Man Candy

by Melanie Harlow

  Off to a great start was the caption. And then: #sweetpea #firstdate #loveisreal.

  Three thousand people had liked it. And a bunch of them had commented with cute little emojis that turned my stomach. Other people had written things like so jealous or who is that????? or why is she making that face, if I was her I’d be so happy.

  Quinn had commented, That’s my friend. She’s making that face because she doesn’t believe in love. I’m trying to make her believe.

  After that there were a bunch of AWWWWW and So sweet! and more disgustingly cutesy emojis and eye-roll-inducing ass-kissing and flattery.

  Lower down, one merciful soul had written, She’s pretty, and Quinn had written beneath that, She’s a lot more than that.

  I tossed the phone aside and flopped back onto my pillow.

  But I was smiling.

  Seventeen

  QUINN

  I didn’t call Jaime the next day—actually, I realized I didn’t even have her number—and didn’t knock on her door, either. She’d said she needed time to think about things, and I wanted her to have it.

  On Saturday, after spending the morning at the gym, I used the afternoon to sift through a few more boxes in my mother’s attic, forcing myself to fill a few garbage bags. I didn’t find any photographs, but I did find her old recipe box, which I took with me. On my way home, I hit the grocery store and bought what I’d need to make a couple of her traditional Polish dishes.

  After unloading the groceries, I stood still for a moment in the kitchen, listening for Jaime upstairs. I heard nothing and figured maybe she was out.

  Or else she’s hiding because you scared her.

  I frowned, admitting to myself that could be the case. I hadn’t gone easy on her last night. She’d said it wasn’t too much, and she didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who held her tongue when she had something to say, but I was a little uneasy about it anyway.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, and the screen showed a text from Alex.

  Meet for a drink?

  Sure, I replied.

  We’re near Eastern Market looking at some property. Detroit City Distillery in 45?

  Sounds good.

  I changed my shirt and shoes, checked my hair, and headed out. In the front hall I paused, nearly going up to knock on Jaime’s door. If she was home, maybe she’d like to join us. It would be fun to hang out together again.

  But I decided against it.

  The next move felt like hers.

  Alex greeted me with a hug, Nolan with a handshake, and I forced them to take a quick selfie with me, which I posted with the caption Good friends, good whiskey #DetroitCityDistillery. Actually Nolan was all for the pic, but Alex tried desperately to get out of posing, which reminded me of Jaime. They even looked alike—same fair skin, green eyes, and dark hair, although Alex was tall and thin with more angular features, whereas Jaime was petite and curvy.

  Nolan, also tall and dark, wore tortoiseshell glasses and had a very short, neatly trimmed beard. I’d met him only once before, but I remembered him as outgoing, smart, and completely devoted to Alex. I thought he was a therapist of some kind, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

  “So how’s it going at the house?” Alex asked once I’d ordered a drink. “Jaime treating you OK?”

  “She’s been great.”

  “Good.” Alex looked relieved. “I was worried she was going to give you the ice princess routine.”

  “Oh, she tried,” I said, laughing, “but she warmed up eventually.” And then she boiled right over. “We actually had dinner together last night.”

  Alex’s jaw dropped. “No way. Really?”

  “Yeah. With some friends of hers.”

  “Wow.” He picked up his drink. “After what she said to me the day you moved in, I thought she’d avoid you like the plague.”

  This should be good. “What’d she say?”

  “Something along the lines of keeping her distance.”

  I shrugged. “What can I say, she can’t resist me. Never could.”

  “So what’s the history there?” Nolan asked, one eyebrow arched.

  Alex and I exchanged a look. “Jaime had a crush on Quinn,” he said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “And does she still?” Nolan picked up his glass.

  “She might,” I hedged. Joking around was one thing, but I didn’t want to sell her out. “We had a lot of fun last night. I’d like to take her out again—if that’s cool with you, Alex.” The server arrived with my drink, and I thanked him.

