yes. You three together

were nothing but trouble back then.”

“Ha. We’re less trouble now, but

still together.”

“That’s awesome, to have friends

like that, to be so close for so many

years.”

She tilted her head. “Didn’t you have

good friends in L.A.?”

I shrugged. “I had a few. But I

traveled a lot.”

“What about a girlfriend?”

“One or two. Nothing serious.”

She sighed dramatically. “I suppose

it’s hard to have a serious girlfriend

what with young women throwing

themselves at you all the time.”

I nodded. “And older women too.

Don’t forget them.”

“Come on, older women like your

bathroom mirror selfies? What’s with

that, anyway? You’re so vain you have to

capture yourself in a towel capturing

yourself in a towel?”

I cocked a brow. “Now who’s

making fun? And does this mean you

follow me on Instagram?”

She lifted her shoulders, like she

couldn’t remember if she did or not, but

her cheeks looked like two splotches of

wine on a white linen tablecloth. “I

follow a lot of people.”

“Right.” God, she was fucking

delightful. So different from most