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“But Daniel is coming.”
“Tell him to just breathe hard until I get back.”
Corrie sighed, but Margot could tell she was smiling. “Fine. Be late to your own party.”
“It’s just us guys,” Margot said, grabbing her pocketbook as she headed for the door. “There’s wine in the fridge.”
“Hurry.”
“Yes, dear.” Margot clicked off her phone, and dashed out, hoping like hell she could quickly catch a cab. She was actually a little nervous about tonight. She still hadn’t seen Daniel, but boy, those in the know, Corrie, Devon, Eric, had drooled over his potential.
As a group, they had more in common with Queer Eye for the Straight Guy than they should. They loved nothing better than sitting in the local eateries and dishing on the clientele, and how to revamp them. Unfortunately, they rarely got to use their considerable skills with real-life people. Only twice, actually, and Tad didn’t count. One shopping trip with Devon and Eric had been enough to send him scampering to Yonkers on the first train. So Daniel was a treat indeed.
She ignored the elevator and raced down the stairs, ending up on the street in half the time. And as luck would have it there was a Yellow Cab, right there, and she flopped into the back seat with her heart still racing.
“Garden of Eden on 7th.”
The cabbie took off, and Margot closed her eyes. Despite the excitement of Daniel, her thoughts were never far from work these days. She’d made it through Thursday and Friday, and she was pretty sure she could handle Monday. She still couldn’t believe they hadn’t given her more staff. It was insane trying to do everything she had to with only Bettina and Rick. They were nice enough, but she’d had to show them every step, every trick. Whompies was a major chain, and she couldn’t believe there wasn’t money in the budget for more stylists. But when she’d talked to Janice, her boss had strongly implied that if Margot couldn’t make it work with what she had, perhaps she wasn’t the right person for the job. It made her so crazy—
No. Today she would stop obsessing about work and focus on Daniel. She was dying to see him. God, she hoped he wasn’t a total stick-in-the-mud, because that would ruin everything. Although, when it came to persuasion of the personal kind, she was pretty much a tank, rolling over all obstacles in her way, whatever or whoever she had to squish.
The cab turned onto 7th, and she dug her money out of her purse. If only she could be as assertive in her work as she was with her friends. When it came to being a food stylist, she was hell on wheels. But negotiating? Playing well with others?
Oh, well. She’d continue to strive. Take baby steps until she could stride with pride. And pray she didn’t self-destruct.
It was time to buy basil. And maybe some more fresh flowers. Oh, and some marinated olives. It was almost five, she’d better jet.
THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR surprised Daniel as he was on his way to get the wine from the kitchen. Corrie was there, only this time she was wearing this long pale dress that flowed over her tall, slim frame. Her hair was short and spiky, and she’d made her eyes up with quite a bit of dramatic black. Next to her was a man taller than she, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants. He looked as if he’d stepped out of a shampoo commercial.
“Daniel, hi. This is Devon,” Corrie said.
Daniel put out his hand. “Nice to meet you. Corrie mentioned you when we met.”
Devon gave her an odd look, and she seemed equally puzzled.
“Oh, no. This isn’t Nels. My husband. Who can’t come tonight. This is Devon. He lives on the other side of Margot. With Eric.”
“Ah,” Daniel said.
“We’re here to get you,” Corrie said, looking past him into his apartment. “Wow, it looks great.”
He stepped to the side. “Come in.”
“We can’t stay long,” she said as she checked out the room as if she wanted to redecorate. “Margot’s getting basil so I have to be the hostess until she gets back.”
“Margot?”
“She’s first tonight. I think she’s making grilled pizza.”
Devon breezed by him, heading straight for the bookcases. He eyed them slowly, row by row, nodding his approval. “Interesting stuff. Lots of architecture.”
“That’s what I do.”
Devon grunted, and Daniel wasn’t sure if it was in approval or something else. Given what these two had on, he should really go change into something more casual.
“Come, come. Hurry. There’s going to be pouting people in the hallways if I don’t let them in.”
“I—”
Devon hooked an arm around his shoulder, which wasn’t a big deal, really. “Come on, New Guy. Into the fray.”
“Wine.”
