Man Candy (18 page)

inducing ass-kissing and flattery.

Lower down, one merciful soul had

written,
She’s pretty
, and Quinn had

written beneath that,
She’s a lot more

than that.

I tossed the phone aside and flopped

back onto my pillow.

But I was smiling.

SEVENTEEN

QUINN

I DIDN’T CALL Jaime the next day—

actually, I realized I didn’t even have her

number—and didn’t knock on her door,

either. She’d said she needed time to

think about things, and I wanted her to

have it.

On Saturday, after spending the

morning at the gym, I used the afternoon

to sift through a few more boxes in my

mother’s attic, forcing myself to fill a

few garbage bags. I didn’t find any

photographs, but I did find her old

recipe box, which I took with me. On my

way home, I hit the grocery store and

bought what I’d need to make a couple

of her traditional Polish dishes.

After unloading the groceries, I

stood still for a moment in the kitchen,

listening for Jaime upstairs. I heard

nothing and figured maybe she was out.

Or else she’s hiding because you

scared her.

I frowned, admitting to myself that

could be the case. I hadn’t gone easy on

her last night. She’d said it wasn’t too

much, and she didn’t strike me as the

kind of woman who held her tongue

when she had something to say, but I was

a little uneasy about it anyway.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and

the screen showed a text from Alex.

Meet for a drink?

Sure
, I replied.

We’re near Eastern Market

looking at some property. Detroit City

Distillery in 45?

Sounds good.

I changed my shirt and shoes,

checked my hair, and headed out. In the

front hall I paused, nearly going up to

knock on Jaime’s door. If she was home,

maybe she’d like to join us. It would be

fun to hang out together again.

But I decided against it.

The next move felt like hers.

ALEX GREETED ME WITH A HUG,

Nolan with a handshake, and I forced

them to take a quick selfie with me,

which I posted with the caption
Good

friends, good whiskey

#DetroitCityDistillery. Actually Nolan

was all for the pic, but Alex tried

desperately to get out of posing, which

reminded me of Jaime. They even

looked alike—same fair skin, green

eyes, and dark hair, although Alex was

tall and thin with more angular features,

whereas Jaime was petite and curvy.

Nolan, also tall and dark, wore

tortoiseshell glasses and had a very

short, neatly trimmed beard. I’d met him

only once before, but I remembered him

as outgoing, smart, and completely

devoted to Alex. I thought he was a

therapist of some kind, but I couldn’t

remember for sure.

“So how’s it going at the house?”

Alex asked once I’d ordered a drink.

“Jaime treating you OK?”

“She’s been great.”

“Good.” Alex looked relieved. “I

was worried she was going to give you

the ice princess routine.”

“Oh, she tried,” I said, laughing, “but

she warmed up eventually.”
And then

she boiled right over.
“We actually had

dinner together last night.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. “No way.

Really?”

“Yeah. With some friends of hers.”

“Wow.” He picked up his drink.

“After what she said to me the day you

moved in, I thought she’d avoid you like

the plague.”

This should be good.
“What’d she

say?”

“Something along the lines of

keeping her distance.”

I shrugged. “What can I say, she

can’t resist me. Never could.”

“So what’s the history there?” Nolan

asked, one eyebrow arched.

Alex and I exchanged a look. “Jaime

had a crush on Quinn,” he said. “Let’s

leave it at that.”

“And does she still?” Nolan picked

up his glass.

“She might,” I hedged. Joking around

was one thing, but I didn’t want to sell

her out. “We had a lot of fun last night.

I’d like to take her out again—if that’s

cool with you, Alex.” The server arrived

with my drink, and I thanked him.

“I’m not the one you have to worry

about.” Alex sat back. “I’m totally cool

with it, but Jaime hates dating.”

I nodded. “She mentioned that.

Several times.”

“She’s just stubborn,” Nolan said,

adjusting his glasses. “I know she loves

her independence, but I think she needs

someone who can call her on her

bullshit.”

“Oh?” I sipped my Old Fashioned.

“Totally.”

“Nolan thinks he has Jaime all

figured out,” Alex said dryly.

“I do,” he insisted. “I’ve got a bunch

of friends and patients just like her—

scared to get hurt, so they refuse to get

close to anyone.”

“I’m not sure that’s it with her,” I

confided. “She said she’s never really

had a broken heart.”

“Exactly. So why fix what isn’t

broken?” Nolan pressed. “She’s gone all

this time without being hurt, while

probably watching women around her be

disappointed by men they care about.

Why should she bother?”

“Maybe,” I said, glancing at Alex.

“She did mention that your parents’

marriage isn’t her ideal.”

Alex snorted, which totally reminded

me of Jaime. “It’s not anyone’s ideal.

But hey, it works for them, I suppose.

They’ve been together thirty years.”

“Has she ever mentioned wanting a

family?” I asked, stirring the ice cubes

around in my drink.

“Not that I can think of,” Alex said.

“But when Nolan and I have talked about

adopting, she’s supportive. I don’t think

she feels a family isn’t a worthy goal;

it’s just romantic relationships she

struggles with. I do agree with Nolan on

one thing, though—I think fear plays a

bigger role than she’d ever admit, but I

also think she just enjoys being

unreachable sometimes. She’s my sister

and I love her, but I think she gets off on

being so cold.”

“That’s her armor,” said Nolan. “She

gets off on
wearing
it, being able to keep everyone out.”

