Man Candy

by Melanie Harlow

  I turned off all the lights and got in bed, fighting disappointment and angry about it. What the hell was with me? Had I missed him that much? Had I really been about to ask him to stay?

  Thank God he left, said a voice in my head. You invite him once, he’ll think he can do it all the time. You’ve got a nice thing going here. Don’t ruin it.

  I turned onto my side and hugged my pillow.

  The voice was right. We might be casually dating, but once the dates were over, he belonged in his bed, and I belonged in mine.

  Even if it felt empty without him tonight.

  Nineteen

  JAIME

  “This is cruel. How am I supposed to get dressed for tonight if I don’t know where we’re going?” I had the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder as I surveyed my closet.

  “It’s not cruel. It’s called a surprise.”

  “Are you tricking me? Is this some kind of ploy to get me to go see a sappy movie or something?”

  We’d been dating for a month now, and so far I’d avoided having to sit through any insipid romantic comedies or sweeping dramatic epics where two people fall in love and then she dies. We stuck to dinner dates, outings like museums or shopping or a Red Wings game here and there, and we also stayed in a lot, making dinner together and watching TV. I’d learned to accept Quinn’s desire to cuddle on the couch, and he’d perfected the art of “moderate cuddling” so that I didn’t feel smothered to death.

  Every time we went out, he snapped a pic of us and posted it with his goofy hashtags. Someone invariably commented, Does she believe in love yet???, and he’d reply, I’ll ask her.

  The answer was still no, usually accompanied by an eye roll or a sigh, and he’d have to report back with Not yet and a bunch of silly sad emojis. Sometimes he’d add something like, Still trying!

  If he was still trying, he was being pretty underhanded about it, since other than the couch cuddling, he never tried to hold my hand or kiss me in public or talk about “where this was going.” Occasionally, he tortured me with the horrible nicknames, but mostly he respected my rules.

  Still, today was Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t entirely trust him not to get mushy.

  “No, sunshine, it’s not a ploy,” he insisted. “Just wear whatever. You look great in everything and nothing.”

  “If I wear nothing, can we stay in tonight?” Because those were my favorite nights with Quinn. Sometimes we’d play games—we had this one where I was the landlady and I knocked on his door demanding the rent and he offered to be my slave to pay it off because he was a sexy starving artist living on a dream. Once he even painted my body with chocolate syrup and licked it off. (We went up to my place for that. I don’t think I need to tell you that Quinn doesn’t buy things like chocolate syrup.)

  We had another game where he was the doctor making a house call and I was the proper Victorian lady besieged by hysteria (also known as sexual frustration) which could only be relieved by a paroxysm (also known as an orgasm) the doctor brought on with either his hand or my vibrator. (At first Quinn didn’t believe me when I told him that this actually happened in history, and that vibrators were, in fact, invented by doctors whose hands were cramping up from flicking sexually frustrated Victorian beans all day long, but I swear to God it’s true. Just another one of those fun facts stored up in my brain.)

  “No.” Quinn’s voice was firm. “We are going out. Get dressed. And hurry up because I have something to show you.”

  “OK, fine. I’ll be down in half an hour, you big bully.”

  He was laughing when I hung up.

  I decided on a red pencil skirt with a bow at the top of the back slit, a black top, and just for fun, some leopard print heels. After pinning my hair into a loose knot off to one side, I put on my makeup, some earrings, and a little perfume. Before walking out the door, I grabbed my coat and the gift bag with Quinn’s present in it—a Tigers T-shirt and a voucher from me for two tickets to opening day at Comerica Park. It wasn’t like me to buy a guy a gift for Valentine’s Day, but in my defense, I’d already been planning on doing the opening day thing for him because I knew how excited he was about the upcoming season, and Valentine’s Day just happened to occur right around the time I had the idea.

  Purely a coincidence.

  Getting down the stairs in the heels and tight skirt was a bit of a challenge, especially holding my coat and the bag, but I managed to do it without popping stitches or turning an ankle. But when Quinn answered my knock, I went more than a little weak in the knees.

