Eye Candy: Chapter Nine

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.)

Q: What kind of keys don't open doors?
A: Piano keys.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #156

My first thought was to call the police.

It took about 4.7 seconds for me to realize how ridiculous that would sound. "Hello officer, I would like to report a theft. What was stolen? A drawer full of candy. Hello? Hello?"

"Angela," I said very calmly to my assistant, "has anyone been in my office this morning?"

She tugged at the waist-length braid draped over her left shoulder. "You," she answered. "And Mr. Ferrero."

My knuckles whitened as I clutched the chair.

Angela was not the brightest Smartie in the pack. But she was a good assistant. Kept my business life running smoothly and on time—too bad she didn't hire out for personal lives.

"Yes, I know that Mr. Ferrero and I have been in my office because I was in here at the time." My fingernails dug into the chair arm's padded leather strip. I peeled up three inches of stitching and chipped two nails before I realized what I was doing. "I mean before I arrived. Was anyone else in this office before I got in this morning?"

"N-not that I know of." Angela started backing away. She looked like she thought I was about to combust.

Maybe I was.

"Fine," I managed in a steady voice. "Never mind."

She turned and fled the room, closing the door behind her and leaving me alone with my empty drawer.

Trying to quell the surging panic, I grabbed my purse from beneath the desk and dug around for a treat. Any treat. A half-sucked Lifesaver. A dinner mint. A caramel wrapper with a tiny blob stuck to the corner.

Nothing.

Not even a lone Nerd rolling around the dust and lint gathered in the bottom of my bag.

How had I left home without a single piece of candy?

Leaping from my chair, I pressed the intercom button and announced, "I have to go out for a minute. Please hold my calls."

Angela didn't respond from the other end of the phone line, but I didn't care. I dashed for the door. Just as I reached for the handle the door burst open.

Instantaneously, a dozen men dressed all in white began removing furniture from my office. Out went the armchairs and the side tables and the floor lamps before I could even voice a, "What on earth is going on here?"

Had I been fired? Had Jawbreaker found out that Phelps was a fraudulent boyfriend? Had there been an unwritten rule in the croquet tournament that the loser lost her job?

"Mr. Ferrero's orders," one of the men said. "Wants everything out but that desk and chair."

Then, with all the offending furniture gone, they threw plastic sheets over the desk, the built-in bookcases, and the entire floor. One of the men carried in two paint cans and set them in the middle of my dropclothed desk.

He popped off the lids to reveal brilliant fuchsia and tangerine. Three other men made their way around the room laying strips of blue painter's tape in parallel, vertical stripes on the bare walls.

Oh no, I thought, my beautiful khaki and cream walls. And then, before I completed the thought, the painters started spreading garish deep pink and light orange stripes up and down my lovely walls.

I couldn't watch. As I turned to leave, I ran into Jawbreaker in my doorway.

"Lydia, I'm glad I caught you," she oozed.

Great Gobstoppers, can't she say anything without simpering. "What can I do for you, Janice?"

"I need to get the files for the trunk show tour."

"Oh, I haven't gotten the PowerPoint done yet." Or even started for that matter. I had more pressing concerns at the moment.

She smiled like a cat came across an endless river of cream. "That's alright," she purred, "Kelly can do that."

No, Kelly can't do that. The West Coast Trunk Show was my project, my idea from the beginning, and no little KY tramp—fellow tiara hunter or not—was going to take it away.

Giving up on getting out of the room anytime soon, I walked back to my desk and plunked my purse on the plastic-covered desk. "Actually, I was going to start as soon as I get back. I'll have it to you before lunch."

She didn't look as taken aback as I'd hoped.

"You have too many other things on your plate right now, what with the Spring collection and all. Besides," she drawled, her voice positively reeking of unadulterated gloat, "that will fall under the purview of Kelly's new duties."

"New duties?" If not for the sheet plastic covering my chair I would have collapsed into the cushy softness.

"Ferrero's orders," Janice said.

I watched in horror as a gloating grin spread across her tanned, aging face. Where was candy when I needed it?

Wait, I thought I remembered seeing a stray Tootsie Roll in my file drawer last week. Dropping to my knees behind the desk, I flipped up the plastic and jerked open the drawer. I shifted files desperately and, finally finding the dust-covered treat, stood as I tore off the wrapper.

Jawbreaker continued as I chewed my way to emotional calm.

"He ordered that all your duties be divvied up while you're working with him." Her eyes fell on the trunk show file beneath the transparent plastic. She carefully lifted the cover and slipped the file out without displacing anything on the desk. "Kelly will be taking over most of your duties."

I nearly choked on my Tootsie Roll. "I-I-I—"

"Maybe you two should get together later so you can show her the ropes."

"I have to go."

I needed more than a Tootsie Roll. Maybe one of those giant Tootsie Logs. Or a case of them.

This was my nightmare come true. KY Kelly was getting my job, before I was even out. I had no delusions that she would treat this as a temporary situation. If she could find a way to snag my job permanently—whether by straightforward or ethically-fuzzy means—she would.

I dashed to the door, leaving a confused Jawbreaker at my desk amid the sheet plastic and rapidly forming pink and orange stripes. I made it to the doorway before remembering my purse. No way I could get my candy fix without my wallet. Unless I was ready to stoop to shoplifting. Though I actually considered that option for longer than was morally comfortable, I knew I had to go back to get my purse.

"Can't leave without my purse," I said through gritted teeth.

Jawbreaker looked confused.

Perfect, I could retrieve my purse and get the heck outta Dodge before anything worse could come out of her mouth.

I made it to the doorway again.

Only to run into Kelly.

"Lydia," she exclaimed in that annoyingly high-pitched, enthusiastic voice, "I'm so glad I caught you."

Caught was sure the right word for it.

I pasted on my best glad-to-see-you-but-I'd-rather-eat-broken-glass smile. "What can I do for you, Kelly?"

"I just wanted to tell you what a fantastic opportunity I think this is for both of us, you working so closely with Ferrero," she stepped forward and hugged me, "and me getting the chance to work with you."

"Yeah," I managed to lift my right hand to pat her on the back in the kind of hug guys give each other at football games, "just great."

"I was just saying you two should set up a meeting," Jawbreaker said. "Maybe you could have a standing appointment. At least until Kelly gets into the swing of things."

I extricated myself from Kelly's hug. I wanted to shout No, no, no! There will be no getting into the swing of anything by anyone but me.

But the opportunity with Ferrero was more important than protecting my job from devious KYs. I had to keep telling myself that. Reminding myself. Because if this worked out, I could drop the number-crunching job and focus on my designs. If I decided that's what I want to do.

I had time to make that decision as long as the choice wasn't taken out of my hands.

So, for now, I just smiled and nodded and pretended like the last thing I wanted to do was help Kelly learn how to do my job.

"Sounds great." I inclined my head to the door. "Gotta run now. We can talk when I get back."

This time I made it into the hallway.

"Oh Lydia," Kelly called after me, "did Gavin get his keys?"

I turned back, beginning to think I would never get to the deli around the corner before I went into candy-withdrawal. "What keys?"

"The spare set in your desk drawer," she said. "I let him into your office to get them this morning when he dropped me off."

My jaw locked. I spread my lips in a weak facsimile of smile. "Yes." That son of a sweet tooth. "I think he did."

The world around me faded away and I saw a red-hazed image of Gavin smirking arrogantly as he scooped all the candy out of my drawer into his briefcase. My fingers curled in anticipation of choking the life out of him.

How dare he? Did he have any idea what he had done? Who was I kidding? The bastard knew exactly what he had done. He knew what that candy meant to me. He had done this deliberately.

Well, if he knew my weakness, then I certainly knew his.

My mechanical grin faltered. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go take care of something."

Jawbreaker and Kelly looked nervous. Very nervous.

And they should be.

Because not only had Gavin not been in my office to retrieve his spare keys this morning, but he had never actually gotten around to getting them back from me at all. One of the many things we had left undone.

As soon as I made a quick stop by the deli for saccharine reinforcements, I would make good use of that extra key on my Tiffany key fob.

---

The doorman in Gavin's Central Park West building didn't even blink as I crossed the lobby and waved to him like I belonged there. I guessed in this part of New York society, girlfriends came and went and came back again often enough.

But I had a feeling he would catch hell later today for letting me in.

As I waited for the elevator to drop me at the penthouse, I pictured the object of my quest. The one thing Gavin cared about more than anything else. Even more than himself—shocking.

The doors slid open and I stepped onto the marble floor. For the first time in two years, I faced the giant oil portrait of Gavin. Hung directly opposite the elevator doors so that everyone entering the apartment had to see the image of him in front of the stock exchange.

When we were going out I thought this was a symbol of his self-confidence.

Now I knew it was ego.

I rolled my eyes and headed down the hall to the left, toward the living areas.

The living room, a palette of mousse-y brown and modern black, had once seemed so sophisticated to me. Now it was cold. A room without any expression of the personality of the person living there. A room only an interior designer could love.

Black leather and taupe suede covered every piece of furniture, even the mantle and the coffee table. A zebra-print rug covered half the floor, giving a safari feel to the room.

I shuddered as I thought of the countless romantic hours we'd spent on that rug. I remembered one night in particular. The night he'd turned on the gas fireplace, popped a bottle of champagne, and asked me to marry him.

And the worst part of the memory was that I'd said yes.

How could I have been such a naïve fool only three years ago?

Shaking off the memories, I kept on walking into the office. Into the heart of the apartment.

Where the rest of the rooms bore the high-concept mark of a pricey decorator, this room was all Gavin. Custom bookshelves lined every inch of wall space, and every shelf was full of books on every subject. Philosophy, history, ecology, the mating habits of Sub-Saharan scorpions. Gavin was a firm believer in the theory that the more you knew about the world, the easier it would be to succeed in it.