“You guys are going to adopt? I

didn’t know that. I think that’s

awesome.” I changed the subject, not

because I didn’t like talking about Jaime,

but I was starting to feel a little disloyal

to her.

Only later when I was driving home

did I realize that it was the first time I

felt I owed Jaime my loyalty, rather than

Alex.

ON SUNDAY EVENING, I pulled my

mom’s recipe for pierogi with meat

filling from the box. “Sorry about the

store-bought dough, Ma,” I said,

glancing at the ceiling. “I’ll make yours

next time.” To make it up to her, I played

the Beatles on Spotify. Always her

favorite.

Singing along, I peeled and sliced

the vegetables, throwing them in with the

meat to cook in the stock. Next, I peeled

and cut up the onion, then fried it in

butter until it was lightly browned. I

never fried things in butter, and the smell

reminded me so much of my mother, I

felt myself choking up. Between the

music and the aroma in my kitchen, it

almost felt like she was there.

I took my time with the recipe,

enjoying the feeling of closeness to my

mother it brought me but lamenting again

the fact that I hadn’t thought to ask her

more about her childhood. A song came

on that she used to sing to me called “I

Will,” and I felt my chest get so tight I

had to stop and take a few deep breaths.

I was composing myself over the

bowl of meat filling when I heard a

knock on the living room door. Wiping

my hands on a towel, I turned down the

music and went to answer it.

My pulse kicked up when I saw

Jaime standing in the hall, dressed in

jeans and a pink sweater, her hair in soft

waves around her face. “Hi,” I said,

surprised but happy to see her. “Is the

music too loud?”

“No, not at all. I like it.” She grinned

sheepishly. “And I smelled something

delicious.”

I laughed. “I hope it will be

delicious. I found my mom’s recipe box

yesterday in the attic and decided to try

her pierogies, but it’s more complicated

than I thought.”

“Can I help?” She rose up on tiptoe,

so cute and eager, I nearly kissed her on

the nose.

“Sure. Come on in.”

She followed me into the kitchen.

“What can I do?”

“Let’s see.” Looking over the

directions, I shook my head. “There’s

like eighteen steps in this recipe, even

though the ingredients are simple. My

mother made it look so easy.”

“Well, put me to work,” she said,

pushing up her sleeves and washing her

hands at the sink. “Can’t promise my

kitchen skills are anything close to your

mom’s, but if you have any easy jobs,

I’m up for them.”

“How about chopping the parsley?”

She nodded. “That I can do.”

We finished the recipe together,

laughing at our first batch of strangely

shaped pierogies and cheering for our

second batch, which more closely

resembled my mother’s. We boiled and

then pan-fried them, just like she used to,

and sprinkled them with cracked pepper.

After a high-five for our efforts, we

threw together a salad and quickly set

the table.

“Let me grab some wine upstairs,”

she said once everything was ready. “Be

right back.”

A couple minutes later she came

down with a large brown paper bag in

her hand. Setting it on the kitchen

counter, she unpacked a bottle of white

wine, a silver bucket, and three glass

jars with candles in them that I

recognized from her coffee table

upstairs. “I thought these would be nice

on the table,” she said, grouping them

together like a centerpiece. “I think

there’s a lighter in the top drawer there.

Can you grab it?”

“Sure.” I found the lighter and lit the

candles while she poured two glasses of

wine, dumped ice in the bucket, stuck the

wine bottle inside it, and set it on the

table.

She placed a glass of wine by my

plate and hers, then turned off the kitchen

and dining room lights before sitting.

I returned the lighter to the drawer

and sat down across from her.

“Candlelight? A wine bucket? Who
are

you?” I teased. “This is way too

romantic for the Jaime Owens I know.”

She smiled and shrugged. “I like

candlelight, what can I say? And I’m

serious about my wine. I can’t help it if

it’s romantic.”

We filled our plates and dug in,

praising our pierogies, even if somehow

they didn’t look or taste quite like my

mom’s.

I wondered about Jaime being here,

if that meant she’d given any thought to

my request for another date or my stating

that I wanted more than just no-strings

sex with her. After talking to Alex and

Nolan last night, I wanted more than

ever to gain her trust, assure her that I

had no intention of hurting or

disappointing her. But I didn’t want to

pressure her.

We ate mostly without talking, the

music filling the space between us.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she remarked

when we’d finished.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Thinking about your mom?”

I nodded slowly. “The Beatles were

her favorite, and she used to sing me

some of these songs. I heard one earlier

she used to sing at bedtime, and it really

took me back.”

“‘Rocky Raccoon?’”

“No, but that’s a great tune.”

“I’ve heard you singing it in the

shower,” she confessed with a guilty

smile.

“Such a creeper. Were you peeking

in the bathroom window too?”

“No,” she said, as if I’d greatly

offended her. “I’m not that bad. Sheesh.

So what was the song she used to sing to

you at bedtime?”

“‘I Will.’ Do you know it?”

“No.” She smiled. “Did it make you

sleepy?”

“No, it brought back a nice memory,

which made me happy, but I also felt a

little sad. Not only for me because I miss

her, but also because she won’t be

around to be a grandmother to my

children, if I have any. Sing them to

sleep that way. She’d have loved being a

grandmother.”

“You mean to our half dozen kids?”

Her foot tapped mine under the table.

I laughed a little. “I forgot about

those.”

“Hopefully, we didn’t get a jump on

the first one Friday night.”

My stomach hollowed. “What? I

thought you said it was—”