City Chicks

Chapter 10

Ten

Two hours and countless subway stops on what felt every line in the Metro Transit Authority later we arrived at my front door. I was exhausted and filthy and out of breath from running up the ten flights to my floor, but surprisingly enough I was having a good time.

Now I knew what older women saw in younger men.

“Admit it,” Phelps teased as he poked me in the ribs, “you had fun on the subway.”

I looked into those beautiful blue eyes and saw all the exuberance that was missing in my life. If only I were a few years younger.

“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly, “it was actually pretty fun.” My mother would have a heart attack if she ever found out. “You can’t say anything about this on Saturday.”

“About what? The subway?”

“Yes. It would kill my mother to learn I spent a night riding mass transit. For fun.”

Phelps just smiled. Not that cocky, arrogant smile that grated my nerves—even though I was beginning to appreciate that smile, against my better judgment. No, this was a soft smile of indulgence. Of admiration.

“You, Lydia Vanderwalk,” he said as he stepped closer and lifted a hand to my cheek, “are some piece of work.”

His hand slipped behind my head and I felt the warm heat of his palm urge me closer. Hypnotized by his flame blue gaze, I leaned forward until my lips met his.

This was no hot and heavy, for public display kiss.

This was gentle and tender and I felt it all the way down to the tips of my toes.

My first response was, Why? Why was Phelps kissing me in this seriously romantic way?

But when he tilted his head and nibbled on my lower lip all questions—indeed all thought—ceased to matter. The soft fullness of his lips rubbed rhythmically against mine with a gentle pressure that begged me to open my mouth.

I was just about to accommodate when I heard a loud—as in this-is-not-the-first-second-or-third-attempt loud—ah-hem from behind me.

Reluctantly pulling away, I turned to find Gavin standing in the hall. He looked furious.

I glance at Phelps, who looked gloatful—was that even a word?

At least now I knew why Phelps had kissed me.

It had all been for show.

“So sorry to interrupt,” Gavin said as he thrust a grocery bag in my face, “but I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

Stepping out of the awkward entanglement with Phelps I took the bag. I hefted the several pounds of small, wrapped goodies and sighed. What was this? A peace offering? A bribe? A play in the chess match between him and Phelps?

“I know,” I said.

Gavin scowled. “Did you listen to my messages?”

I nodded.

“Lyd, we need to talk. Can we—”

“Take a hint, man,” Phelps said. “She’s not interested.”

“Listen, pretty boy, this is between Lydia and me.” Gavin poked Phelps in the chest and I had a feeling this situation was going very wrong very fast.

I needed to step in. “Wait, let’s—”

“Looks like I’m right in the middle of it.” Phelps released me a stepped closer to Gavin, chest trust out like a strutting pigeon. “You show up here with a bag of junk and—”

“Really, boys—”

“You need to get out of the middle.” Gavin poked Phelps in the chest with two fingers. “And it’s not junk to Lydia.”

I clutched the bag to my chest.

This situation was escalating much too quickly. And nosy Mrs. Peepers—I didn’t know her real name, but that fit the busybody well enough—was peering through the crack between door and jamb with avid interest.

“Can we please go inside and—”

Phelps threw his hands up in the air. “What is the big deal about a bunch of candy?”

I gasped.

Both men turned to look at me with disbelief.

The hallway fell silent.

I closed my eyes against seeing understanding wash over Gavin’s face. He of all people would know that any man seriously interested in me would know about my candy addiction. That Phelps obviously didn’t know... well, that was a problem.

The game was up.

Gavin smirked. “Have you been keeping your little problem a secret from Phelpsy here?”

But I wasn’t going out without a fight.

The condescension in his tone pushed me too far. “What I have or haven’t told Phelps is none of your business. You lost the right to meddle in my affairs a long time ago.” I stepped between the two raging testosterone-fed egos and faced Gavin with all the confidence I could muster. “Please leave.”

He looked like I’d slapped him.