Piles of books filled the floor and covered his antique desk—rumored to have belonged to a Rockefeller.

And next to the desk, in a glass case set atop a marble pedestal, was my quarry.

I hurried to the desk and pulled out the top drawer on the right. Feeling the bottom, I found the piece of cold metal taped to the rough plywood.

"Ah ha!"

I spotted a legal pad on top of a pile of books on the history of New York. Folding back several sheets of Gavin's scribbling notes, I plucked the pen from the desk set and composed my note.

Your baby is safe. For now.

If you ever want to see it again, return the candy.

I have a shredder and I'm not afraid to use it.

— L

With two twists of the key I opened the glass lid, replaced the book with my ransom note, and re-locked the case. I had just slipped the book into my purse when I heard the elevator ding.

"I just have to grab my notes," Gavin told someone in the front hall. "They're in my study."

Holy Hot Tamales!

Making sure everything looked just as I'd found it—except for the missing book, of course—I headed out the back door of the study just as footsteps sounded in the living room.

As I tip-toed along the back hall, destined for the second exit in the kitchen, I heard him explode.

"Lydia!"

Apparently he found the empty case.

I moved a little faster.

I had just reached the kitchen when my phone rang.

Lollipop, lollipop, ooh lolli-lolli-lolli-lollipop.

Maybe I could just ignore it. I hit end and proceeded to the kitchen.

Lollipop, lollipop, ooh lolli-lolli-lolli-lollipop.

I crossed the kitchen as I hit end again.

Just as I was about to release the hidden back door, I heard "Answer the phone, Lydia!" shouted down the hall.

Frozen, I looked at the door and at my phone. At the door. At my phone. Door. Phone. Door. Phone.

"Now!"

I hit send.

"Hello?" I thought I managed to sound like I didn't know who was on the other end of the phone.

"Take the book out of your purse."

"Gavin? How nice to hear from you." I inched toward the door.

"Take the book out of your purse," he repeated.

"Gee, you sound kind of upset." I reached for the release button hidden in the tiled wall. "Is something wrong?"

"Lydia..." His voice sounded more echo-y. Like he had moved into a more confined space. Like a hallway.

I pressed the secret tile and the door slid open before me. "What? Gavin I can barely hear you." I stepped into to the concrete stairway. "You're breaking up. Are you still with NationConnect wireless? I told you their service is terrible."

"If I walk into that kitchen and you're not there," he said, "you will not like the consequences. Do not leave this apartment with that book."

By this point I was bounding down the stairs two at a time, certain that at any second he would appear above and leap over the rail to land right in front of me.

The building had twelve floors, and of course Gavin had to have the penthouse. As I reached the seventh floor, I said in as blonde a voice as I could muster, "Book? What book? You know I don't read books."

"This isn't funny."

His voice dropped to that next octave that meant he was getting really, really angry.

Good. Because I was really, really angry, too.

"Did you just call me honey?" Fourth floor. I was almost free. "That's pretty inappropriate now that we're not going out anymore. What would Kelly think?"

I clicked the phone off, concentrating on my escape.

Second floor. One more and I was home free, out the emergency exit into the back alley that lead down the block and out onto 74th Street.

Just as I reached the exit, a booming voice echoed down from above. "Bring. Back. That. Book!"

In a fit of feistiness that surprised me, I shouted back, "Give. Back. My. Candy!" and escaped out into the morning air.

Last Minute Costume: Land Lily

Yesterday I told you how to pull together a last minute costume as Phoebe from Oh. My. Gods. and today I'm back with another. This one is more suitable for a warmer climate, but if you're staying inside or have the constitution of polar bear, it might be perfect.

Land living Lily from Forgive My Fins

The costume is simple:

• bright and cheery top
• bright and cheery skirt
• bright and cheery flip-flops

Or, if you'd rather go a different way with land living Lily try this:

• tankini swim top
• get some fabulous mermaid scale fabric (here) and make yourself a cute pair of finkini shorts

Complete your Lily costume with these fun accessories:

• lip gloss
• fun dangly earrings
• lime green toenail polish

Here's a fun Polyvore collage of Lily's land style.



Make sure you hair is extra frizzy and write I ♥ Brody on the back of your hand. Don't forget to end (or begin) your night with a long soak in a hot bath full of yummy smelling bath salts.

Hugs,
TLC

Last Minute Costume: Runner Phoebe

Did you get invited to a last minute costume party with no costume to wear? Or maybe you've put it off until the last minute and there's nothing left to choose? Never fear! I've got a super simple costume you can pull together with clothes you probably have in your closet.

Cross-country-running Phoebe from Oh. My. Gods.

The costume is simple:

• athletic shorts or sweat pants
• slogan t-shirt (you could paint on your own slogan)
• hoodie sweatshirt, if it's chilly
• athletic shoes

If you want to go the extra distance (insert canned laughter here) with some accessories, you might try:

• sport watch
• bottle of Gatorade
• anything with a wing on it

For all you visual learners, here's a Polyvore collage I made of Phoebe's running uniform.



Easiest costume ever, right? And if you decide to be runner Phoebe for Halloween, pleeaasse send me pics of you in costume!

Hugs,
TLC

Buzzing About Scariness

It's Halloween week over on Books, Boys, Buzz... and I'm talking about how I scare myself silly. (Hint: It's not by watching scary movies.)

Hugs,
TLC

A Very Vegan Halloween

Since it's not only Go Vegan Week but also Halloween week (two of my favorite things rolled into one) I started thinking about vegan candy. A quick internet search led me to this (long and delicious) list on PETA's website. The following candies are all vegan approved for your Halloween pleasure. Yum!

• Airheads taffy
• Atkins peanut butter bars
• Blow Pops
• Brach’s Cinnamon Hard Candy
• Charms lollipops
• Chick-o-Sticks
• Cracker Jack
• Cry Babies
• Dem Bones
• Dots
• Dum-Dums
• Fireballs
• Goldenberg's Peanut Chews
• Hubba Bubba bubblegum
• Jolly Ranchers (lollipops and hard candy)
• Jujubees
• Jujyfruits
• Lemonheads
• Mambas
• Mary Janes (regular and peanut butter kisses)
• Now and Later
• Pez
• Ring Pop lollipops
• Smarties (U.S. Brand)
• Sour Patch Kids
• Super Bubble
• Swedish Fish
• Sweet Tarts
• Tropical Source mini chocolate bags
• Twizzlers
• Zotz

We all know there's a candy-eating hierarchy. My top three would be: Smarties, Dum-Dums, and Fireballs. Which ones would you eat first?

Hugs,
TLC

World Go Vegan Week

Have you ever thought about going vegan? Maybe you're already a vegetarian and you want to take that next step? Or you're a full-fledged meat eater who thinks it's time for a change? Or maybe you never even thought about it before. But in any case, if you're going to give vegan a try, then this is the week to do it because it's World Go Vegan Week!

From October 24-31, people around the world will (hopefully) be trying out a vegan lifestyle. And you can be one of them! To get some ideas on how to go vegan, check out the PETA's Vegetarian Starter Kit (which has lots of great tips for leaving meat behind) or the official World Go Vegan Days site.

Worried that going vegan means dull, flavorless rabbit food? Think again! Check out these awesome resources for amazingly delicious vegan fare:

• Chef Chloe
• Healthy. Happy. Life.
• vegalicious
• Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World
• Veganomicon

Trust me, you won't lack for tasty food. And If you decide to go vegan, you'll be in some really awesome company. Check out these famous vegans:

• Casey Affleck
• Ellen DeGeneres
• Emily Deschanel
• Daryl Hannah
• Woody Harrelson
• Jared Leto
• Jason Mraz
• Natalie Portman
• Alicia Silverstone
• Liv Tyler
• Alice Walker

And, of course, yours truly.

So, what do you think? Are you ready to Go Vegan this week?

Hugs,
TLC

PS. If you just want to give it a try, seven days is not a huge commitment. I promise not to think less of you if it doesn't stick this time.

Steaming About Mer Halloween

The Age of Steam is having an author invasion, and it's kicking off today with yours truly. Pop over to read all about Halloween in the mer world and for a chance to win a signed copy of Forgive My Fins.

Hugs,
TLC

Eye Candy: Chapter Eight

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7.)

Q: What did the cat do when his tail fell off?
A: He went to the re-tail store.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #124

Rather than sit through the tedious Sunday morning brunch—and end up driving back in late afternoon traffic with the rest of the weekend suburbanites—Phelps and I headed back to Manhattan first thing in the morning. He seemed to have gotten over whatever I said to set him off the night before and I was over my momentary fit of jealousy. The three hour drive passed quickly in pleasant conversation. When I pulled up in front of the Lower East Side tenement Phelps called home I felt like we had only just left Southampton.

He bounded from the car, grabbing his duffel from the back seat, and leaned back in the open window.

"You promise you'll call," he joked.

I smiled. "I think we have drinks scheduled Wednesday night at the Watering Hole."

"I'm there," he said, stepping back onto the sidewalk and shrugging the duffel onto his shoulder. "And Lydia—" He ducked down to peer in at me. "—I had a lot of fun this weekend."

"Me too," I replied. Yeah, me too.

With a sigh I waved and pulled out into the traffic on Avenue C. Who'd have thought I'd have so much fun with such an overbearing, arrogant underwear model?

Fiona. That's who.

I grabbed my cell phone, dangling from the charger cable connecting it to the dash, and punched her speed dial. She picked up on the fourth ring, sounding groggy and gravelly. "Herro?"

And masculine.

"Fiona?"

"Jacque," the man on her phone corrected. "Hold on."