“Ah, it’s not time to whine yet,” Devon said, leading him toward the door. “That’s for after you meet the others.”
“Um, no. I have some wine.”
“Oh.” The tall man let him go. “We must have vino.”
“Then I’ll go, uh, get it.”
“That’d be good.” Devon smiled, a little too kindly, as if Daniel was feebleminded.
He went to the kitchen, pulled out two bottles, one an excellent merlot, the other a decent chardonnay. When he got back to the living room, Corrie was gone, the door was open and Devon waited.
Walking as casually as he could, he closed his door behind him, silently rehearsing his speech about how he couldn’t stay long.
HE WANTED MORE WINE. Lots more wine. Because he needed to be drunk to process this…menagerie.
Corrie was the normal one, and it turned out she was an ex-exotic dancer who’d had to give up her career after she’d broken her leg.
Devon was a bartender at something called a she-been, and his partner, Eric, was a chiropractor who believed in auras and spirit guides. Then there was Anya, whom Daniel guessed was in her seventies. She’d had several long, involved conversations with her pets—three poodles, two cats and a parakeet. Her best friend was Rocco, also in his golden years. He was an ex-boxer, and his whole face, not just his ears, looked like a bruised cauliflower. Rocco watched soap operas, and he knitted. Evidently, he knitted a lot, and all the tenants in the building were recipients of his largesse. Daniel kept trying to take off the floppy yellow cap, and Devon kept putting it back on his head.
The introductions were over now, and all anyone could talk about was the missing hostess. Margot. He’d already learned she was a food stylist. He’d heard of the profession, although he’d never met anyone in the trade. It made him wonder about the market for such a thing. Was the pay very good? By the look of her rather extravagantly decorated apartment, it must be.
Anyway, she was young, talented, witty, bright… going places. He’d love her. Every one of them assured him of that. He wasn’t so sure. But, he had to admit, he was curious.
Just as Corrie came by to fill his glass, the front door swung open and a woman breezed in. To a chorus of applause, no less. She carried a big grocery bag, and her long dark hair billowed behind her as she crossed the room.
So this was Margot. She was taller than he’d supposed, and quite ample, although she wore a scarlet cape, so he couldn’t really see much. Besides, he was too busy looking at her face to be bothered with the rest. She was…striking. A presence. Large eyes, a lush smile that made it hard not to grin in return, high cheekbones. Her hair came down past her shoulders, thick and flowing. Everything about her seemed larger than life.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I couldn’t get a cab on 7th, and traffic was hell, but I have everything now so we can get cooking, and I hope everyone’s had wine and isn’t upset and oh, my God.”
This she said when she stopped right in front of him. Staring, mouth open, the whole bit. Talk about knowing how to make a stranger feel welcome.
“You’re…delicious.”
He hadn’t blushed in a long time. Not since college, at least that he could recall. But he was blushing now. Wishing like hell he’d made his excuse about five minutes ago. It wasn’t too late. He could still escape before he burst into flames.
She thrust the grocery bag into Eric’s hand, never once shifting her gaze from him. “I’m Margot.”
“So I gathered.”
In a move that would have impressed Liberace, she whipped off her cloak and tossed it behind her, directly into Corrie’s waiting arms.
Now that he could see more of her, he was struck by how different she was from most of the women he knew. Miles away from those he dated, who tended to be borderline anorexic overachievers with exotic allergies. There was nothing of that in the woman in front of him. Even her dress looked like something a movie star would wear. Long, black and red, with a big glittery pin gathering the material right under her breasts. Which was what they deserved. They were impressive breasts. Bountiful was the word that came to mind.
Her laugh brought his attention back to her face. He cleared his throat, stood up. Held out his hand. “Daniel.”
She looked at his hand, laughed again and shook. “Welcome to the building, Daniel.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve met everyone?”
He nodded.
“I see Rocco made you a kicky little hat.”
Oh, God. He ripped the cap off his head. “Uh, yeah.”
“Don’t worry. Before you know it, you’ll have a scarf and mittens to match. Come, Daniel. Let’s make pizzas, shall we?”
He nodded again, only then realizing his right hand still held hers. She used the situation to pull him toward the kitchen.
