Man Candy: A Real Love Novel

by Jessica Lemmon

  I make a choking sound to communicate how insulted I am. “Yes. I was trying to look cute, but I have functional clothes too.”

  “You don’t look cute.” Before I become more insulted, he adds, “You look fucking hot.”

  “I’ll take hot.” I’m glowing from the compliment.

  “Yeah, so will I.” Instead of kissing me, he snaps up the bags I folded and holds out a hand. “Keys.”

  I hand over my car key and follow him as far as the door. Then I watch him open my trunk and put away the shopping bags. He swaggers back, large and broad and so handsome it hurts.

  I know what you’re thinking: Come on, Bec, how could you for a second doubt sharing several sex- and food-packed days with this guy?

  Simple.

  In the past, I’ve purposely left myself an out in every relationship, save one: The first one. The one you lose your virginity to, thinking you’ll be with that person forever. Until they leave and drag your heart across a football field’s length of broken glass.

  After that happens, you might just decide that not having long-term relationships are better than having them.

  “The ground’s still damp. Think I’ll forgo the tent and sleep in the Jeep tonight,” Dax says as he comes back inside. “You good with that?”

  “Sure. I can camp.” Maybe. The Jeep sounds more doable than the ground.

  “Have you ever camped, Princess?”

  “Now, see? When you say it that way, it feels like you’re slotting me into the ‘fussy’ category.”

  He smirks.

  “The answer is yes, I have camped. Once, when my brother and I were kids. I remember s’mores and campfire beanie weenies and singing. It was fun.”

  “Beanie weenies,” he repeats. It’s really hard not to giggle when a grown man uses those words together.

  “I was eight. Give me a break.”

  “Uh-huh.” Still smirking. What a sexy jerk.

  The rest of the morning passes easily. I downsize my belongings to an overnight bag and further downsize my toiletries bag. Thankfully, the roughing-it portion won’t be too terrible. Dax divulged that we’re sleeping in the field out back, within sight of the cabin.

  “Isn’t that silly?” I ask as I pack food in a cooler. It’s sufficiently stuffed with snacks and drinks for tonight.

  “What?”

  “To camp mere yards from your cabin.”

  “Clearly you don’t recall the majesty of the outdoors from your camping trip.”

  “Remember the part where I told you I was with my brother, Tad? He sort of sucks the majesty out of everything.”

  With a deep chuckle, Dax asks, “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  He snags a rather slouchy-looking backpack off the kitchen table—the entirety of his needs fit in there—and then grabs my weightier bag. It was as downsized as I could manage. I did my best.

  The afternoon sun was as warm as promised, drying off the damp blades of grass from this morning. The ground is still on the soggy side when we drive over it behind the cabin, but when we arrive at the clearing, it’s much firmer there, thanks to full sun. Tall grass, wildflowers. It’s beautiful.

  Oh, and I was wrong about Dax’s belongings fitting in that slouchy backpack. The back of his Jeep is filled with sleeping bags and tent accoutrements, and he even brought firewood that he’d hauled from the covered porch to ensure it’d be dry for the fire he planned on starting.

  We park and I hop out. Dax took the top and the doors off. He strolls to a burned-out circle where the grass hasn’t grown, a few large logs arranged around it like seats. “Looks like we’re not the first ones to have this idea. Perfect spot for a fire.”

  Already the prospect of sitting at a campfire, this time across from Dax, sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than it was when I was eight. That’s a big statement considering that when I was eight, I thought roasting marshmallows was as good as life could get. Even now I silently wonder if Dax could run a close second to a perfectly roasted marshmallow.

  Guess I’ll have to find out.

  By dinnertime he’s built a fire and set up a rack for cooking over the low flames. He grills the fish that he caught and cleaned—color me impressed—which have been bathing in my magical mojito marinade. I tell him as much, admiring the line of his strong body as he tends to our dinner with a metal spatula.

  “Magical Mojito Marinade sounds like my next menu item.”