There was the sound of rustling sheets and a muffled "phone call" before Fiona got on the line. "Who is it?"

"Who's Jacque?"

The other end of the phone sniffed and requested a cup of coffee. Strong coffee. "Hey Lyd. How was the Sailing Saga?"

"Summer Sail Away," I corrected automatically. "It was actually pretty fun."

"Good. Mmmm," she moaned as her cup of coffee presumably arrived. After a very loud gulp, she said, "Phelps is hot, no?"

That sounded an awful lot like a dangerously sticky question. I deftly evaded answering. "Wanna meet for lunch?"

"Lunch, my God, what time is it?" Fiona has never been much of a morning person. More like an after-midnight person. "It's only 11:30. Why are you calling me so early?"

"I just got into town." I merged my baby onto Broadway and continued south. "I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Get dressed. Bring Jacque if you like."

"No thanks," she grumbled. Fiona's love life is like a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans—one night she might get Soap, the next Earwax, and the next Grass. But she kept trying them, one by one, hoping to fine that elusive Strawberries and Cream.

Clearly Jacque was something foul.

"Or don't. But be ready or I'm coming up and dragging you out."

"When'd you get so pushy," Fiona whined.

"I've always been pushy. I hide it well." Steering my way around City Hall Park, I made for the Brooklyn Bridge. "If you're not ready, I'm inviting Jacque to the Sweet Spot on Friday."

"God, I'll be ready already."

As she hung up her phone, she muttered something like "slave driver." But I knew she would be waiting on the sidewalk when I arrived. I'd bet my entire collection of Conversation Hearts.

---

Fiona jerked open the door and dove into my car before I could pull to a full stop.

"Drive," she demanded. "Just drive before he tries to follow us."

"That bad?"

She looked at me and rolled her eyes in a "you have no idea" gesture. "Carmella's. I need a pitcher of Bloody Maries."

I did so without question. With my calling and rousting her from bed before noon and forcing her to contend with nightmare Jacque so early, she was probably at her breaking point. One more tremor and the whole thing would blow.

As we wound our way through construction-heavy streets, I allowed her to sit in disgruntled silence behind the protective shield of her mirrored Oakley sunglasses.

Not until we were safely seated with a Bloody Mary in her hands and a Mimosa in mine, did conversation begin.

"The weekend," she grunted between gulps. "Details. Spill."

"Phelps is... something different."

"Shook your foundations?"

"Not exact—" I stopped as her eyebrow shot up from behind her sunglasses. "Alright, yes. He rocked my world—that what you wanted to hear?"

Fiona, ignoring my concession, waved the waitress over to order another drink.

Well, if she saw going to act so smug about her matchmaking, she wasn't going to get any details from me.

"I have some fantastic news," I squealed, deftly changing the subject. "Ferrero is going to use my jewelry in the Spring collection."

"That's fantastic," she exclaimed as she whipped off her sunglasses. "What's the catch?"

"The catch?" I echoed.

"The catch." Her dark brown eyes bored into me with the intensity of all her Italian ancestors. "The hook. The price. The big 'but' at the end of the sentence."

"Not really a catch," I explained. "More like a mutual exchange."

"Oh God, not of body fluids?"

"No! Of course not." Sweet Saltwater Taffy, where did Fiona come up with these things? Her mind resided permanently in the gutter. "He wants me to be his muse. His muse. That's all."

She scowled, as if weighing the pros and cons of such a situation before making her assessment.

"Just so long as his paws stay on the right side of the sketchpad." Then she smiled. "This is a great opportunity for you. Hey, we could probably get you some covers."

Our waitress arrived with Fi's third Bloody Mary—hair of the dog and all that—and our lunches. Fiona drooled hungrily over her stack of butter-slathered pancakes. She is one of this I-can-eat-anything-and-still-look-like-a-supermodel women—even violently hungover she looked runway-worthy in her black sleeveless turtleneck, denim micro-mini, and knee-high leopard print boots. Me, I had to balance my candy-rich diet with a carb-free fruit and cheese plate. After two days of heavy gourmet meals, I'll have to hit the gym for two sessions a day for a week.

And I would still take a pass on her magazine offer.

"Keep me off the magazines, thank you very much."

She cut off a giant forkful of pancake and shoveled it into her mouth. "Think of the publicity for your jewelry," she said around the mouthful of syrupy fluff. Waving her fork across the table in recreation of a headline, she added, "The new face of Ferrero: LIV Jewelry creator Lydia Ilene Vanderwalk."

Oh no, I was beginning to see the possibilities in this grand scheme, too. But first I had to see the Phelps plan to fruition.

"We can talk about this when it become more of a done deal." And how better to distract her attention than with juicy news. "Guess who I was paired with for the croquet tournament."

"You had a croquet tournament?" She washed down the pancakes with a generous gulp of Bloody Mary. "What kind of stiff hosts a party with a croquet tourney?"

"Jawbreaker." But Fiona has latched onto the wrong detail. "And she paired me with Gavin."

"That witch."

"That was my initial reaction, too. But," and I really had to think long and hard before admitting this, "it wasn't that bad."

Of all the scary things that had happened over the weekend, that had to be the most unsettling. Gavin and I working as a team. Something, in retrospect, we had never done as a couple. It was always him and me. Or him versus me. No matter my achievement, he had to top it with one of his own. If I got a 3% raise, he got a 5% raise. If I got a one-line quote in InStyle, he got a full interview in Money. Nothing I ever did was good enough to top his latest achievement. And the last thing I want in a relationship is constant competition. I get enough of that at work.

So it was startling that Gavin and I worked together as croquet partners. He wasn't trying to top my shots, he was trying to top Phelps.

And, much to my amazement and—to some degree—horror, it felt kind of nice.

Not that I was about to admit that to anyone. I was barely able to admit it to myself.

Besides, this time Fiona latched onto the right detail. "Then who played with Phelps?"

I managed not to roll my eyes as I said, "Kelly."

"Hell, I wouldn't know who to cheer against." She chewed and swallowed the last of her pancakes and moved on to the untouched grapes on my plate. "Gavin or her. Equally deserving of my booing."

"We were tied going into the final wicket, but Kelly knocked our ball into the bushes." That still grated, even though I would have done the same. "She and Phelps won a trip to Italy for fashion week."

"Together!" Fiona spit a half-chewed grape onto her plate. "Of all the devious, underhanded—"

"Not necessarily together," I soothed. "There were four sets of tickets. They can each take someone."

Fiona grinned. That self-satisfied, troublemaking grin that made me understand why she and Phelps got along so well. And confirmed my suspicion that her assurance that Phelps was pure eye candy was downright manipulation.

She could be a calculating matchmaker when the mood stuck.

"You and Phelps in the most romantic country on earth? Sounds like the perfect recipe for love."

I threw a grape at her, nailing her square between the eyes. "He's not taking me. Why would he?"

Fiona popped the grape into her smiling mouth. "We'll see about that. I'll just have a talk with our young man..."

I forked a bite of triple-crème brie and savored the smooth flavor. Personal experience dictates that ignoring Fiona is the best course of action. Ignoring and distracting.

"So, Fiona. Tell me about Jacque."

"Fair enough."

And we spent the rest of lunch in the blissful absence of conversations about men. Hired or otherwise.

---

When I got home I made the mistake of checking my voicemail. One message from Bethany. Two from Dad. Sixteen from Mom.

They knew I was going away for the weekend, I swear I told them ten times, but when I called home the first thing I heard was, "Where have you been!"

"In Southampton." I rolled my suitcase into the bedroom and started mindlessly unpacking. "Did you need something?"

After setting two piles of folded clothes onto of the silver-gray silk duvet, I sorted into "Hang Up" and "To Cleaners" piles.

"The sailboat arrives next weekend," Mom said. "We're having a Bon Voyage get together with our friends and neighbors and wanted to make sure you can come."

"Of course I can come," I answered as I slipped one pile into the drycleaners bag. "What day and time?"

"Saturday at six."

One by one I hung up my dresses and slacks on matching wooden hangers. "Need me to bring anything?"

"You could bring one of your friends..." she said with a deliberately pregnant pause. "Or a boy. A boy friend. A boyfriend. Unless..."

I sighed at my mom's version of subtle manipulation. Her "unless" signaled something as subtle as Fiona's taste in fashion. As I placed my shoes back in their labeled homes in the wall of plastic shoe drawers in my closet, I took a deep breath.

"...you want me to introduce you to Barbara Davenport's son. He's a doctor."

Like that would cure all my relationship ills. Maybe if he was a therapist. Or a candy manufacturer. Now that'd be something.

"No thanks," I declined politely.

"A radiologist," she persisted. "Top of his class at Harvard Medical School. He works at a private hospital in—"

"Really, Mom, I'm not interested."

Grabbing my toiletries bag I headed for the bathroom and unpacked an endless array of small bottles and Prada travel treatments. As I looked at the collection of travel-sized products in my bottom drawer, a wanderlust longing hit me. It had been over three years since I'd been out of the country. And that had been a one-nighter in Paris to visit Gavin on a business trip.

One night in the city of lights just didn't count.

Suddenly, I really wanted that trip to Milan. Maybe I would go anyway. On my own. Turn it into a real vacation.

"He lives in the city. Not far from you." Mom's sales pitch interrupted my dreams of Italy. "He knits sweaters. For cats. Isn't that darling?"

L-O-S-E-R. Mom was really scraping the barrel with this one. She must have been getting desperate to get me hitched before they flee the hemisphere. Definitely stemming from the generation that didn't believe a woman could take care of herself.

"I'll just call Dustin and tell him you'll—"

"No!" If I didn't stop her now, she'd have the wedding planned and pack us onto the sailboat for the honeymoon. "I'll bring a guy, okay?"

