Project Produce (7 page)

What else could possibly go wrong this evening? I took a large gulp, the room-temperature liquid warming my insides. Mr. Beanless Bag would have been a whole lot less embarrassing than Mr. Limp Winkie.

“Have a seat. Dinner will be ready in a minute,” Dylan called out from the kitchen.

“Humph. Easier said than done,” I mumbled, and took another sip of my merlot.

I eyed a large wicker chair. It looked hard and uncomfortable. Next to that was a black marble chair in the shape of a hand. I’d had enough of marble, thank you very much. Besides, it looked as though you sat on the palm and the fingers supported your back. No way was I going to sit with someone’s hand cradling my insecurity.

My gaze darted to the kitchen just as Dylan bent over to check the oven. Wow, what that man did to a pair of Levi’s was sinful. The man had the most amazing set of buns I’d ever seen.
Don’t go there, Cal
. I shook my head.
Must be the wine
.

Glancing around once more, I sighed. What had he been thinking when he picked these things out? I tipped back my glass and finished my drink, then set it on an end table in the shape of a barrel. The only other place to sit was a hammock. I’d used a hammock plenty of times back home. This should be a piece of cake.

I sat on the edge, flopped on my back, then whipped my feet up, but the hammock tilted sharply to the left. I overcorrected by surging to the right.

And the race was on.

Left, right, twist, turn, grunt, groan, wrestle, wrestle, wrestle. I felt like I was competing in Cutesville’s annual rodeo, racing against the clock, wrestling a steer. Or in this case a crazed hammock.

“Dinner’s ready,” Hot Britches called from the dining room.

Of course it was. Then the hammock decided to pitch and roll three times, wrapping me tightly in its net.

“Callie? Everything’s ready. Care to join me in...” Dylan’s voice trailed off, and he came to a stop at my head. All I could see were his snakeskin boots, since I lay face down about a foot off the floor.

“Comfy?” he croaked.

My lips poked out of one of the hammock’s holes. “Wewy, wunny.”

“I didn’t quite catch that, Elmer Fudd.” He knelt down and dipped his head to the side so he could see my face. A loud laugh burst out of him, and he fell off his haunches onto his hind end.

“If you’we done waughing, get me out of hewe!”

“Sure thing, it’s just... sorry, Mac, I can’t resist.” He sprang to his feet and ran away.

Where was he going? I didn’t have to wonder long.

He returned and slid beneath me. “Sorry, Elmer, but this is too priceless to pass up.” He gave me a devilish grin and bit the insides of his cheeks, puckering his own lips, then pressed them briefly to mine. When my eyes sprang wide, he whipped out a camera and snapped off a shot quick as lightning. “Kissing a fish was worth that expression.”

I blinked, seeing white spots from the flash. Fish kiss? If I could feel my lips, I’d have bitten his pucker off. What a rotten sneaky trick to pull. “You’we dead meat, mistew.”

He winked at me, rolled to his feet, and then proceeded to untangle me from the hammock’s relentless hold. When my boots hit the floor, I shook my hands, stomped my feet, and twisted my lips until the circulation returned.

“One of the supports is loose, and I haven’t had a chance to fix it yet. It can be a bit tricky.”

“Ya think?” I smirked.

“Sorry.” He grinned. “Follow me.”

“Dinner had better be worth it after all this.”

“No one’s complained about my cooking before. My furniture, maybe, but my cooking, no way. Come on. I’ll get you another glass of wine.”

“Better bring the bottle,” I muttered and followed him to the dining room. Something told me even the whole bottle wouldn’t be enough to get me through this evening.

CHAPTER FOUR

Detective Cabrizzi pulled out my chair and then scooted it in as I sat. “So, what’s up with that statue, anyway?” I asked, needing to start up a conversation.

He laughed, heading to the kitchen and returning with the whole bottle of wine, bless the man. “My sister gave it to me.”

“Why would she do that?” It seemed like an odd gift from a sister.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He winked.

This guy was way too cute for his own good. I cleared my throat and tried to stay focused. This could be one way to find out how his Mr. Winkie affected his personality. “Obvious how?”

“Supposedly, I’m the perfect male specimen. Vain, and in love with my own body.” He shook his head. “And I just can’t help it if women throw themselves at me, so my sister says.”