  “Really?” Careful excitement laces every word, and he notices. He pauses in his flipping.

  “Told you that you were hired. Still don’t believe me?”

  “Well, you haven’t tasted it yet,” I say with an uncomfortable chuckle. “You might not want to include it on your menu.”

  There’s plenty of space on the log next to him, so I sit. The moment my butt hits bark, he leans close.

  “I haven’t had anything of yours in my mouth I didn’t enjoy immensely.” His lips brush the shell of my ear when he growls, “Anything.”

  Don’t mind me while I excuse myself for a cold shower. . . .

  He finishes the grilling and I busy myself setting the “table,” which is a blanket spread out on the bed of his Jeep. I set out a few extra-thick paper plates and plasticware and find an empty beer bottle that, a few wildflowers later, makes the perfect vase.

  I’m stepping back to admire my handiwork when Dax sets a plate holding our grilled fish next to our plates.

  “Is that salsa?” he asks of the bowl of mango relish I whipped up this morning.

  “Close enough.” I point to another dish. “That’s red cabbage slaw with quick-pickled jalapeños. And if you give me thirty seconds, I can whip up fresh guacamole.”

  “I was right,” he tells me as I split a few avocados and mash in red onion, cilantro, lime juice, and more “quickled” jalapeños. “You don’t know how to camp. This is fancy.”

  I peek up at him as he lifts the beer-bottle vase. He’s not complaining, though. There’s a difference between complaining and being impressed. Dax Vaughn, I’m learning, is continually impressed with me. I’m embarrassed to admit that whenever I’m with him my pride-heavy chest swells to embarrassing proportions. His words of encouragement, even his teasing compliments, fill a deep, empty well within me.

  We settle on the back of the Jeep to eat, and I accept his offering of a light beer, tapping the can against his and enjoying a long, cold sip. Then we dig into some of the best mojito fish tacos I’ve ever made.

  “These are good,” he says after he polishes off one taco and starts on the second.

  He’s not kidding. The mojito marinade is sweet and citrusy, the slaw is tangy and crisp, and the mango relish is spicy and verdant. Add a dollop of two-minute guacamole and it’s phenomenal.

  “We’re a good team.” I polish off another taco. “Usually I make this with mahimahi.”

  “Dolphin,” he corrects. I scowl. He lifts his third taco. “Dolphin the fish, not dolphin the mammal. Hence the term mahimahi, or else everyone would lose their shit.”

  “A little insider restaurateur knowledge.”

  “Free of charge,” he says around a mouthful. He shovels in the rest while I take a dainty bite. I admire that kind of eating. I know he’s enjoying it, and watching Dax enjoy my recipe is akin to watching him enjoy anything. It fills me with more pleasure than it should.

  “I want it,” he says.

  When I look up at him, he’s guzzling his beer and pointing at the remaining taco on my plate. I promptly lift the plate and offer it.

  “Not the taco, Princess.” He crumples the beer can and sets it aside. “The recipe. How much for that one?”

  “Like I told you before, I’m not selling you anything. You can have it.”

  “And like I told you before, I’m not taking anything. I’m buying it.”

  “Dax.”

  “You’re worth it, Princess. Hasn’t anyone told you that before?”

  Chapter 16

  Becca


  Is it bad that I feel like purring?

  Because it feels decadent. It feels like something I shouldn’t let myself do—accept a compliment and roll around in its fluffy existence.

  I shrug off his comment, but in true Dax fashion, he’s not interested in anything surface. Which is interesting in and of itself.

  “You are, you know. Worth it.” He’s serious, and scowling. “Can’t get over the idea that you don’t believe your ideas have value. Why is that?”

  “I can’t get over the idea that you feel the need to pry.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  We’re a few hours from sunset, and this feels like an after-hours conversation. Yet here we sit, in the sun-dappled shade under a tree, having this conversation. I fiddle with my plate and the taco sitting there that I’m too full to eat.

  “You’re asking me to share something really personal,” I explain. “You’re asking me to find the genesis of why sitting here with you makes me jumpy.”