The shocked silence from the other end of the phone was a little disconcerting. I mean it's not like I never have dates. Maybe since Gavin there's been a little lag, but— who am I kidding? Phelps was the first thing resembling a date I'd had in two years.

"Oh," she finally managed. "Okay."

If he could provide enough diversionary tactics to see my way through Mom's matchmaking until she and Dad sailed into the sunset, he was worth every penny.

Mental Post-it: Call Phelps Monday morning.

---

I sat down at my perfectly clean desk Monday morning, ready to tackle my immense To Do list. I had already called to book Phelps for Saturday night. If only all my tasks would prove that easy.

Pulling the neat stack of Monday items from my top desk drawer, I started to dig my way through.

Ferrero popped in at 9:02.

"Chica," he said in his increasingly fake Italian accent and I was certain he used the endearment because he still couldn't remember my name, "how is my beautiful muse?"

"Just muse-y," I replied with more cheek than necessary.

"Wonderful, wonderful." He looked around my office, a room he had never before visited, and nodded enthusiastically at the mahogany bookcases, tan canvas and leather armchairs, and Lempicka reproductions. "Pristine, elegant, sophisticated. Just like you."

"Thank you." Why, I wondered, was Ferrero eyeing my office like I eyed the candy aisle at D'Agnostino.

"This room is the perfect atmosphere." He scuffed his Gucci oxford along the Calvin Klein carpet with reverence. "So soothing. Calming."

Ferrero lowered into the armchair on the left and looked around the room, as if gauging the view from the seat. He then stood, moved to the chair on the right, and did the same thing.

Artists, I thought, shrugged, and went back to the pile.

First task: Call Saks Fifth Avenue in San Diego to arrange preparations for trunk show.

Well, I couldn't very easily—or politely—make a business call with Ferrero in the room, so I moved that note to the bottom of the pile.

Second task: Pull up numbers for second quarter sales of men's accessories.

Ugh. My brain was not alert enough to compute a stream of numbers. That just might put me to sleep. Slipped that one to the bottom, too.

I looked up to find Ferrero dragging the side table next to the door toward the armchairs. He tugged it into place between the two and then sat in the chair on the right and reevaluated.

He smiled to himself and I went back to the pile.

Third task: Create PowerPoint presentation on implications of new advertising campaign for three o'clock meeting.

Okay, this I could do.

But I would need reinforcement.

I clicked open PowerPoint on the computer—ignoring the urge to check my email with willpower of steel—and pulled open my lower left drawer.

My gasp could be heard for a three block radius.

"What is it, cherie?" Ferrero asked, slipping now into pseudo-French, and looking up from rearranging a shelf of photographs.

I could only shake my head in shock, but I did manage to close my mouth. He took this as a sign that all was well. "This room will be perfect, I have decided."

"W-what?" I stammered, dragging my gaze away from the drawer. "What h-have you decided?"

My whole body started to shake, like after a really hard yoga class when my muscles just gave up any pretense of working in their state of utter exhaustion. Like after I downed a whole 10-pack of Pixie Stix in ten minutes and my blood turned to sugar water.

I grabbed the arms of my chair to hide the quivers.

"This will be my creative center," he decreed. "The Spring Collection will be designed in this room. I shall have Antoine move my things in here this afternoon."

With a flourish and a swirl of his knee-length lilac kaftan, Ferrero exited my office.

I knew he had just announced he would be taking over my office, my personal space, for the duration of the upcoming season design, but my brain could not begin to process the loss. Instead, my wide-eyed gaze dropped back to the open drawer.

For several long minutes—until my assistant came in with a peppermint Frappuccino and shook me out of the trance—I just stared. Unseeing. At the empty drawer.

All my candy was gone.

Buzzing About Beats

We're celebrating Teen Read Week over on Books, Boys, Buzz... and today I'm talking about this year's theme: Books with Beat @ your library®

Hugs,
TLC

My Horoscope is (Partly) Wrong

Here is my horoscope from Astrology.com today:

Put a hold on any new projects or plans for today -- you need to clean up your old business first! Once you're sure it's all taken care of, you can move on, though you may want to take a break first.

Now, I appreciate that the universe understands I turned in my revision late last night (note the word count tracker to the right) and that I have a lot of clean up to do around the house (can you say laundry and dishes?) but ... I have no time to put new projects on hold right now. Secret Project IW is not going to write itself, you know.

So, for today, I'll have to say thanks, but no thanks to the universe.

Maybe next time.

Hugs,
TLC

Eye Candy: Chapter Seven

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.)

Q: What do you call a hotdog in a bun?
A: An in betweenie weenie.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #53

At 4:32 p.m. I set Jawbreaker's pug loose on the beach.

I didn't mean to. Really. It was an entirely accidental occurrence. Mostly.

When I came downstairs after the potato dirt shower, the little monst— um, darling started nipping at my feet. My fabulous new pair of grass green Sigerson Morrison slides with the cute flower cut-outs. The heels now bear several indentations that look remarkably like canine bites.

Where the little mon— um, darling had been until that point I had no idea. He had probably been sequestered in a bedroom or something. Or mingling along with the guests and was only now pestering me because Jawbreaker had given him the attack command.

I should have known there was a reason the French doors leading onto the deck were no longer wide open. I should have thought it at least a little odd.

But no, I just flung open the door, hoping to escape onto the deck and close the little mon— oh, okay, he was a monster, off in the house, safely insinuating a pane of hurricane glass between him and my Sigersons.

Then I heard the scream.

"Miissterr Puuggssleey!!!" Jawbreaker wailed as the little monster—now the little escapee—squeezed through the closing door and raced across the teak decking as fast as his stunted little legs could carry him.

Quite fast, surprisingly enough.

"What have you done?" Jawbreaker cried as she reached my side, staring plaintively after the fast disappearing sight of Mr. Pugsley—no really, that's his real name—stirring up sand behind him as he made for the surf.

"I'm sorry, Janice. I had no idea he could run like that."

She glared at me like I had just eaten the last of a theater-sized box of Junior Mints before the previews even started.

"You did th-that on p-purpose."

Oh no, those looked suspiciously like tears. I didn't know heartless corporate robots could cry. I guess when their Mr. Pugsley just beat feet for the beach, all stereotypical bets are off.

Before I could stop myself—or realize what I was doing, for that matter—I put my arms around her shoulders.

"Don't worry," I soothed, "we'll get him back."

"Last time he didn't come home for three days." She sobbed and pressed her face into my offered shoulder.

I felt her tears wetting my second-of-the-day Lilly Pulitzer.

Didn't she know her mascara would wind up in one giant smudge beneath her eyes? I guess if a gal has never cried before, she can't know the kind of havoc it would wreak on her makeup.

Gingerly patting her back, I looked desperately around the room for any sign of reprieve. I found Phelps, heading our direction with that confident grin on his handsome face.

"Which way did he head?" Phelps asked.

"West," I answered, relieved to have the help. "Toward the city."

"L-last time," Jawbreaker lifted her head and sniffled, "the Monteforts said he came and made puppy love with their Shitzhu." She wiped at her tears, smearing the pool of mascara out to her temples in a kohl-black sweep. "Their house is three properties down."

Phelps smoothed a reassuring hand over her platinum hair—like a father soothing an upset child. "I'll get him back Janice." He turned and looked around the room of stunned guests. "I bet Fairchild will even help me, won't you?"

Gavin, face erupting in red splotches, was rendered speechless for the second time in a single day. Apparently unable to come up with an adequate excuse, he followed Phelps out the French doors and headed onto the beach. Probably cursing every grain of sand that scuffed his Bruno Magli loafers.

Those were so OJ Simpson, anyway.

If not for my weeping boss at my side, I might have gloated. Yet a tiny little kernel of something deep inside my brain poked me with a feeling much like guilt.

Double Bubble Damn. Now I was going to have to be nice to Jawbreaker for the rest of the weekend.

---

Phelps and a very bedraggled Gavin returned with a grinning and well-satisfied Mr. Pugsley just in time for the scheduled lawn croquet tournament.

The front lawn had been set with a dozen different croquet courses, differentiated by variously colored wickets. Each guest was assigned a course color and a mallet color. Guests with matching colors were teammates.

My card read: Green Course, Pink Mallet.

I never knew there was a pink mallet in croquet, but I was content because this color scheme coordinated nicely with my equally pink-and-green Lilly Pulitzer—this one decorated with charming pink elephants on grass green, um, grass.

Spying a field of green wickets, I headed that direction as Phelps headed for Yellow Course, Blue Mallet. Noticeably on the opposite side of the lawn.

A servant clad in white tie formals stood in attendance at the mallet stand, ready to quell any color conflicts, I assumed. I handed him my card as I watched Phelps receive his blue mallet. Why was I not surprised when Kelly bounded to his side, cheerfully waving her card that presumably also sported Yellow Course, Blue Mallet?

I briefly wondered how far a croquet ball could fly given enough motivated force. Then my brain jumped to a realization. If Kelly were paired with Phelps, then who—

"The gentleman already has the pink mallet, ma'am."

Following the servant's extended arm, I turned to see Gavin palming the pink mallet, slapping it against his Lacoste-clad thigh.

"Hello, Lydia."

Leave it to Gavin to try and single-handedly bring back the alligator shirt.

"Gavin," I answered in acknowledgement.

All guilt-induced sympathy for Jawbreaker and the plight of the lost-but-now-returned pug evaporated. Unlike Mr. Pugsley's purely accidental release—I mentally retracted any confession of knowledgeable intent—this was entirely deliberate. Malice aforethought.

"I hope my being here isn't making you uncomfortable." He even had the gumption to look contrite.

"Why should I be uncomfortable?"