  “Wow,” I said. “It’s kind of a shame it covers so much of your body, but you can wear the hell out of a suit.” It was charcoal gray and hugged his shoulders, tapered smoothly at his trim waist, and showed a hint of his white sleeves beyond the cuff. He wore a dark blue tie my fingers itched to undo, and his hair was slicked back off his face, which showed off his eyes even more. “Are you sure we have to leave the house?”

  “Not at all. Now that I see you in that skirt and those heels, I’ve got all kinds of better ideas.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You’re stunning.” Burying his face in my neck, he inhaled and then bit my throat. “I could eat you up.”

  Giggling, I squirmed away from him. “Don’t muss me, or I won’t go out with you tonight.”

  “How about later? Can I eat you later? We can play Little Red Riding Skirt and the Wolf.” He leered at me.

  “Definitely. What did you want to show me?”

  “Show you?” His eyes were still hungrily taking me in.

  “Yes, you said you had something to show me before we left.”

  “Oh, right!” He shook his head quickly. “You’ve got me all addled now. Let me get it.”

  He went down the hall to his bedroom. Pretty soon it wouldn’t be his bedroom anymore—his condo would be ready first of March so he was moving in less than two weeks. We’d yet to break the No Sleepover rule…as late as we stayed up sometimes, we always slept in our own beds. A few times I’d been tempted to ask him to stay, or to ask if he wanted me to stay, but sticking to that rule was one of the ways I kept myself convinced that what we were doing was OK. I wasn’t losing sight of myself.

  He appeared again, carrying what looked like a photograph in his hands. “I think you might have been right about my mom keeping a picture of my dad. I finally got through the last of the boxes in the attic, and this was in one of them, buried in a stack of old receipts and tax documents.”

  I gasped and set my coat and the gift bag on the couch before grabbing the picture from him, turning it right side up. “Oh my God. It’s totally him.”

  The resemblance was uncanny. The man was older than Quinn but had the piercing blue eyes, the jawline, the sandy hair color. In the photograph, he was standing outside holding a new baby in his arms. From the angle of his head, it seemed like he may have been looking down at the baby and raised his eyes at the moment the picture was taken.

  Quinn stood behind me, looking over my shoulder. “There’s nothing written on the back, but…I think it must be him.”

  “I think so too. Is that you?” I pointed at the baby.

  “Probably.”

  “Awww. Look at your cute little jammies. And your father was very handsome.”

  We stood looking at the photo another minute in silence before Quinn spoke. “It’s funny, the way he’s holding me—assuming it’s me—he looks like he’d be a good dad.”

  He did, actually. Very natural and caring. “Maybe he was.”

  Quinn made a noise at the back of his throat. “For what, two years? Doesn’t count. A good dad sticks around. A good man sticks around.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say. What difference did it make if your dad was handsome if he left you the way Quinn’s had?

  “I’ll be a different kind of father.”

  My clothing felt tight all of a sudden. I cleared my throat and handed the picture back. “I’m sure you will be.”

  “Jaime,” he said, “I�
��”

  “Should we go?” I interrupted. I had no clue what he was about to say, but my gut was telling me I wouldn’t be comfortable hearing it. The past month had been wonderful, and I didn’t want anything to change. Staying focused on the present seemed important.

  Exhaling, Quinn tossed the picture onto the coffee table and picked up my coat. “Yes. Let me help you with this.”

  “Oh, wait!” I scooped up the gift bag and held it out. “Your present.”

  He looked amused as he set down my coat. “My present? You, Nonbeliever of True Love, got me a present for Valentine’s Day?”

  “Well…” I drew the word out. “I got you a present, and I’m giving it to you on February fourteenth. Other than that, I don’t think we should draw any dramatic conclusions.”

  “Of course.” He pulled the shirt from the bag and held it up. “I love it! Thank you!”

  “There’s more,” I said, feeling giddy despite myself.