  “I assume not because you believe I’m an ax murderer?”

  “I know you’re not.” I offer him my plate again. “Take it. I’m stuffed and I want to finish my beer.” I have to gesture with the plate again, but he caves under the perfection that is our mojito tacos and takes it.

  “You’re asking why I’m the way I am. Why I’ve accepted less than I deserved, or maybe not that. Why I didn’t pursue what I wanted, instead of letting it go because the stakes could be too high.”

  “I said all that?” He chews slowly, watching me through narrowed eyelids.

  He didn’t, but he implied it. I nibble my bottom lip, unsure what he’s learned from my admission. I haven’t had nearly enough alcohol for this discussion.

  “Which is it?” he asks. “Did you accept something or did you pursue nothing?”

  Magic Mike guy is deeper than his exterior suggests. Either I play his game and rise to his level, or I turn and run. It’s a good jog to the house from here.

  On a sigh, I admit, “A bit of both at varying intervals.”

  He swipes his teeth with his tongue, which shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow is.

  He slides his ass back so his legs hang off the edge of the bed of his Jeep and props himself up with his elbows. He looks out at the field, but I get the impression his mind’s 100 percent on me.

  I gather our plates and he says nothing. Not even when I move to the fire and throw them in, poking them with a sturdy stick he’s found for that purpose. I stab it into the ground like a post and turn to find his eyes on me, his body still propped by his elbows. Still quiet. Next to the bouquet of yellow and purple wildflowers, his rugged jeans-and-tee-and-boots combo clashes. I walk toward him, each step bringing me closer and closer to an outcome I don’t want.

  I don’t want to talk about who I am or who I’ve been. I don’t want to talk about his past hurts and failures. I don’t want to expose our delicate underbellies. I don’t want to know any more about him because I’m afraid that on the other side of that is a scary emotion I’d rather avoid. The walls climb, the metal gates drop, yet when I reach the Jeep, the impossible emerges from my mouth.

  “Are we officially throwing out the rule about not talking about our pasts?”

  His eyebrows lift subtly but there’s no missing his surprise.

  “As long we promise not to hold it against each other,” I tack on.

  “Never, Princess. You’re my new business partner, so I can’t see how blackmailing you could benefit me.”

  Oh, he’s sly. I smile. He doesn’t return the smile with his mouth, but mirth dances in his pale blue eyes.

  He sets aside the bottle holding the wilting wildflowers and pats an empty spot on the quilt next to him. I hop onto the bed of the Jeep—our shared bed this evening.

  “However,” I say as I make myself as cozy as possible, “I will require a few more drinks. Or shots.”

  Dax reaches under a blanket in the back of the Jeep and waggles a bottle of whiskey at me. “What’s your pleasure, Princess?”

  Dax

  I laugh, which feels great. It uncoils the tension that’s been strung tight for a long while. Becca’s giggling too, at her own expense, I’m afraid.

  “That’s a hell of a prom story.” We’ve moved to sit on the log by the fire. I reach for the whiskey bottle resting in the grass. It was three quarters full when we started and is now flirting with empty. I splash some into my plastic cup and hand it to her. I don’t normally get sauced, but what the hell? I’m on vacation and Becca promised to share deep, dark secrets if she had some primer.

  We started light. Dumb shit we did when we were teenagers. The way we looked at life as kids. That sort of thing. Now, though, as we tip back our shots, the fire crackling at our feet, the air shifts. She scoots closer, complaining she’s cold even though she’s wrapped in a blanket. I hug her close, not all that warm myself. The sun went down and the temperature plummeted.

  “We can sleep in the house if you want,” I offer.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can hear your teeth clacking together.”

  She gives me a playful shove but cuddles close immediately after.

  “We’ll climb into the same sleeping bag tonight to keep warm,” she says.

  “I like the sound of that.” I kiss the top of her head and squeeze her with my arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Should I start?”