My mind took a detour, deciding against having the highly overrated "let's-put-this-behind-us-and-still-be-friends" conversation. Instead, I focused every ounce of my attention on the idea that winning this tournament would be a terrific means of making up for this malicious match.

Beat Jawbreaker and the KYs and redeem some measure of pride. If Gavin managed to benefit from my competitive determination, then I'd just have to take the bad with the good.

I eyed the mallet hungrily and tried to grab it from his hands.

"Don't be like this, Lydia." Gavin stepped back, holding the mallet securely behind his back. "We can be civilized."

"What is civilized about a man boinking his already-married secretary two weeks before his own wedding?" I said. On the inside. On the outside, I said, "I don't want to talk about this. Just play the game."

A shrill whistle sounded and a voice over loudspeaker commanded that the games should begin.

As I stalked past him toward the first green wicket, I grabbed the mallet from his fist. And smacked the head into my palm for maximum effect.

My game had already begun.

---

After the first round of croquet, the wining teams from each of the six courses on the east lawn played a championship match, as did the wining teams on the west lawn. The three best teams from each of these matches came together to play a final on the white wicket course set up on the central lawn contained by the circular drive.

Among the final teams were Karyn and Kathryn, Jawbreaker and bottom feeder Brant, Kelly and Phelps, and myself and Gavin. Ferrero and his partner—some young metrosexual-looking hunk—also advanced, though from what I saw of their last game, they advanced because everyone kept granting Ferrero gimmes.

It pays to be the boss.

We all got to keep our balls. Even though two other pink teams made it to the final, ours had green stripes. The others also had stripes that matched their initial courses.

My adrenaline was pumping. Years of practice at the Westchester Country Club assured that my game was head on. And Gavin was much better on the other side of a croquet stake than he had ever been on the other side of an engagement ring.

We were going to win, I could feel it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jawbreaker called out, "before the championship match begins, you should know to the victors what spoils will go. Armando."

She motioned to an Italian-looking servant standing at the edge of the circle of guests. He made his way through the crowd and handed Jawbreaker a large white envelope with the Ferrero Couture logo embossed in gold.

"In this envelope are four first-class tickets to Milan, one-week for four at a five star hotel and four week-long, all-access passes to fashion week for the Fall season." She waved the envelope above her head and announced, "To the winners and their guests."

The crowd cheered and on cue an army of servants appeared carrying silver trays laden with glasses of white wine.

"I don't know about you," Gavin whispered conspiratorially, "but I could use a week in Italy."

As much as I wanted to disagree with everything out of the man's mouth—for reasons of morality—I had to concede that Italy sounded wonderful. And if Ferrero really did use my jewelry in the Spring collection, it would be beneficial to have the experience of a fashion week extravaganza before I was required to participate.

"Then let's win this thing."

I smiled—an actual, unforced, genuine smile—and we headed together to the first wicket.

The teams drew straws for order of play. Karyn drew the shortest straw and last start. Jawbreaker drew second to last and Ferrero third. Kelly squealed as she and Phelps drew the longest straw. Looking at the straw in my hand I realized we would play second, directly after Phelps and Kelly.

Gavin realized this, too.

"Good," he said in their direction, "after you go, we can show everyone how the game is really played."

"Don't let your talk get bigger than your game, Fairchild," Phelps replied with that arrogant grin.

"A whisper would be bigger than your game, Elliot."

Oh no, the pissing contest began. I took two steps away in an act of self-preservation.

"Care to wager on that?" Phelps threw back.

A servant ushered us out of the playing field so the match could begin.

Gavin laughed as he avoided being herded to the sidelines. "I wouldn't want to take advantage of your misplaced confidence."

"Stuff it and name your terms."

"Okay," Gavin said with the devious glint in his amber eyes that had earned him the nickname The Demon Banker of Wall Street, "loser has to..."

The terms of the bet were lost to my hearing as Gavin leaned in and whispered them for Phelps' ears only. Double Bubble Damn.

And if the answering gleam in Phelps' baby blues were any indication, the terms were mighty juicy.

That shrill whistle blew again, announcing the start of the match. Phelps grabbed the blue mallet from Kelly and dropped the yellow-striped blue ball at the starting stake

"You've got yourself a bet, Fairchild."

Phelps whacked the ball, sailing it perfectly between the uprights of the first wicket and into position for the second. Gavin's triumphant smile dimmed.

Well, I was not about to give up after one shot. Besides, we were playing alternate turns. Scoring a wicket did not earn a consecutive hit. No one could get very far ahead at any one time.

And I planned on keeping right up.

"Give me the ball," I demanded.

Gavin stared at me dumbly.

"The ball," I repeated, holding out my hand palm up for emphasis. He hesitated and I snatched the ball from his hand. "We're winning this trip to Italy," I said, "no matter what your stupid bet was."

For the first time in memory Gavin looked impressed. By me.

I wondered if that had been part of our problem—well, his problem really—that I stopped impressing him. Men get bored so easily, don't they?

Phelps interrupted my ponderings. "You going or not?"

I turned to him and smiled brightly. "Shut up, Sweet Tooth."

Setting my ball perfectly at the starting stake, I shimmied and aligned myself into perfect position before smoothly striking the wooden ball. Pink-and-green went rolling over the closely groomed lawn, through the wicket and into the blue-and-yellow ball. Knocking it several inches out of the path of the next wicket.

Gavin gloated. "Looks like you might be losing that bet, Elliot."

Now if he didn't hold up his end of the game, I would seriously reconsider my opinion on capitol punishment.

The other four teams played their turns, each pretty dismal after the first two shots. Ferrero managed to hit his black-striped pink ball into the driveway. And Jawbreaker's purple-and-red followed right behind.

Unfortunately, my need to kiss up to the boss was heavily outweighed by my need to win the trip. Other people clearly didn't have that problem.

After several rounds of play, we four were two wickets each from the finishing stake and the trash talk—if trash talk is even legal in croquet—had escalated to mountainous proportions. The other teams had actually given up, resigning themselves to shared last place and first dibs on the fresh round of wine.

"Why are you taking this competition so seriously?" Jawbreaker asked before downing an entire glass of Pinot Grigio in one gulp. "No matter who wins, all four of you will be going to Italy."

We turned to stare in unison.

"The glory," Gavin said.

"The bragging rights," Phelps added.

Kelly and I looked at each other, shrugged, and said, "The tiara."

Whoa was that just a shared moment? Between me and Kelly?

Maybe I needed a Pinot Grigio, too.

The men looked at us like we had Fun Dip for brains. "Tiara?" Phelps managed.

"Like in a beauty pageant," Kelly explained.

Still concerned about occupying the same planet as Kelly, but undeniably on the same wavelength, I added, "The queen gets the tiara."

Gavin frowned in obvious confusion. "But there's no tiara," he argued.

"Of course not." Kelly patted him on the arm. "Not a real one, anyway."

Phelps asked, "Is there another kind?"

"Symbolic." I steepled my hands over my head. "Imaginary."

The pair of them shook their heads at the inscrutable nature of women and went back to the game. Men could never be expected to understand the tiara concept.

All women live in silent and subtle pursuit of a tiara. Any tiara. That symbolic proof of one woman's triumph over another woman. Glittering evidence that, for one moment in time, in one arena, we were better than every other woman out there. For that brief instant we were Miss America or Princess Diana.

Some women take the tiara hunt literally, endeavoring to win a pageant crown or a princess' title. Others substitute the tiara for a glass-ceiling-shattering corporate helmet. Most settle for that miniature tiara: the diamond ring on the ring finger.

Only the most competitive among us settle for nothing less than every tiara available.

Kelly and I were two such women.

Shocked the living hot tamales out of me too.

So, as the men played on, we eyed each other warily, afraid of this new thread bonding us. When it came down to the last shot, two balls side by side and equally aligned for the perfect shot, Kelly stepped up to take her turn.

She had two choices. Shoot the wicket and win the game. Or. Knock our ball out of play.

Guess which shot she chose. No really, guess.

As I retrieved our ball from a very thorny bush I could almost see the glittering tiara hovering over her golden blonde head, glowing with the glory of my humiliation.

That was the problem with tiara-hunting. Sometimes you had to see another woman crowned.

---

Phelps handled the win gracefully.

If by gracefully you meant grabbed Kelly around the waist, spun her around like a cotton candy machine, and hollered at the top of his lungs, "Eat that, Fairchild!"

By the time we retired to our room at around three a.m. he had calmed down. Mostly.

"Did you see that last shot?" he called up from the floor. "Masterful I tell you, masterful."

I leaned over the side of the bed.

"I was there, remember?"

If I sounded bitter, it was only because I really wanted to win. Not because it seemed Kelly was everyone's golden child. Jawbreaker's favorite. Gavin's favorite. Now Phelps' favorite. No, that didn't bother me at all.

"Knocked your ball out of play like a real pro." He waved his hands around, presumably reenacting the path of the redirected ball.

"Yeah, she should go on the international croquet circuit." My humor level was at an all-time low. And I had other things on my mind. "We need to talk."

He lifted himself up on one elbow. "Sounds serious."

"Not really." I sighed, thinking over everything that had happened in the last few days. "I just need to know if you are still available for some upcoming business functions."

In the soft moonlight I saw him smile. Not that cocky, arrogant smile that sets my teeth on edge, but a genuine friendly smile.

"You asking me out on a date?"

"I guess," I replied. "What's the going per-date rate?"

He frowned and rose to a full sitting position. "What do you mean?"

"People will expect me to show up with you by my side. At least for now. I just want to know what each date will cost me. A date should run about two to three hours. There are a couple of cocktail parties that will probably be longer, but I figure we could come up with a set rate."

"Oh." Phelps laid back down and folded his arms behind his head. "I almost forgot I was being paid."