“Your sister sounds interesting.”

“She’s something, all right. That statue doesn’t look anything like me.” He poured us both a glass of merlot.

I took a sip. “Really?” Glancing in the other room, I studied the statue. He couldn’t have handed me a more perfect introduction into my paper if he tried. My heart started beating furiously as I plunged in, head first. “So, you’re saying you’re not lacking in certain areas?”

His eyes followed mine. “I haven’t been castrated, if that’s what you mean.”

Good God!
I fell into a coughing fit. When he looked back at me with an arched brow, I croaked, “I’m fine. Continue.”

“I was just saying poor guy. I hope you didn’t enjoy that. Imagine what that would do to his ego if he were real.”

I snapped my fingers, trying to keep the ball rolling. “Now, there’s a thought. Let’s do that.”

Dylan blinked at me. “Do what?”

Watch me stumble my way through this insane conversation
. I took a sip of my wine for courage and said, “Let’s pretend you’re him before his little accident. What exactly would it do to your ego if you... oh, I don’t know, let’s say had a pickle for a Mr. Winkie.”

He gaped at me. “A Mr. Who-ie?” Poor Dylan looked like a cartoon character, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

Darn my parents for having made this so hard to talk about. “Um, a Winkie. A Mr. Winkie,” I answered, sinking lower in my seat. Wonder if he’d notice if I slipped all the way under the table to hide? I discreetly pushed the tablecloth aside and peeked under, but got an eyeful of his massive feet. Talk about intimidating.

“Jesus, who talks like that?” he asked, jarring me from my thoughts.

Oh, just everyone in my flipping family
. Since there was no chance of escape, I sat up straight and said, “Hey, you’re the one who started with the nicknames. Besides, don’t all you guys name your Mr. Winkie?”

“Believe me. No one calls ‘it’ a winkie.” He went back to the kitchen and returned with a big bowl of homemade sauce and meatballs. “Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay,” I said.

“You mentioned a pickle, so I’m assuming you mean how would my ego be affected if I had a small Mr. Winkie.”

I nodded, swallowing hard, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.

“Then my question is would my Mr. Winkie be a pickle when relaxed or standing at attention?”

Instantly, my face flamed probably three shades of red, and my ears felt like they were on fire. I hadn’t expected him to be willing to talk about this stuff with me, let alone be so open about it.

I opened my mouth and then closed it three flipping times, unable to speak. The words that formed in my brain sounded so idiotic, I just couldn’t spit them out.

“Because you know,” he continued, “at its relaxed state, looks can be deceiving.”

I squeaked. I actually squeaked out loud. No words, just a high-pitched sound like an over-excited piglet. Darn Professor Butthead for assigning me this topic. All my worst nightmares about this stupid project were coming true. Things couldn’t possibly get any more embarrassing, could they?

Dylan grinned as he added, “But Mr. Winkie does have a tendency to turn into Pinocchio when provoked.”

Okay, the conversation had just escalated from walking around with your skirt tucked in the back of your underwear the one and only time you decide to wear a thong kind of embarrassing, to period leaking mortification.
And yes, I’m speaking from experience. The wonderful experience of disaster dating
. Needless to say, I hadn’t received a second invitation for a date from those men.

In fact, they left town soon after, leaving me with no one but the geriatrics to choose from. Even I wasn’t that desperate. Though maybe I should have been, then I wouldn’t have fallen for Bob when he’d rolled into town and swept me off my feet. My biggest disaster to date. Although, this date with Hot Britches wasn’t looking too good.

I took a deep breath, deciding if I were going to face my fears and succeed at this project, I’d have to learn to have these conversations with anyone, including men like Dylan. “Um, standing at attention, it’s a pickle,” I blurted.

“Okay, so I guess if I had a pickle, I’d probably have some serious issues.”

“How so?” I folded my napkin in my lap, wishing I could whip out my notebook and start writing without looking strange. Who was I kidding, this entire conversation went beyond strange.

“Put it this way, I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get naked,” he answered.

I snorted. “That didn’t seem to bother Flasher Freak.”