  “Start what?” She tips her chin to look at me and I put a kiss on her lips this time.

  “Sharing the real shit we swore not to talk about.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “I’m sufficiently buzzed to participate, so I’d say it’s now or never.”

  Now it is. I take a breath but realize this isn’t going to be so hard, since we’ve had several warm-up pitches.

  “My last girlfriend was named Courtney. We’d been together about two years, and I was sure we were headed for something serious. All the signs were there. The way you assume you have a date for the holidays. You hang at each other’s parents’ for holidays or cookouts. You know.”

  Becca stays quiet, I assume to let me finish.

  “We weren’t living together yet, so I asked her to move in. She left me. Not long after that she started dating some schmuck she worked with who was half my size. I couldn’t figure out what she wanted with a mousy guy, but then I realized that it wasn’t him she wanted as much as it was me she didn’t want.” I toss another split log on the fire. “I guess it was then that I decided, No more. No sense in looking forward and making plans when all that lies ahead is getting left behind. She undid what we had, and we’d worked hard to get there. She swapped me out and left me at ground zero. She was whole; I was fractured. Explain that.”

  Those last two words I didn’t even mean to say.

  “Guess I have unfinished business with her,” I admit. “I’m not in love with her anymore. It shouldn’t sting so much that she went.”

  Becca says nothing and I turn my head and playfully elbow her.

  “You asleep?”

  “No.” She tsks and sits back to look at me when she speaks. “I was thinking how I can’t explain it to you because I’ve never actually been in a situation like that.”

  “Never been left for someone else?”

  “Well, it doesn’t go that far for me. I’ve never had an assumed date for holidays, and I’ve only met the parents one time and that was my prom date.”

  “Sounds like a great intro to your turn, Princess.”

  I wonder how much she’ll share.

  Becca

  “I’ve never spelled it out for anyone,” I say. “Maybe not even myself.”

  “I’ve never told anyone about Courtney before.” His eyebrows jump as if that’s a realization.

  I’m not completely sober, but I’m far from drunk. I’m in that loosey-goosey veil when you’ve had enough to drop your inhibitions.

  More than my inhibitions has dropped—my guard has dropped.
I see so clearly what I didn’t before Dax started talking about his ex. He and I are two lonely souls.

  “I don’t have any relationship stories to tell,” I start. “I don’t have relationships. I’ve had hookups. I’ve gone to parties. I’ve had disastrous dates that have ended without kisses good night.”

  Dax’s mouth tips into a sad smile like he can relate.

  “I’m a risk taker in every other sense. I’ve picked up and moved away a dozen times. Half of those times I moved out of state. I thought I was following my passion, but now that I look back . . . I don’t know. It’s like I was looking for something I never found.”

  “Not all those who wander are lost,” he quotes.

  “I’ve heard that. I’m not sure it applies to me.”

  “Are you lost?”

  “I’m living with my brother. No plan to move out since I’m not sure where I’d go. He offered me the position at Grand Lark, and I decided it’d be sufficient until I figure out what the hell I want to do with my life.”

  “Have you?”

  “No.” I feel a frown crease my brow as I watch the fire. “But I feel closer to figuring out.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dax smile.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing’s funny. Doesn’t sound like you were lost while you were doing that wandering. Sometimes you have to wander far away to know that the right thing was always close to home.”

  “That’s some Wizard of Oz wisdom.”

  “It’s a wise movie.”

  We fall into silence and watch the flames.

  “I guess . . .” I start, arriving at a conclusion. “I’ve always wanted to feel safe enough with someone to have more than a hookup or a surface relationship. But I never allowed myself to explore more. It always felt scary. Too big. I didn’t want to lose myself before I figured out who I was.”

  “You’re cringing,” Dax points out. “Was that a big admission?”

  “A monster.” The glow of orange from the fire dances on the sharp planes of his jaw, his cheekbones. He’s so much more than an attractive face. A pang of loss followed by a swell of gratitude comes when I realize that had it not been for that storm, we never would’ve had this conversation.