That threw me for a loop. He sounded almost wistful. Almost sad.

Great Gobstoppers, Lyd. Get a grip.

The man was only here because he was being paid. Why else would a wild adventurer with Hollywood looks spend time with a dull Westchester girl at an even duller Southampton party?

"Can we just wing it?" he asked, rolling away from the bed to lay on his side. "I'm too tired to do math right now."

"Sure."

I collapsed back onto the bed, feeling a little guilty for hogging the bed and for something else I couldn't quite name. At least I could do something about the bed. "Phelps—"

"Before I forget." He rolled off his makeshift bed and grabbed something from the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on the back of a chair. "Take this."

I leaned sideways and started to take it, before I realized what he offered me. "No, you earned the trip," I pushed the envelope back into his hand. "When the time comes take whoever you want. Consider it a bonus."

Snatching the envelope back, he shoved it back into the shirt pocket before dropping back onto his side.

Before I could even begin to apologize for whatever I had just done, he bit out, "Good night, Lydia."

Let me tell you, my dreams that night were not about a tubful of hot tamales.

Buzzing About Writing Process

All week we're talking writing tips at Books, Boys, Buzz... Today's my day and I'm talking about finding your writing process (or not).

Hugs,
TLC

Seattle Highlights

I never realized how flat and boring Oklahoma is (apologies, but really) until I returned after a long week in Seattle. Flat. And. Boring. One of the things that surprised me the most on my first visit to Seattle was how very hilly it is. It's like a forested San Francisco (aka the opposite of flat and boring). After than, pretty much anything in the middle of the country would be depressing.

So, in an effort to relive my trip as long as possible, I'm posting some fun highlights from the Emerald City. For you, yes, but also for me.

First, the most amazing thing happened on the flight from Dallas to Seattle: my hotel roomie Rosemary Clement-Moore was on the same exact flight! And we hadn't even planned it. We had both upgraded to first class (so luxe!) and it was a truly delightful trip. As soon as we had check in at the conference hotel, we headed into Seattle for some sightseeing. We made the rounds through the Pike Place market (and I had the most amazing vegan chowder) before taking a harbor cruise.

My obligatory self-portrait with Rosemary.

I have a serious things for boats and water (see: Fins, Forgive My) and we had a wonderful time. The weather was perfect, just a little cool and gorgeously sunny.

Leaving Seattle behind, for a little while.

That night I joined Rosemary for dinner with two of her friends (Kelli and Lance) and their friend (A'mee) for my first foray into Indian food. It was amazing, even if I had to ignore the massive amounts of butter involved. And, in a strange, small world kind of coincidence, Kelli works at Microsoft, right across the hall from my Buzz girl sister, Dona Sarkar-Mishra. Crazy!

Since a lot of my travels revolved around food (or the finding thereof) I'll tell you about another dinner I had on Saturday night. (I'll skip the details on the conference meals and you can thank me later.) I ventured out of the hotel to Purple to have dinner with the aforementioned Dona, writer pals Kelli (different one) Estes, Christina Arbini, and Pat White. I got a ride to the restaurant with the ever enviable Jane Porter, and her buds Megan Crane and Liza Palmer joined the party, too. (Let's just ignore the part where our food took forever--which apparently very unusual at Purple, because they comped our entire meal and if that happened all the time they'd totally be out of business.)

After the writers' conference, I headed into Seattle proper to stay with fellow Buzz girl, Heather Davis. Her apartment is perfectly located for sightseeing, branch office locating, and apartment hunting. I got to spend some serious quality time with Heather's cat, Harper, who immediately remembered the tuna I snuck her last time and kept buttering me up for more.

Roar, said the kitty cat.

Heather's apartment has a great view of the Space Needle, and (like many Seattle apartment buildings) has a nice rooftop patio complete with lounge chairs, barbecues, and spectacular views of the city, the sound, and the islands beyond. (Sadly, no sparkly vampires showed up because of the glorious sun that shone my entire trip.)

That's a mighty tall thing!

On the way to dinner my last night in town, Heather and I passed this very cool bottle cap mural of (we assume) Kurt Cobain. This reminds me of my first love affair with Seattle, during college when the grunge movement was at it's peak. I guess it was only a matter of time before I fell in love with that city again.

The king of grunge immortalized.

For my last dinner (for now) Heather and I met up with the adorable (your face is adorable) Liz Gallagher and the always together, recently promoted Buzz girl Dona at Plum Bistro, an all vegan restaurant. It was so nice not to have to think about anything other than what to order. (Btw, the Mac 'n' Yease, definitely!)

Heather, Liz, Dona and me in atmospheric lighting.

Obviously, I was sad to go. But Daisy and I will be returning soon and for good. We can't wait.*

Hugs,
TLC

* Daisy wanted me to add that she's a little nervous about the rain (she's not a fan of water) and the clouds (she kind of worships the sun) but I've promised her long walks on sunny days, so she's going to give it a shot.

Eye Candy: Chapter Six

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.)

Q: Why didn't the leopard go on vacation?
A: It couldn't find the right spot.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #19

I was sitting on the front porch—fidgeting, worrying, hoping—when the sightseeing caravan returned.

After changing into a bright Lilly Pulitzer sundress, with bright yellow lemons on a white background and matching lemon yellow piping, my brain had calmed enough to realize the opportunities abounding. Not only would I be working in presumably close proximity to Ferrero, leading to many fabulous opportunities for great impressions wherein he might actually remember my name, but my jewelry designs would be thrust center stage in the fashion world.

This was marketing no advertising dollars could buy.

An advantage the KYs could never hope to obtain and Jawbreaker could never hope to thwart.

Now all I had to do was convince Phelps to join in.

The shopping-weary sightseers climbed out of a trio of elegant black limos Jawbreaker had hired for the weekend. They were a ragged bunch of wrinkled polo shirts and sweat-smudged foundation—on both men and women.

Kelly and Gavin emerged first, arm in arm and smiling falsely at each other. A perfectly matched pair of fakes.

They slinked past me without so much as a sideways glance, which suited me just fine. I wondered if Kelly took potential alimony into account in her TIP calculation. For the first time, I actually felt sorry for Gavin. He didn't stand a chance.

Three dozen or so other sightseers drifted into the house, worn out from an exhausting two hours of shopping and riding around in air-conditioned limos.

The chauffeurs closed the doors after the last of the passengers disembarked.

I frowned.

Where was Phelps?

I watched blankly as the three black vehicles pulled away and headed down the driveway.

A faint buzzing sound rang in my ears.

I shook my head but it didn't go away. In fact, it got louder. And I realized it wasn't in my head at all. Squinting down the long drive, I saw a streak of bright yellow heading my direction.

I blinked, watching in horror as Phelps flew up the drive and skidded to a stop right in front of me on a Vespa.

"What," I bit out, carefully swallowing the squeaky voice threatening to burst forth, "is that?"

"Hey, it matches your dress."

"What," I repeated calmly despite the overwhelming urge to launch myself at him, fists swinging, "is that?"

He looked at me like I was stupid—like I was the one roaring around Southampton on a child's toy. "This is a scooter." He revved the tiny rubber band engine. "See, vvroom, vvroom. Wanna ride?"

"No!"

"Come on," he goaded. "You know you want to."

"No, I don't." All I wanted to do was go up to my room—our room—and hide beneath the covers for the rest of the weekend.

Clearly he did not understand the meaning of the word decorum. His brain must have been absent the day they taught that in modeling school.

Or any school.

I suddenly wondered what kind of education he had. Was he one of those wonder models discovered at fifteen and a high school drop out by sixteen?

For that matter, I wondered— "How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-seven."

Dear Mr. Goodbar, he was six years younger than me. I was robbing the proverbial cradle. Sort of.

At least I wasn't really dating him. That would be worse.

I groaned, wondering when I had begun resorting to rationalization to make everything seem okay.

Phelps climbed off the mini crotch rocket and took me by the shoulders, guiding me down the steps and into the driveway. "This opportunity won't come around every day, you know. I took the official Vespa training course in Italy. I'm a licensed scooter stunt driver." He climbed aboard and pulled me across his lap. "And she has to go back by five."

Before I could launch an argument, he started the engine and roared off toward the street.

I was a captive in his quest of adventure.

We sped through the narrow streets of Southampton. We spun doughnuts in the high school parking lot. We even raced long drives on the golf course, much to the dismay of the golfers and the groundskeeper.

And much to my surprise, I enjoyed every minute of it.

By the time we returned Daffy—so named because of her daffodil yellow paint job—to the rental place I was sad to see her go.

Mental Post-it: look into cost of buying and housing Vespa.

Wait, what was I thinking? I had my baby to feed and care for already. She would only be jealous of a younger, thinner sister stealing my attention.

But it sure would be fun to dash to work through the park on a cute little— No! No cute little anythings, and that's final.

"Ray says his brother can give us a ride."

"What?" I was so busy with my mental debate I didn't hear anything but the end of Phelps' comment.

"I said Ray, the scooter shop owner, says his brother can give us a lift back out to the mansion."

"Oh, okay," I said, not having any other options.

If I had known what that lift would consist of, I would have come up with some.

Ray-the-scooter-guy's bother drove a rickety old farm truck, the kind with two-by-fours nailed around the bed to hold in the piles of potatoes or apples or whatever they harvested in the far reaches of Long Island.

And the passenger seat was already occupied by a giant black and white Great Dane. I didn't think she would understand if I called shotgun.

So Phelps and I rode the five miles back to Jawbreaker's house on the tailgate of the farm truck. At least Rick, the brother, had a relatively clean blanket for me to sit on so my dress didn't suffer the effects of the dirty truck bed.

This was my punishment for even thinking about cheating on my baby.