  “I’m not the one you have to worry about.” Alex sat back. “I’m totally cool with it, but Jaime hates dating.”

  I nodded. “She mentioned that. Several times.”

  “She’s just stubborn,” Nolan said, adjusting his glasses. “I know she loves her independence, but I think she needs someone who can call her on her bullshit.”

  “Oh?” I sipped my Old Fashioned.

  “Totally.”

  “Nolan thinks he has Jaime all figured out,” Alex said dryly.

  “I do,” he insisted. “I’ve got a bunch of friends and patients just like her—scared to get hurt, so they refuse to get close to anyone.”

  “I’m not sure that’s it with her,” I confided. “She said she’s never really had a broken heart.”

  “Exactly. So why fix what isn’t broken?” Nolan pressed. “She’s gone all this time without being hurt, while probably watching women around her be disappointed by men they care about. Why should she bother?”

  “Maybe,” I said, glancing at Alex. “She did mention that your parents’ marriage isn’t her ideal.”

  Alex snorted, which totally reminded me of Jaime. “It’s not anyone’s ideal. But hey, it works for them, I suppose. They’ve been together thirty years.”

  “Has she ever mentioned wanting a family?” I asked, stirring the ice cubes around in my drink.

  “Not that I can think of,” Alex said. “But when Nolan and I have talked about adopting, she’s supportive. I don’t think she feels a family isn’t a worthy goal; it’s just romantic relationships she struggles with. I do agree with Nolan on one thing, though—I think fear plays a bigger role than she’d ever admit, but I also think she just enjoys being unreachable sometimes. She’s my sister and I love her, but I think she gets off on being so cold.”

  “That’s her armor,” said Nolan. “She gets off on wearing it, being able to keep everyone out.”

  “You guys are going to adopt? I didn’t know that. I think that’s awesome.” I changed the subject, not because I didn’t like talking about Jaime, but I was starting to feel a little disloyal to her.

  Only later when I was driving home did I realize that it was the first time I felt I owed Jaime my loyalty, rather than Alex.

  On Sunday evening, I pulled my mom’s recipe for pierogi with meat filling from the box. “Sorry about the store-bought dough, Ma,” I said, glancing at the ceiling. “I’ll make yours next time.” To make it up to her, I played the Beatles on Spotify. Always her favorite.

  Singing along, I peeled and sliced the vegetables, throwing them in with the meat to cook in the stock. Next, I peeled and cut up the onion, then fried it in butter until it was lightly browned. I never fried things in butter, and the smell reminded me so much of my mother, I felt myself choking up. Between the music and the aroma in my kitchen, it almost felt like she was there.

  I took my time with the recipe, enjoying the feeling of closeness to my mother it brought me but lamenting again the fact that I hadn’t thought to ask her more about her childhood. A song came on that she used to sing to me called “I Will,” and I felt my chest get so tight I had to stop and take a few deep breaths.

  I was composing myself over the bowl of meat filling when I heard a knock on the living room door. Wiping my hands on a towel, I turned down the music and went to answer it.

  My pulse kicked up when I saw Jaime standing in the hall, dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, her hair in so
ft waves around her face. “Hi,” I said, surprised but happy to see her. “Is the music too loud?”

  “No, not at all. I like it.” She grinned sheepishly. “And I smelled something delicious.”

  I laughed. “I hope it will be delicious. I found my mom’s recipe box yesterday in the attic and decided to try her pierogies, but it’s more complicated than I thought.”

  “Can I help?” She rose up on tiptoe, so cute and eager, I nearly kissed her on the nose.

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  She followed me into the kitchen. “What can I do?”

  “Let’s see.” Looking over the directions, I shook my head. “There’s like eighteen steps in this recipe, even though the ingredients are simple. My mother made it look so easy.”