It was as bright and colorful as the woman herself, with lots of knickknacks of the fifties kitsch variety. A display of PEZ dispensers was his first clue. Then there were the turquoise and pink diner accents, like the old-time malt mixer, the napkin dispenser and the pink retro stove. Even the tiles were coordinated. The only thing black in the kitchen was the Felix the Cat clock.
“You can wash the basil,” she said, letting his hand go. “While I prepare the dough. Yes?”
“I’ll be happy to.”
She gave him another of those dazzling smiles. “Good Lord, you’re Studly Do-Right. Fabulous.”
If her eyes hadn’t been shining like that he’d have been insulted. Maybe he was insulted anyway.
She washed her hands, dried them with a pink towel, then handed him the basil as if it were the crown jewels. It was his turn at the sink. His concentration was split between his task and Margot. She had sprinkled flour on two large pizza boards and was folding a large round of dough as if she’d done it hundreds of times.
She cut the dough in six, then brought out a wooden rolling pin and made two ovals. When she turned to the fridge, he went back to the basil, making sure it was thoroughly clean. He wrapped it in paper towels as he watched her once more.
“We’re going to Corrie’s next,” she said. “Then Eric and Devon’s. We’ll have dessert at Rocco’s, which is really a treat, because he cooks a hell of a lot better than he knits.”
“And you do this every Sunday?”
“Yep. These are the regulars, but the rest of the folks in the building join in from time to time. We’re all pretty friendly.”
“So I gathered.”
She put down a large bowl filled with stuff like braided mozzarella, mushrooms, olives and tomatoes and turned to face him. “Tell me about you, Daniel.”
“I’m an architect.”
“Have I seen any of your work?”
“Maybe. I designed the Fourth Street library in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Nope.”
“Uh, the Woolsey building on lower Broadway.”
She shook her head.
“Those are the biggest projects.”
“Are they gorgeous?”
“Gorgeous?” He smiled. “No one’s ever called them that.”
“What have they called them?”
“Practical. Well built. Sturdy.”
She blinked. “Tear them up.”
“Pardon?”
“The basil leaves. Tear them. Into pieces.” Then she turned to the pizzas and started spreading the sauce.
Devon stuck his head in the kitchen. “Hey, we’re starving out here.”
“Then go make sure the grill’s ready.”
Devon saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” He did a two-point turn and marched away.
“Totally nuts, but such a sweet pea. You’ll love him. And Eric. They’re great.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Five years. This place used to belong to my uncle Sid. He was a photographer. Mostly for National Geographic. Incredible life. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
“Okay.”
“Continue.”
“What?”
“Telling me about your life.”
“Ah. Well, I moved from Greenwich. Connecticut.”
“Hell of a commute.”
“Yeah. I got real used to the train.”
She turned to him again. “Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
That took him back a step. “No.”
“Ah, so you’re straight.”
“Are you always like this?”
“Like what? Rude?”
“I was going to say forthright.”
She patted his arm. “That’s sweet. Really.”
He had no idea how to respond to her. How to react to this whirlwind. So he focused on the basil. He was supposed to tear it. Which he did, even though he wasn’t the least bit sure he was doing it correctly.
She emptied her bowl and started slicing mozzarella so quickly it made him fear for her fingers. By the time he’d finished tearing, she had neat little bowls of accoutrements, most of which he recognized. She rubbed the crusts with olive oil, then scattered them with mozzarella, some of his basil and then some prosciutto. Then she lifted the boards, one in each hand. “Come. We grill now. Oh, and be a love and get me a glass of whatever it is you’re drinking.”
He nodded as he watched her walk from the kitchen. His gaze moved down the length of her, wishing he could see more of her curves. What he did see appealed in a way that surprised the hell out of him.
This Margot was something outside his ken. Brash, focused and a little nuts. But interesting. Definitely Chelsea. Completely not Greenwich.
He thought again about his excuses to leave. Now would be the perfect time. No one would think he was escaping. On the other hand, that pizza sounded really good.
3
MARGOT PLACED THE FIRST PIZZA on the grill, then the second. She stepped back, almost tripping on her little flower box, the one she was preparing for herbs. Her flowers were doing really well, but the herb thing was giving her fits. She’d tried basil, marjoram, dill, parsley and a bunch of others, but the only thing that had grown successfully was the parsley. But, she’d give it another go. Maybe get some grow lights.