---

"You look like a mess," Phelps observed.

Gee, like I expected to look like a Stepford Wife after a ride in a potato truck. I scowled as he lifted me down from the tailgate.

"You're no shining example yourself," I returned.

Though I had to admit, no man ever looked so good in a dirt-smudged black t-shirt with wavy black hair wind-tousled to an Elvis-worthy peak. He was gorgeous, no matter the clothing.

Except for that space suit I had picked him up in.

"We'd better clean up before dinner." And I still had to talk to him about Ferrero's proposal.

He grinned like a schoolboy. "I'll race ya!"

"No, thank you."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"Um... no."

"You turned down the Daffy ride at first, too." His eyes sparkled as he poked me in the arm. "And look how much fun that turned out to be."

"This isn't the sa—"

"Chicken?"

"No, I'm just too—"

"Chicken," he declared.

Planting my hands on my hips in what I hoped was a determined nature, I said, "I am not a chicken, I'm just—"

"Afraid you'll lose." He looked at me sympathetically. "You're probably right. Better not to be humiliated like that."

He turned and headed up the steps.

As his foot hit the top step, I blew past him, calling back over my shoulder, "Just waiting to take advantage of your arrogance."

When we hit the staircase in the east wing, he caught hold of my hem and tugged me back. He made it two steps before I grabbed his sneaker and pulled him to the ground. I scrambled past him, just lunging out of his grasp, and bolted down the hall to our room.

I stood outside our door, fingers curled around the doorknob, as he raced down the hall in my wake.

"Guess I get the shower first," I teased.

He grinned as he arrived and covered my hand with his own. "We could always share."

"In your dreams, Elliot," I said, feeling carefree.

I pushed open the door and preceded him into the room. Behind me, I swear he muttered, "Don't I know it."

---

The cool rush of the shower washed away the remains of the potato truck, leaving only the glaring unasked question. Would Phelps be willing to play the role of muse for Ferrero? And what would it cost me?

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, one fluffy white towel wrapped around my chest, the other vigorously rubbing the water from my short, dark blond locks, I was ready to ask him.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or some such rot.

"Phelps, I have a proposition for you," I began.

"Mmmm." Sitting in the chair in the corner, he looked up from the book he was reading. "I like the sound of that."

I rolled my eyes. "Not that kind of proposition, you Nutty Bar." Sitting on the bed, I finished toweling my hair and wrapped the towel around my head. "A bus—"

"How do women do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing with the towel." He motioned to my turbaned head. "No man alive can do that."

"Phelps, can you please listen—"

"No straight man, anyway."

"Phelps!" I hadn't meant to shout, but he had a way of stretching my patience like Tangy Taffy, until it spread so thin little holes appeared and grew until all that was left was a shredded lace of sticky candy.

"Can you please," I asked, calmly regaining my restraint, "listen to my proposition." When he looked ready to joke again about my choice of words, I added, "My business proposition."

Though he looked a little disappointed, he nodded.

"Are you familiar with the Ferrero menswear line?"

"I'm a professional model, babe, of course I know Ferrero Men. I think I have one of last season's shirts—the ones with all the heavy-duty zippers—from a shoot for Vanity Fair."

Ugh, I remembered those shirts. Not only were they ugly, but no man wearing one made it through airport security without a strip search. There had been a lot of store returns on that one.

"Right, well, Ferrero is apparently looking for a muse," I explained, wondering how on earth you ask someone to be a designer's inspiration. "He, um, asked me to be his muse for the couture collection, and—"

"His muse, huh," he interrupted. "The man has good taste."

I tried to fight my pleasure at the compliment. But it was no good. Any woman would be flattered to be asked to be a famous fashion designer's muse. And, try as I might to hide it, I was just as susceptible as the next woman.

"Yes, well, that's only half the bargain."

Phelps was beginning to look a little bored. I needed to get to the heart of the proposition.

"He apparently needs a special menswear muse, too."

He shrugged, clearly not getting my meaning.

"You," I blurted. "He wants you to be his muse."

"Me?" Phelps asked, incredulous.

For the first time in our twenty-four hours' acquaintance—and that was twenty-four solid hours with no potty breaks or anything—he sat speechless. He chewed on his generous lower lip, his dark brows lowered in thought.

He looked like he wanted to decline.

Like he was trying to find the right words to tell me to go piss off. No, no, no. I was not about to lose this opportunity.

"I'll pay you, of course," I rushed out, "for all the time spent as Ferrero's muse. I don't know how much time being a muse demands, but I'm sure we can work something out. We can sketch out a payment plan and—"

"Lydia, what are you rambling about?"

"What?" I paused in my babbling for only a second. "I just wanted to assure you that you wouldn't be doing this for free. That I'll still pay you—"

"Why the hell would you have to pay me?"

I blinked at him, not really understanding his question. "I don't know if Ferrero plans to pay you—or me, for that matter—for this, but I'll p—"

He shook his head and laughed. "I would pay to do this."

"What?" Now I was really confused.

"I don't know what you're getting out of this deal," Phelps said, "but this is a golden opportunity for my career. I mean, what model wouldn't want to be the muse of a couture designer?"

"You'll do it," I parroted.

"Of course I'll do it," he confirmed. "This will skyrocket my career." He stood and approached the bed, looming over me. "Why are you doing it?"

My first instinct was to make up a more legitimate and less, well, selfish reason. But he stood there, steadily meeting my gaze and probing my soul with those brilliant baby blues.

I rose up on my knees to meet him eye-to-eye. "Because he wants to use my jewelry in the collection."

He looked unconvinced, as if he knew there was more to my decision. He was right.

"And because this will give me the advantage in the next promotion," I confessed, admitting to even myself for the first time how much beating out the KYs and triumphing over Jawbreaker meant to me.

"Well then," he said, extending his hand, "I guess we're partners in muse-dom."

Buzzing About Conference

It's my day over at Books, Boys, Buzz... and today I'm talking about writers conferences and why I still attend.

Hugs,
TLC

Eye Candy: Chapter Five

(Missed some? Read chapter 1, 2, 3, 4.)

Q: Why do you have to go to bed at night?
A: Because the bed won't come to you.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #195

Sleeping arrangements were easily dealt with; Phelps slept on the floor with the caveat that he had to be up before anyone might come to wake us.

I was a little concerned that he had much more depth than Fiona led me to believe. My dreams that night were of a Jacuzzi tub full of Hot Tamales, Phelps, and me. And let me tell you, the heat was not coming from the candy.

At one point I bolted up in bed, shocked by the throbbing between my legs and certain that he must have heard me moaning in my sleep.

But when I peered over the edge, he lay soundly asleep on the floor, his expression angelic.

I collapsed back into the bed and slept peacefully throughout the rest of the night.

---

Breakfast harkened the arrival of Gavin.

We were on the back deck, plates of eggs benedict and exotic fruit perched on our knees, when I heard the melodious tenor of his voice.

I dropped my plate.

"Good morning, Lydia," he crooned, as I knelt to clean up my mess. Dubble Bubble Damn, why did his first sight have to be me on my hands and knees at his feet. Just where he wanted me, I'm sure.

"Gavin." I nodded my head in the barest tilt of polite acknowledgment.

Then my prince stepped in.

"Hey, you’re the ex!" Phelps thrust out his hand, forcibly taking Gavin's in return and pumping it enthusiastically. "Can't thank you enough for being such an ass. Lyd's the best thing that ever happened to me."

I might have been mortified, but for the look of utter aghast on Gavin's pretty boy face.

"Um, your welcome."

Gavin. At a loss for words? Priceless.

"If you hadn't boinked your secretary, then where would we be?"

Fiona must have told him more than just the particulars.

Gavin turned bright red—I had never thought to see Gavin Fairchild embarrassed—and could not come up with a single thing to say.

But I could.

"I don't know about you, Sweet Tooth, but I'd be married to a louse who dropped his pants for anything dumb enough to put out." I stood, setting my plate on the bench behind me, and settled in at Phelps' side. "I'm much happier where I am."

Phelps grinned at me and I did the most startling thing; I kissed him. Right there in front of God, Gavin, and everybody.

Just a quick peck, but enough to send Gavin stalking back into the house with a vengeance.

"Bravo," Phelps whispered as he gave me a return peck on the ear.

Someone started clapping. I turned to find Alberto applauding my brilliant set-down, and several female—recently divorced—guests joined him.

Alberto stepped forward and patted me on the shoulder. "That was a very pretty thing. For you." He inclined his head to Ferrero, walking this way from the other end of the deck. "Just remember who your audience is."

With that, he disappeared, leaving me alone with Phelps to face the approaching Ferrero.

While I was proud of myself for putting Gavin in his place, I knew that kind of outburst was unprofessional and could not be repeated.

"That was great," I whispered hurriedly before Ferrero arrived, "but we can't do that again. I need to maintain my professional image."

"Got it." If he smiled that cocky grin one more time, so help me— he grinned. And made good his exit. "I'll just leave you to face the letch alone."

"Good morning, beautiful Olivia," Ferrero greeted.

So much for my lasting impression.

"Actually Mr. Ferrero, it's Lydia," I reminded.

"Of course, but I asked you to call me Franco."

He smiled, his white teeth a perfect match to his white hair and white linen shirt. The shirt hit mid-thigh, and a far as I could tell he had nothing on underneath. Great Mr. Goodbar.

"Since you have disobeyed, you must join me in the bubble tub." He frowned, searching for the English word. "The hot tub."

I hid my scowl, pretty sure I detected the teeniest bit of Jersey in his accent.

"I don't have my suit on," I objected.

"Nonsense. Who needs a suit?" At my look of horror, he added, "I only tease. Go. Fetch your suit." He waved me away. "And that man of yours."