  “Well, put me to work,” she said, pushing up her sleeves and washing her hands at the sink. “Can’t promise my kitchen skills are anything close to your mom’s, but if you have any easy jobs, I’m up for them.”

  “How about chopping the parsley?”

  She nodded. “That I can do.”

  We finished the recipe together, laughing at our first batch of strangely shaped pierogies and cheering for our second batch, which more closely resembled my mother’s. We boiled and then pan-fried them, just like she used to, and sprinkled them with cracked pepper. After a high-five for our efforts, we threw together a salad and quickly set the table.

  “Let me grab some wine upstairs,” she said once everything was ready. “Be right back.”

  A couple minutes later she came down with a large brown paper bag in her hand. Setting it on the kitchen counter, she unpacked a bottle of white wine, a silver bucket, and three glass jars with candles in them that I recognized from her coffee table upstairs. “I thought these would be nice on the table,” she said, grouping them together like a centerpiece. “I think there’s a lighter in the top drawer there. Can you grab it?”

  “Sure.” I found the lighter and lit the candles while she poured two glasses of wine, dumped ice in the bucket, stuck the wine bottle inside it, and set it on the table.

  She placed a glass of wine by my plate and hers, then turned off the kitchen and dining room lights before sitting.

  I returned the lighter to the drawer and sat down across from her. “Candlelight? A wine bucket? Who are you?” I teased. “This is way too romantic for the Jaime Owens I know.”

  She smiled and shrugged. “I like candlelight, what can I say? And I’m serious about my wine. I can’t help it if it’s romantic.”

  We filled our plates and dug in, praising our pierogies, even if somehow they didn’t look or taste quite like my mom’s.

  I wondered about Jaime being here, if that meant she’d given any thought to my request for another date or my stating that I wanted more than just no-strings sex with her. After talking to Alex and Nolan last night, I wanted more than ever to gain her trust, assure her that I had no intention of hurting or disappointing her. But I didn’t want to pressure her.

  We ate mostly without talking, the music filling the space between us.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” she remarked when we’d finished.

  “Am I?”

  “Yeah. Thinking about your mom?”

  I nodded slowly. “The Beatles were her favorite, and she used to sing me some of these songs. I heard one earlier she used to sing at bedtime, and it really took me back.”

  “‘Rocky Raccoon?’”

  “No, but that’s a great tune.”

  “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she confessed with a guilty smile.

  “Such a creeper. Were you peeking in the bathroom window too?”

  “No,” she said, as if I’d greatly offended her. “I’m not that bad. Sheesh. So what was the song she used to sing to you at bedtime?”

  “‘I Will.’ Do you know it?”

  “No.” She smiled. “Did it make you sleepy?”

  “No, it brought back a nice memory, which made me happy, but I also felt a little sad. Not only for me because I miss her, but also because she won’t be around to be a grandmother to my children, if I have any. Sing them to sleep that way. She’d have loved being a grandmother.”

  “You mean to our half dozen kids?” Her foot tapped mine under the table.

  I laughed a little. “I forgot about those.”

  “Hopefully, we didn’t get a jump on the first one Friday night.”

  My stomach hollowed. “What? I thought you said it was—”

  “I’m kidding, it was fine. We’re fine.” She laughed. “Your face was so funny just now.”

  Picking up my wine glass, I took a generous swallow. “Yeah, I might like kids eventually. Not necessarily this year.”

  “I know, I was teasing.” She focused on the wine in her glass as she swirled it. “But do you want to talk about Friday night?”

  I studied her a moment. She looked curious, but not upset. “We broke a rule, didn’t we?”

  “We did. And while it was OK the one time, I don’t think we should make a habit of breaking it.”

  “I agree.”

  She took a breath. “But there might be another rule we could break.”

  “The sleepover rule?” I asked hopefully.

  “Not the sleepover rule. But the talking rule.” Another deep breath as she met my eyes. “I want to talk.”

  “You mean, you want to talk about feelings?” I looked around the room. “What planet is this? Am I in some alternate reality?”