Backing away slowly, he scowled as he said, “You always were quick to defend whatever side I wasn’t on. It was a wonder we lasted as long as we did.”

I stared blankly at Gavin’s back as he stalked away, slamming the door to the emergency stairwell behind him.

What had that parting comment meant?

For years I had been the dutiful girlfriend, blindly taking Gavin’s side in everything despite mounting evidence of his unfaithfulness. When he started staying late at the office five nights a week, I made excuses to family and friends that he was working really hard at his very demanding job. When he went away for long working weekends I attended all those social functions alone, putting on a happy face to hide the fact that our relationship was sinking fast.

“You should’ve let me punch him at the party.”

Phelps placed his hands on my shoulders, giving me a reassuring massage. I turned into him, burying my face in his shoulder as tears of confusion and doubt stung my eyes. In his comforting embrace I let out all the frustration of two long years. Two years wondering what had gone wrong, what I had done do drive Gavin away.

Wondering how I hadn’t been good enough.

Though I told myself it was better this way, there were still times on dark, lonely nights that I wondered if it might have been better if I’d never caught Gavin red-handed. If we’d just gone on as we were, gotten married, and lived the kind of marriage so typical of our peers.

Suddenly I felt very alone.

It had been two years since I’d been held like this. Like I mattered. Like I was cherished.

And it felt good.

Awkwardly wiping at my tears, I looked up into Phelps’ brilliant blue eyes smiling down at me and smiled. I never wanted this feeling to end. “Want to come inside.”

His smile faltered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He smoothed back the hair hanging across my eyes. “Not in your current state.”

“Just for coffee?” He looked doubtful, so I added, “Promise.”

He considered the offer for a minute before relenting. “One cup.”

“I know I’ve got a coffee pot around here somewhere.” I rifled through all eighteen cabinets in my kitchen until I found the hunted appliance. “Ah-ha!”

“Not a coffee drinker, are you?”

Phelps looked around my apartment for the first time, and I wondered what it would look like to a relative stranger. Bland probably. Most everything was cream, beige, taupe, or a combination of the three.

Sheer cream drapes. Taupe sofa. Cream and taupe throw pillows. Ooh, there was ivory in the wallpaper.

The only real color and warmth in the apartment came from the wood furniture. The rich walnut coffee and end tables, media cabinet, and bookshelves. Somehow the deep auburn-brown turned the beige room into a welcoming home.

Or so I hoped.

“I managed to get through college without catching the coffee bug.” Plugging in the ancient coffeemaker—a graduation present from not-so-close Aunt Essie—I wiped off a layer of dust before taking the pot to the sink and filling it with water.

Phelps returned to the kitchen and leaned against the counter. “Candy’s more your thing.”

I had expected the questions. But that didn’t mean I wanted to answer them. As I poured the water into the well I shrugged.

Water dribbled down the pot and all over the counter.

“Want to talk about it?” He pushed away from the counter and tore some paper towels off the roll hanging beneath the cupboard by the sink. Mopping up the dribbled water, he offered, “I’m a great listener.”

“Can you grab the coffee from the freezer?” I asked, fully aware of my weak diversionary tactics.

Phelps was also a great interpreter, because he read my unwillingness to talk and let the subject of candy go. “If you don’t drink coffee, why do you have three bags of it in your freezer?”

“I have friends. Family, too.”

He started to read the label but I grabbed it away before he could finish. “Did that say Thin Mint Blend?” I scowled and started to retort, but he interrupted. “Never mind, forget I asked. You got music in this joint?”

I nodded to the armoire and went about making the coffee as Phelps flipped through my meager CD collection.

“The Bangles. Cindy Lauper. Boy George.” The sound of CD cases clicking against each other as he flipped echoed through the apartment. “What decade are you from?”

“Every girl is an 80s girl,” I answered.

Phelps plucked out a CD and popped it into the stereo. Soon the sounds of Etta James filled the room and my mood cheered exponentially.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“You can’t ask a woman that question.”

“But you asked me.” He returned to the kitchen and searched through cupboards until he found a pair of coffee mugs. “It’s only fair.”