As he turned and walked off in the direction of the hot tub—it's very existence a mystery to me since the ocean was only steps away—this time I openly scowled. His eyes had nearly glowed at the mention of Phelps.

Maybe Marlene's rumor about the flesh was off by a gender.

---

Phelps in swim trunks was a sight to behold.

Tall, six-one or six-two. Broad-shouldered and muscular—like he played a little football in the park on weekends. Only he probably didn't since any injuries might conflict with his modeling career.

Then again, the man climbed the Andes for fun, so what did I know about his career conflicts.

But I did know a mighty fine ass when I saw one. And the ass emerging from our en suite bathroom, encased in gray nylon with white piping, definitely qualified.

Sweet Saltwater Taffy.

"Ready to hit the bubbles?" He cocked a brow and tucked two fluffy white towels beneath his arm.

"Yes," I said, tugging the belt of my French terry cover-up tighter around my waist. "But first we need to have a little talk about rules of conduct."

"Rules of conduct?"

I had been mentally reliving the interchange with Gavin for the past twenty minutes. And while I gloried at the flustered look on his pretty face, my behavior had been less than professional.

"Remember that the primary reason for this weekend—and your presence here—is my job." I grabbed my Havaiana flip flops and dropped them to the floor. "As much as I will always adore you for that brilliant shut down of my late-fiancé, we have to keep the rest of the weekend on a more mature level."

Phelps casually tugged his waistband into place. "You want me to act like a grown-up, then?"

"If you please."

He tossed a towel my direction, which I caught with a scowl. Nothing in his demeanor to this point suggested a capacity to act like an adult.

I dug my hands into my pockets, seriously wondering whether he could rise to the occasion. Oooh, my fingers curled around a paper-wrapped square. A mango tropical Starburst. Fumbling with the waxy paper, I unwrapped the treat and slipped it between my lips. But even mango sugar couldn't dispel my concerns.

"Relax, Chicken Little. I can do adult."

And he managed to say it with a straight face.

I stepped into my flip flops and headed for the door. As I passed in front of Phelps, he pinched my backside.

Before I could turn to argue, he grabbed my shoulders and pushed me out into the hall.

"Just getting it out of my system."

---

As I lowered my bathing suit-clad body into the bubbling water of Jawbreaker's hot tub, I felt one step closer to heaven. Even in the humid August air, the enveloping heat felt blissful.

Unfortunately, Phelps and I were not the only guests Ferrero had invited into the bubble tub.

I sat wedged between Geoffrey Hildebrandt, retired men's accessories designer at Fendi, and Brant something-or-other, one of Jawbreaker's Southampton neighbors.

Geoff, whom I had met at several cocktail mixers, was gayer than the whole gang on that gay makeover show put together. He was a sweet man with an eye for leather goods and handsome young men.

Brant, on the other hand, was one of those old money, lacrosse-playing, sailing types. He was too tan, too smiley, and too blonde. He also happened to be too handsy. Before I could even settle into the bench seat, his hand slipped beneath my swimsuit-clad ass and wiggled. Rather than draw attention to his appalling-but-not-unexpected behavior, I smiled sweetly.

"Such a tight squeeze in here," I said as I gouged a set of crescents into the flesh of his palm. "Good thing I'm surrounded by such polite gentlemen."

My subtlety had no effect. Brant openly drooled over my breasts, thrust into deceptively lush cleavage by a simple black Anne Cole suit with a silver buckle across the chest.

Removing his hand from my bottom, I forcibly placed it in his lap before grabbing an inch of tender flesh on his inner thigh and pinching with all my heart.

No one else even noticed his silent scream.

"Ah-hem, excuse me," he sputtered as he climbed out onto the teak deck. "Just remembered, um, have to get, er, something in my room."

He turned and ran for the house. I could see the darkening smudge of a delightfully placed bruise forming.

"Hurry back, Brant," I called after his retreating form.

Relaxing into the now ample space, I spread my arms along the edge and surveyed the rest of the tub. Phelps, directly across from me between a pair of exec's wives, winked.

And I was in such a state of bliss I couldn't even scowl.

"I hope there's room for us in there."

I cringed at the high-pitched squeal. My bliss shattered. Without looking, I knew Kelly stood behind me on the deck, sporting some teeny bikini as concealing as a trio of Necco Wafers, with Gavin in tow.

What was up with my run of luck this past week? All my fortune had fled to Palm Beach for the winter.

Maybe if I kept my eyes closed tightly enough, it would all go away.

"Always room for two more," Phelps boomed.

I briefly pondered the penalty for homicide of an infuriating hire-a-date. Surely with my family connections and money I could get off with probation. And there are extenuating circumstances.

Mental Post-it: put criminal attorney on retainer.

Someone grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me forcibly through the water. As Phelps turned me and plunked me on his lap, he said, "Lyd and I can share."

Grrr, I growled.

Only Phelps heard me.

"Thought you wouldn't want to cause a scene," he whispered. "Besides, now you can schmooze the boss."

I turned, scowling, and found Ferrero sitting to my right. Maybe Phelps was a little more business savvy than I—or Fiona—gave him credit for.

Kelly and Gavin made their way into the spots Brant and I had occupied. I was right, Kelly wore a barely-there, cherry red bikini I had seen in the last Victoria's Secret catalog. Gavin handed her down, following in his matching red swimming briefs. He eyed me warily, as if expecting me to do something outrageous and emotional and totally deserved.

I was above such petty behavior. Especially when he was getting everything he deserved with Kelly. If he thought he could cheat on her without becoming the next John Wayne Bobbit, then he was dearly mistaken.

Letting all the other nonsense fade into the background, I tapped Ferrero on the arm. "Fe— Franco, you wished to discuss more about my designs today." I pinched my earlobes, tugging the pearl-dotted spirals into view. "These are my latest."

Franco leaned in to examine the silver pieces, and I could almost hear the steam shooting out of Kelly's ears from across the Jacuzzi.

---

When Jawbreaker came to inform us of a sightseeing trip into the thriving metropolis of Southampton, nearly everyone in the tub clamored to go. Only Ferrero appeared uninterested. Even Phelps decided to go, swiftly whispering that I should "take a golden opportunity when it punches me in the face" before lifting me off his lap and following everyone else into the house.

Left alone with Ferrero and his rapt interest in my jewelry designs, I knew this was my chance to make the most important impression of all.

"Franco," I started.

"Dear Lyvia," he interrupted—I chose not to correct him since this was his closest guess by far—and placed his soft hand dramatically on my forearm, "I have been seeking for so long to find a woman of spirit, of imagination, of—" He paused dramatically. "—passion."

His pale blue eyes glowed and his grip on my arm tightened. A quick glance around told me the deck was deserted. We were alone.

And I was pretty sure I wouldn't like where this conversation was heading—although it had to be better than any conversation about Gavin.

"My creativity is, you see, a very fragile creature." He gazed wistfully at the sky above. "It requires much petting and great care. In short," he grabbed me by both shoulders and stared directly into my eyes, "it needs a muse."

"Muse?" I repeated.

Now that was not what I had expected him to say. And I can't say I was any relieved to hear it.

He nodded emphatically. "Yes, a muse. An inspiration, like the tales of Greek mythology. Like Jacqueline Bouvier. Like Princess Grace. And you shall be mine."

"But Mr. Ferrero," I argued, reverting to a polite distance, "I don't know anything about being a muse. I'm an account manager. I handle sales accounts, for Good&Plenty's sake. What do I know about being a muse?"

This whole thing was ridiculous.

"You already are, my dear." He smoothed his hand over my hair, along my ear, and cupped my earring. "You have creativity," he said. He dropped his hand beneath the water and lifted mine to his mouth. "You have spirit." He cupped my cheek. "You have passion." He grinned. "You are already my muse."

Whoa there, Twizzler.

This exciting, spirited, passionate woman he described was not me. "I have some creativity, I'll grant you," I acceded, thinking of my jewelry designs. "But I'm not spirited."

I was so not spirited that when I found Gavin pressing flesh with another woman, all I thought was Guess I'll have to return the ring.

"Nonsense." Ferrero waved a dismissive hand in my direction. "I have eyes to see the wildcat sharpen her claws."

Great Gobstoppers, did he mean on Gavin or that toad Brant? I had to admit I had been feeling a little spirited so far this weekend. But that wasn't the usual me.

"Fine, but I'm not passionate, either."

I was so not passionate that Gavin had to go to another woman—probably several other women, in fact—to satisfy his, um, needs.

"Ah, chica," he tsked, the Spanish endearment sounding peculiar with his Jersey-tinted Italian accent, "no one could fail to see the passion between you and your young man. Fireworks were not the only thing lighting up the dark last night."

Now there was no way I could tell him how fake that was. He had to see reason, to realize that I was not muse material. I had a promotion to garner, and I didn't think sitting around inspiring Ferrero or whatever being a muse entailed was going to accomplish that.

"But—"

"Enough," he commanded, rising from the tub and tugging me out behind him, "you will be my muse for next Spring's couture line. Your jewelry will accentuate every piece."

"M-my jewelry?"

He didn't acknowledge my stammering, instead held out both hands expectantly. In a daze, I grabbed a pair of towels from a nearby bench and handed him one. I wrapped the other around my waist as I pictured my jewelry accessorizing the Spring line on the Ferrero runway.

That was an opportunity I could not pass up.

Ferrero walked toward the house, toweling his snowy hair as he moved, and I blindly followed.

"And your young man," he decreed as he draped the towel around his neck rather than cover his wet, white—and obviously unlined—Speedo, "will be my muse for the menswear line."

I tripped over the negligible door jamb, righting myself just as Ferrero turned to say, "This will be my most inspired collection ever."