“Yeah, well, Flasher Freak’s a freak. And his pickle could be what made him that way.” Dylan disappeared again, this time returning with a large bowl of cooked pasta, and the scents of garlic, basil, and oregano filled the room. “Besides, he could be suffering from Short Man Syndrome.”

“What’s that?” I plopped my elbows on the table. This night had potential after all. I tried not to frown. My idea of an evening with a hot guy having potential consisted of talking about his winkie, instead of using it. I sighed. In a word--pathetic.

“Some people say that a short man is so cocky because his Mr. Winkie is... well, let’s put it this way. I have a buddy who’s--God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this--who’s a pickle, and he’s so damned cocky you’d swear he was packin’ a... a...”

“A zucchini?” I supplied.

“Exactly.” Dylan paused, then arched a brow at me.

“I have a fondness for produce. Too many years of working in the produce department of my parents’ store, I guess. And it doesn’t help that they never used the anatomically correct names for private parts. Gotta love that Irish Catholic upbringing.”

His brow arched higher, but the corner of his lips hitched up a notch. “Well, that explains a lot.”

I glanced away. “Can I help with anything?”

He chuckled. “Nope, just sit tight. I’ve got it covered.” He wandered back into the kitchen, giving me a great view of his buns. His perfect buns.
No insecurity there
, I’ll bet. I took a gulp of wine this time.

Note to self: Produce conversations get easier with alcohol
.

“Speaking of zucchinis, I’ve kind of noticed you’re rather, um, tall,” I called out from the dining room. “Does that mean you have Tall Man Syndrome?”
Lord, he must think I’m a freaking nympho
.

He returned with a loaf of steaming Italian bread and a devil of a grin. “Well, I am tall. Have big hands, too, but I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.” That darn crooked grin spread even wider across his face, melting me like the hot butter spread across the massive loaf.

“Hmmm, I don’t know. You seem rather cocky to me, chief. And according to you, cocky equals small. Maybe you’re hiding a pickle, and that’s just a sock.” My gaze dipped between his legs, giving me the sudden urge to fall off the face of the earth. This had just gotten really weird, even for me.

He grinned. “My pants aren’t that tight, and the only socks I have on me are the ones on my feet. The word you’re looking for is ‘confident’. There’s a difference.” He set the huge loaf right in front of me. “Big difference. And I thought it was Dukeypoo?”

I glanced at the loaf.
In your dreams, Zuc
. He wasn’t that well-endowed. “Yeah, well, Dukeypoo, I wouldn’t be comparing myself to that loaf of bread. Looks to me like he’s been castrated, too.”

Dylan laughed, the rat, then disappeared and came back carrying a bowl of tossed salad. “Anything else?”

“Actually, yes. Does your Mr. Winkie give you any problems?” I managed to choke out, and he gave me a level stare. “Hey, you asked.” God, this project bit the big one.
Ooops
. That hadn’t come out the way I meant. It basically sucked. Like that was any better. Good Lord, I couldn’t even think without getting myself into trouble.

“Well, that’s a question for Mr. Winkie.” He winked. “Why don’t we ask him?” He set the salad on the table and looked down at himself. “Hey, buddy, the nice lady wants to know if you’re having any problems?”

Darned if I didn’t join him. “Oh, I’d say he’s responding just fine,” I croaked, yanking my mortified gaze up to meet his twinkling one.

“You asked. I answered.” He pulled out his seat and sat.

“And then some.” I fanned my cheeks. “So, um, does having a zucchini ever worry you that it won’t fit, or that you might hurt your partner?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you afraid of it?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I... I...” How did I tell him without him thinking I
was
using him? I was using him, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to know it. I had taken Gloria’s suggestion--turn the tables on the opposite gender--but I was still a woman, which meant I had a conscience. “I’m not afraid of ‘it,’ I just haven’t had very good experiences when it comes to men. Guess I’m trying to figure out what makes them tick.” At least I hadn’t lied.

He shifted in his chair and eyed me suspiciously. Okay, so the light, playful tone of the conversation had just taken a nosedive to the serious side.
Don’t worry, pal, I’m not going to burden you with my problems
.

“You? I can’t imagine you having problems with men.” The sincerity in his eyes threw me, and I wondered if he’d heard about the scandal. Could he be different from all the other men I’d met and actually like me for me?