When he lifted one mug in question, I nodded. “I’ll have tea.” No need to mention it was peppermint tea. “And it’s not the same. You’re a guy.”

“Thanks for noticing, but it’s still your turn.”

I punched the on button before turning to face him and his question. “I’m thirty-three.” Crossing my arms across my chest I dared him to tease. “Almost thirty-four.”

He wisely moved ahead without commenting—which I interpreted as “Jeez lady, you’re old!”—and asked, “When’s your birthday?”

“Next month. September 17.”

Maybe he would leave the subject now. I already felt as old as Croesus, and was getting older by the second. Almost to the point of regretting inviting him in.

Almost, but not quite. Feeling crummy and old was better than feeling crummy and alone any day.

“That’s during the trip to Milan,” he exclaimed. “Perfect. We can celebrate in Italy.”

“First of all, I am not celebrating the birthday that will make me irrevocably mid-thirties.” Though the excitement glowing in his beautiful blues could induce a woman to celebrate even her dreaded fortieth birthday, I turned away and worked on making my tea. There were some lines a woman has to draw in the world of birthdays. “And second, you’re not taking me to Italy.”

He came up behind me, so close I could feel the heat of his body. But he didn’t touch me. He just whispered into my ear. “But I want to take you.”

The coffee pot chose that instant to explode.

Forty minutes later I tied my terry robe tightly over my pajamas as the washer in my utility closet spun a dozen coffee-stained towels and Phelps’ clothes dry. My apartment was covered in Carpet Fresh soaked splotches and Phelps sported my fleecy gray robe. And nothing else.

I had to keep reminding myself not to think about that.

“Your clothes should be dry in half an hour.”

“No problem.” He looked me up and down, his attention caught by the neckline of my robe. And the jammies poking through. “Are those candy hearts?”

Clutching the robe tight to my neck, I made sure the terry covered everything. “Of course not, they’re just hearts. Simple, girly, romantic—”

“I can still see the pants, Lydia.”

I looked down to see the candy hearts-covered fabric peeking beneath the hem of my robe. “All right, they’re candy hearts. You have a problem with that?”

He laughed it off and collapsed onto my sofa as if he belonged there. “Not a one, firecracker.”

Phelps had a way of fitting in wherever he was. It was his magical power—one of them, anyway. There was also his taste for adventure, his carefree attitude, his sculpted chest which I could see peeking out from behind my robe.

Which only reminded me that he was wearing nothing—and I meant nothing—underneath. My gaze unconsciously dropped to his basement, as Fiona put it. Darn thick fleecy robe! I couldn’t see anything.

Man, was I so hard up that I was resorting to looking up a guy’s skirts? Good thing he wasn’t wearing a kilt or I’d be upskirting him with my phone.

He smiled like he knew what I’d been thinking. “Come here.” He curled his index finger at me.

“I’m fine where I am.” Leaning against the dining table a good fifteen feet away.

Instead of keeping the comfortable distance between us, he stood and crossed to me. When he was inches away—so close I could smell the faint remains of his aftershave and the lavender water on the robe he wore—he lifted his hands. I braced myself for another kiss.

Well, braced was not the right word. I arched my neck to present my mouth at a better angle, leaned forward, and closed my eyes.

Then I felt his hands on my robe. Pulling it open.

My door buzzer echoed through the apartment.

I laughed at his pained expression.

“Saved by the bell,” I teased.

He released my robe and I made my way to the intercom.

“Hello?”

From the other end of the line I heard a serious of sniffles.

“Hello?” I repeated.

This time I heard a full out sob.

“Hello!”

“L-l-ydiaaa?” a vaguely familiar voice wailed.

“Yes,” I answered hesitantly. “Who is this?”

“K-k-kaaathhhh—”

Now I recognized the voice. “Kathryn?”

All I got was a muffled “Uh-huh.”

She sounded miserable. “Kathryn, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Lydia,” she wailed into the intercom, “my fiancé is having an affair.”