Devon joined her outside, closing the sliding-glass door behind him. “So, what do you think?
She smiled. “He’s yummy plus ten.”
“No kidding. If I wasn’t—”
“But you are.”
“Very.”
“And he’s not.”
Devon sighed. “Nope. Straight as an arrow. But you know my philosophy.”
“Right. No man is truly straight. Only uneducated.”
Devon lifted his highball glass. “Amen.”
She looked past him to see the man in question, still wearing his jacket and tie, smiling rather confusedly at Anya. “I want to rip off his clothes—”
“Margot!”
“—and put him in some Dolce & Gabbana. Hell, even Tommy Hilfiger would be better than that getup.”
Devon stood next to her, watching Daniel. “He works out.”
“You think?”
“I saw him without the jacket. Yep.”
“Ah, nice.”
“So, you going for it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He turned, putting his free hand on her shoulder. “I meant for the whole nine yards.”
“Oh.”
“Come on, babycakes. This boy needs you. Look at him. He doesn’t have a clue. Face it, it’s destiny.”
“Dev, the guy just moved in. I’ve talked to him for thirty seconds.”
“I knew the moment I laid eyes on him. He’s for you. Ready to be molded by your incredible style. He’s clay, darling. Unformed. Pliable. Needy.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see. I can’t make a decision that momentous until I learn some things.”
“Like what?”
She checked her pizzas. They were almost done. The serving platters and the cutter were at the ready. “I have no clue if the man has a sense of humor. And as we all know, that’s a deal breaker.”
“That’s it?”
“No. He also needs to be teachable.”
“He moved here from Greenwich, Connecticut. He’s teachable.”
“Unless he’s clueless.”
He turned around to face the door. “He’s too delicious to dismiss out of hand. Take off those glasses, give him a decent haircut, and honey, it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t tie his own shoes.”
“Devon, go inside.”
“Spoilsport.”
She gave him a little push, and he went to join the others. Margot got busy with the pizza, transferring it onto the platter and cutting it into pieces. All the while, she kept thinking about Daniel. Devon was right. He was the most scrumptious man she’d seen in years. Totally adorable. And clearly in need of her particular talents. But would he go for it? And did she want it to be more than a makeover?
She thought about her friends online, and how she hadn’t been participating with the group much since she got her new job. Eve’s Apple was what they called themselves. A group of brilliant and witty women from all over the country who met in a chat room to talk about life, books, sex. Several years ago, the original founders of the group had begun something called Men To Do. The premise was that there were men out there who were completely inappropriate for the long term. Dangerous men. Foolish choices. Men you wouldn’t take home to mother.
Margot had participated in every aspect of Eve’s Apple, except for that last one. She’d thought about having a Man To Do, but when push came to shove, she’d never found anyone she wanted like that.
These men were for sex only. Not relationships. And despite being too hip to live, according to her friends, Margot was a throwback to a different time. A die-hard romantic, which was not exactly in sync with her New York lifestyle. She didn’t want a tissue of a guy, to discard after one use. She wanted a keeper. But as time went by, and she got older and older—jeez, next March she’d be thirty—the reality of her life was getting harder to deny. She was lonely. Not for friends, she had those in spades. But for love. Or at least lust. The whole vibrator thing was getting old fast. She wanted someone to share her bed. And who knows, maybe Daniel Houghton III was the ticket.
She finished slicing the pizza and went inside. The gang glommed on to the food as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. All except Daniel, of course, who still looked as if he’d been transported through the looking glass. Poor baby. He had no idea what to make of his fellow tenants. His widened gaze moved over the group and ended up locking with hers. She smiled. He smiled back.
Oh, my. Heart flutters. Flutters lower down. All kinds of inexplicable flutters. She moved toward him, bearing appetizers. “Care for some?”
He hadn’t looked away. Barely even blinked. Something was happening here. She wasn’t sure if he was scared to death or interested. She chose to believe it was interest.