  She threw her napkin at me. “Keep making fun and I’ll never break the sleepover rule for you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, retrieving her napkin from the floor and throwing it back at her. “Let’s talk about feelings. What’s up?”

  “Well, I thought about what you said, about wanting more than just no-strings sex.”

  My heart beat quicker. “And?”

  “And…” She lifted her shoulders. “I’d like to try. I’d like to be…closer to you.”

  I moved my chair back from the table. “Then you should definitely come sit on my lap.”

  Smiling, but in no particular rush, she got up and came around the table to stand in front of me. “Hi,” she said shyly.

  It was the most unsure of herself she’d ever looked, and it made me feel both aroused and protective. “Hi.” I tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. “Come here, you.” I pulled her onto my lap so that she straddled me, and she laughed softly.

  Putting her arms around my neck, she rested her forehead against mine. “I don’t know if I’m good at this.”

  “At what?”

  “Strings.”

  I put my hands in her hair, gently this time. “Strings don’t have to mean you owe me something specific. We don’t need to put a label on this, Jaime. I just want it to mean something to you.”

  “It does,” she said, kissing my lips. “You do.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” I kissed her back a little harder, tilting her head in my hands, tasting her with my tongue. My cock stirred between us, and she sighed as she circled her hips.

  Her hands traveled down my chest and around my lower back, and I felt her start tugging my shirt from my jeans. But then she seemed to change her mind about undressing me and moved her hands back up my torso, leaving them on my chest. The kiss grew more intense, and I slid my mouth down her throat and one hand up her sweater.

  When it closed over her breast, she whimpered a little. “I’m trying to go slow, I swear to God, Quinn. But when you touch me, I want to tear your clothes off.”

  I laughed. “Is that why you stopped before? You’re trying to go slow?”

  “Yes. But I’m so impatient.” She moved her hips sinuously over my erection and whispered, “I can feel your cock beneath me, and I want it inside me so badly.”

  Oh, fuck. Moving my hands beneath her ass, I stood up and walked down the hall toward the bedroom with her legs wrapped around me, her lips setting my neck on fire. “We can slow down once we’re naked�
�maybe. But at this point, I’ll be lucky to make it to the bed.”

  She laughed throatily. “Wall, floor, bathroom sink—it all works for me. As long as it’s you.”

  I reached the bed, set her on it, and we undressed each other frantically, her sitting and me standing. When she was completely bare, I pushed her knees apart, knelt down, and put my mouth on her, licking into her warm wetness as she lay back, hands in her hair. I did all the things I knew she liked, licking her slow and then fast, hard and then soft, sucking her clit. She came quickly, her legs across my shoulders, crying my name.

  My cock was so hard it was almost painful, and I grabbed a condom from the drawer and rolled it on in record time.

  Then I picked her up again. “So little,” I said, easily holding her in place as she positioned me between her legs.

  “So big,” she murmured playfully as she slid down my shaft, her eyes locked on mine in the shadowy dark.

  I turned and placed her back against the wall, feeling I showed great restraint in not fucking her right through the plaster, especially the way she was talking to me.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she whispered in my ear as I drove inside her again and again. “You know how to make me come so hard—with your hands, your tongue, your cock. No one has ever made me feel this good.”

  I tried to last a little longer but felt powerless against the rushing current of desire inside me, which refused to slow down. Faster and harder I pounded into her, encouraged by the wetness of her pussy and the clawing of her nails and the loudness of her cries, telling me to come, come, come…

  The orgasm spread throughout my body, every limb vibrating with pleasure as I went stiff and my cock throbbed. Afterward, my arms and legs weakened, and for a second I worried Jaime and I might both hit the floor.

  Summoning my strength, I hitched her up a little higher before moving back to the bed and carefully setting her on her back. Expecting her to let go, I was surprised when she clung to me, arms around my neck, legs around my waist.