  He poked into the back and pulled out the slip of paper. As he read it, his eyes lit up. “Good for two tickets to Opening Day and a pregame blowjob.”

  I clapped my hands. “Do you like it?”

  “Best. Gift. Ever,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I can’t fucking wait.”

  He picked up my coat, and I slipped into it. “You’ll be in your new place by then,” I said, buttoning up before pulling on my gloves.

  “You’ll finally be rid of me.” He took his coat and scarf from the closet and put them on.

  “Thank God. All the amazing sex has been so annoying.”

  “Oh, we’ll still have amazing sex. We’ll just have a new set of rooms to play in.”

  “Yay!” My heart thumped crazily. “I know I’m twenty-seven, but…I love playing.”

  “Me too. OK, playmate, let’s go.” He opened the door and gave me a little spank on the butt as I walked out, and I felt reassured that everything was OK.

  He wouldn’t tell me where we were headed, only that we had a reservation at eight. We were driving south on Woodward and had just crossed Forest when he slowed down and signaled, and I looked around excitedly.

  Then I gasped. “The Whitney?”

  He smiled as he turned into the driveway of the late nineteenth century mansion, a massive, three-storied, rose-colored granite monument reflecting the wealth of the lumber baron who’d built it in 1894.

  I clapped my hands and squealed. “I love this place! My dad brought me to dinner here for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “So you’ve been here before. I wasn’t sure.” Quinn pulled up at Valet and parked.

  “Yes, but not in over ten years. It’s too pricey for client dinners or girls’ night out.”

  “I thought maybe a date might have taken you.”

  “Nope. You’re the first.”

  “Finally, I’m first at something with you.” He grinned and pumped his fist just as a valet opened my door and offered me a hand getting out, which I needed in this skirt. Quinn had practically had to boost me in.

  Inside the opulent main hall, Quinn took my coat and checked it along with his, and we admired the fireplace, stained glass windows, and immense staircase before asking for our table. “Imagine playing on that staircase,” Quinn whispered to me as we were shown into a dimly lit circular room with high ceilings and ornate wood paneling. “Or anywhere in this house.”

  I giggled and whispered back, “Naked hide and seek.”

  He groaned. “Don’t tempt me.”

  We were shown to a beautifully set table for two along the perimeter of the room, and Quinn waited for the host to seat me before lowering himself into his chair. (Later, when I excused myself to use the bathroom, he stood when I got up and when I returned as well. I’m the least romantic person I know, but I do find that kind of old-fashioned courtesy attractive—especially when I know the dirty mind behind the courtly manners. It was like another little game, a secret we shared.)

  We dined on calamari, beef Wellington, and grilled vegetables, polishing off a bottle of Barolo in between delectable bites. When the dessert plates had been cleared—we’d devoured something called Chocolate Cartier, which included strawberries covered in chocolate, my favorite way to eat fruit—Quinn reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small white box.

  Since it was flat and square, I felt no rising panic that I’d somehow led him to believe a ring was a good idea. Instead, I smiled at him.

  “What’s this?”

  “A present.” He set it on the table.

  “This meal was my present. And I loved every minute of it.”

  He nudged the box toward me. “Open it.”

  Giving him a suspicious look, I slid the box closer and took off the top. “Oh my God!” I gasped, putting my hands to my cheeks, which felt hot beneath my fingers. “Quinn, it’s beautiful. I love it.”

  It was a silver circle pendant, about one inch in diameter, attached in two spots to a delicate silver chain so it would lie flat on my collarbone.

  “I’m glad. It’s nothing fancy, but I saw it this week and thought of you. I noticed you don’t wear a lot of jewelry.”

  “I don’t at all. This is perfect—a little sparkle, a little elegance. I love it, really.” My throat felt tight, and I swallowed hard.

  “It came with that little card that tells about the symbolism of it.”

  I picked up the card the necklace was resting on and read aloud. “Karma. What goes around comes around… Wear your necklace as a reminder to keep the circle positive, peaceful, and loving.” I met his eyes.