He finally glanced at the remainder of the pizza and took a small piece. She had time to admire his lovely teeth while he took a bite. Excellent hygiene. A plus in anyone’s book. But God, she wanted to see him without that jacket. Actually, she wanted to see him in a lot less than that, but she’d settle.
She swung her platter-bearing hand to the right. “Take these, will ya?”
The platter was gone, and she had absolutely no interest in who’d taken over as hostess. Her focus was on Daniel. “It’s just us,” she said.
He blinked. She loved when he did that. Confusion on Daniel was like caviar on a blini. “Pardon?”
“Us. The gang. Informal.”
This time he didn’t blink. But his right eyebrow arched delightfully.
She decided to give him a tiny hint. Moving none too quickly—she didn’t want him to spook—she maneuvered herself behind him, then reached over his broad shoulders and gently took hold of his lapels.
He jumped, and she thought she heard a little gasp. But he didn’t stop her as she stripped him of the offending garment. She was so taken with what lay beneath, she let the jacket slip from her fingers.
Oh, he did work out. Yes indeedy. Those broad shoulders needed no help from padding. Her fingers itched to keep on going. To take off the purple tie, un-button the oxford shirt. Touch the heat of his flesh. But since she didn’t want him to run screaming to the police, she did the next best thing. She looked down at his butt.
Slim hips. Nice, nice, nice. And what an ass. She knew. She was something of a connoisseur when it came to that part of the anatomy, and if his wasn’t worthy of a ten-minute standing ovation, then nothing was.
God, what an incredible hypocrite she was. She hated it when men were only interested in her body, either pro or con. Thought it was shallow and despicable. And here she was drooling over this virtual stranger. It was awful. Horrible. She’d have a serious talk with herself after she got in bed tonight. Eventually.
He turned, surprised to find his jacket puddled on the hardwood floor. “Is it dead?”
She grinned. “Not yet. Just wounded.”
“I promise, next time I’ll try harder to fit in.”
“No. You’re perfect.”
He blushed. She couldn’t believe how bad she was being. She was obviously channeling Samantha from Sex and the City. Cool.
After clearing his throat, he shook his head a little, and gave her a real hard look, squinching his eyes and everything. “I don’t know how to talk to you.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Does it get easier?”
She sighed. “Oh, yeah. Well, for the most part. I can be pretty strange.”
“You sure make a mean pizza.”
She grabbed his upper arms. Both of them. “Pizza.”
“What?”
“Come with me.”
He looked briefly to his left, to the door, then back at her. “Uh, now?”
“Yes, now.” She let his shoulders go, but grabbed his hand, just in case he wanted to make a break for it. They walked past the big couch, the one she’d recovered in a dreamy cream suede, where Corrie, Anya and Rocco were laughing, past the hutch she’d gotten from her mother, into the kitchen.
The dough was on the counter. “You ever make a pizza?”
“I’ve ordered plenty.”
She nodded. “Good enough.” She handed him the rolling pin. “Roll it out.”
He took to his task with the kind of concentration usually reserved for neurosurgeons. Eyebrows together, straight front teeth chewing on the lower lip. He attacked the round ball of dough, first pressing too hard, then easing up so much he didn’t make a dent. But he learned quickly. Soon, he had the right pressure, he even had turned the dough and smoothed it out to a really even oval.
“You were kidding me, right?” she asked. “You studied pizza making for years.”
He smiled and the effect it had on his face was nothing less then stellar. Holy Chihuahua! Before she could stop herself, she reached up and slipped his glasses off his face. His eyes widened with surprise. They were blue. Cerulean blue, which she’d seen on paint samples, but never on a living human. A person could swim in those eyes. Even his eyelashes made her swoon. Thick, dark, long.
“I need those,” he said.
“Why?”
“To see.”
“No. Why not contacts?”
“I tried them once. They were annoying.”
“A little like me, huh?”
“You’re not annoying.”
“Ha.” She got out the tomato sauce and the pepperoni. “Another, please,” she said, nodding at the dough.
Daniel immediately went to work, this time very much at ease. “You’re not. You’re just different.”
“From?”
“Other people I know.”
“Ah.”
He paused, took his glasses from where she’d left them on the counter and put them back on. “So you’re a food stylist?”
“Yep.”
“Which is what, exactly?”