  “I thought it was a nice message. Hope you don’t think it’s too sappy.”

  “Not at all. I think it’s a beautiful message. Should I put it on?”

  He looked pleased. “If you want to.”

  Carefully undoing the clasp, I lowered my head, placed the necklace around my neck and fastened it. When I looked up, he was taking a picture.

  I laughed. “Really? Right now, during this nice, private moment?”

  “Not sorry. You look happy and beautiful.”

  “I feel happy and beautiful,” I said honestly, touching the circle with my fingertips. My entire body hummed with warmth. It almost felt like being a little drunk, but I knew it wasn’t the wine. “And I’ll wear this often, Quinn.”

  “Good. It looks perfect on you.” His eyes dropped to his coffee cup as he toyed with the handle. “And I think it’s true, the idea that you get back what you put out there. Since my mom died, I’ve thought a lot about what I’m, you know, putting out there. And what I want back.”

  “Yeah?” I rested my chin on my hands, elbows on the table.

  “She put such pure, selfless love out there. Worked so hard and always took pride in what she did, whether it was cleaning someone’s house, cooking at the restaurant, or raising a son on her own.”

  “She was very proud of you. Nothing made her happier than talking about you.” I sighed, thinking of my own mother. “I have no idea what makes my mother happy beyond her work. What she wants to put out there or get back. I don’t think it’s love.”

  Quinn looked up at me. “No?”

  “Actually, I don’t know. That’s terrible, isn’t it? That I don’t know my mother well enough to know what makes her happy?”

  “Some people are hard to know.”

  “Yeah, but she’s my mother.” I sat back, dropping my hands in my lap. “And other than her job, I have no clue what makes her excited to get up in the morning. What’s she passionate about?”

  “Maybe it’s the research she does. That helps a lot of people.”

  “I guess. That’s just so in her head, you know? It doesn’t connect her to anyone. She seems so…closed off sometimes. Just sharing a roof with my father and living in her own little world by herself. They don’t even share a bedroom.”

  Quinn looked at me for a moment. “Are you worried that she’s unhappy?”

  “Maybe.” I thought for a second, words on the tip of my tongue. “Or maybe I’m wo
rried about turning out like her.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Forget I said anything.” Suddenly self-conscious, I fussed with the knot of hair at my neck.

  “No, come on.” Quinn leaned forward on his elbows. “Talk to me.”

  God, he was so handsome. And he was good to me—I wasn’t an easy person to get close to, and he tolerated all my quirks, made me feel beautiful and sexy, respected my boundaries even after a month had gone by. He deserved more of me, and he was asking for it.

  I bit my lip. “Do you think I’m too closed off? Too unaffectionate? That I might end up alone and unhappy because I won’t let anybody in?”

  He didn’t answer right away. “I think,” he said slowly, “you’re a very loyal person who shows love in her own way, on her own terms.”

  “But what about the way I don’t like all the mushy romantic stuff or talking about feelings or being touched all the time? Am I cold-blooded? Just weird? Am I too in my head? Why don’t I believe in love like other people do? Why do I feel like it’s me who knows the truth and everyone else is deluded, yet everyone else is destined to be much happier than I’ll ever be?” By the time I stopped talking, I was a little tearful, and Quinn reached for my hand. I let him have it.

  “First, I know you’re warm-blooded. In fact, I’d venture to say your blood runs downright scalding sometimes. And I love that about you—you might keep your cool all day long, but then it comes out of nowhere, this intense heat.” He squeezed my hand. “I can’t get enough of it, and I’m not saying that to make you feel bad—I mean it as a compliment. When something is in short supply, there’s always high demand.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Is that a short joke?”

  “No. It isn’t.” He squeezed my hand again. “And you’re not weird. Plenty of people don’t like sappy stuff or want to be in constant physical contact. Everyone has a different comfort level with physical affection. Yours and mine might be different, but that doesn’t mean yours is wrong. Do I think you’re too in your head sometimes? Yes. Do I think that means you’ll wind up alone and unhappy? No.”