Champagne Cravings (9 page)

He returned to the bed and said, “I’d love to stay. But
you’re gonna have to put something on, or all my convictions will go to hell in
a handbag. I only possess so much willpower when it comes to you.”

His grin made my toes curl. I said, “How about your shirt?”

He stripped it off and gave it to me. I held the material in
both hands and lifted it to my nose, inhaling deeply. “Smells like you,” I said
with a lusty sigh. “It’s perfect.”

I slipped into the tee as he removed his boots and socks and
shucked his jeans. He left his briefs on and climbed into bed next to me. I
snuggled close, not missing the tinge of fear creeping in on me.

I knew not to get too comfortable at this point in the game.
We were still in the first quarter and had a lot at stake. But two things
occurred to me. As Mike had already voiced, we had searing chemistry. In
addition, physical intimacy came naturally to us. Not just of the sexual
variety. There was an innate connection, which—from the moment we’d expanded
the perimeter of our perceived limitations last night—seemed to have left us
with the compulsion to touch each other. Be close to one another.

Obviously, I hadn’t shared this sort of intimacy with a man
in three years. I instantly realized how much I missed it as Mike draped an arm
over my shoulder and I rested my head on his chest. I hadn’t allowed myself
this particular fantasy when it came to him. Granted, I’d had more than my fair
share of erotic fantasies about him, but they never included afterglow and
cuddling. Mostly because I’d never considered him the type to engage in
anything warm and fuzzy following a heated romp between the sheets. Yet he
seemed perfectly comfortable and content stretched out in my king-size bed.

He said, “You won’t mind or read anything into it if I leave
early in the morning, will you?”

I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “Weight-lifting with
the guys Saturdays, Mondays and Wednesdays. I personally think you’re insane,
but the results are phenomenal.”

“Glad you like what you see.”

And then some.

“I don’t mind,” I assured him. “Nor will I read anything
into it.” He’d been outrageously forthcoming this evening. I truly did not
believe he’d be looking to ditch me so quickly.

With a sigh, he said, “It’s too bad, really. I’d enjoy
Saturday morning under the covers with you.”

“It’s a shame neither one of us can cook. Breakfast in bed
would be nice.”

“I can flip pancakes on a griddle,” he told me. “If you can
mix the batter. I always end up with lumps.”

I laughed. “Born and raised in Cheyenne and flipping
hotcakes is the most you have to offer?”

“Actually, no,” he said in a contemplative tone. “I can
barbecue. But the building association won’t let me put a grill on my patio.
That’s why we eat out or order in so much.”

“Beats the hell out of grocery shopping and doing dishes,
anyway. Besides, I need the storage space my unused oven offers. I unplugged it
when I moved in and keep my computer paper and supplies in there.”

His low chuckle filled my quiet bedroom and I found it
arousing. And comforting. “Clever. Thank God we like the same food. Makes ordering
much easier.”

I considered his comment, thinking we had plenty of
differences, but they all seemed inconsequential to me. I’d never minded that
he propped his booted feet on my coffee table when I preferred it to be spic
and span after dusting. I’d never had a problem with the fact he didn’t return
the CDs or the DVDs to their proper slots on the shelves, just teased him about
his need to brush up on the alphabet, because that was how I organized
everything. And when he insisted dogs should always be the pet of choice over
cats, I merely shrugged and said, “To each his own.”

I knew there were likely bigger inconsistencies between us,
but after three years, we knew how to discuss politics without losing our
tempers and we agreed on which TV station had the best newscast and which one
had the worst weather reports. We were very much in-sync.

Quite possibly, that was what disturbed me the most about
the change in our relationship. If I allowed myself, I could see us together.

Unfortunately, shaking off the old to embrace the new was
not something that came easily to me.

As I mulled all of this over, his deep breathing brought a
smile to my face. He’d drifted off to sleep.

I obsessed too much, I decided, when I should simply enjoy
the moment.

So that’s what I did. I listened to Mike’s heartbeat and his
light snoring and I reveled in our time together, praying it wouldn’t be brief.

Besides, it was inescapable that I’d overanalyze everything
in the morning, when he went off to the gym. So while I could, why not take
advantage of the comforting respite that enveloped me?

Lacey Mansfield Attempts to Rock It Old School. News
at Ten.

(Or Perhaps Tune Into the Morning News…)

Having unraveled so much of my confining binds led me to
sleep in later than usual. When I woke, I felt refreshed and exuberant. A
titillating and inviting change of pace.

After reluctantly shedding Mike’s shirt, showering and
stepping into a yoga suit, I pulled open the front door on my way to the
coffeehouse. But sitting on my welcome mat was a white bag with the shop’s logo
on it. Grinning, I snatched the sack from the rug and carried it into the
kitchen. I unpacked a large cup of plain, black coffee, still piping hot, and a
bagel with cream cheese and lox.

I stared at the contents I’d removed from the bag and found
it incredibly sweet and highly disarming that Mike knew exactly how I would
have ordered breakfast this morning, were I the one who’d made the run to the
coffeehouse. He, in turn, would prefer an ice-cold glass of milk and a bagel
with ham, cheese and a fried egg.

Aside from off-the-charts chemistry, the details were what
mattered most to me. Not just remembering my birthday or my favorite color.
Mike knew those things, but he also knew what food I liked. He hadn’t had to ask
when ordering Chinese last night. Nor did he bother to add cream or sugar
packets to this morning’s delivery, because he knew that, in my mind, nothing
beat a steaming cup of unenhanced, no-frills, average joe.

Though Mike was obviously back from the gym, I didn’t want
to disturb him. So I sent a quick “thank you” text to him, then popped the lid
off the coffee and carried everything over to the table. I spread out the
transcripts I’d brought home and waded through them as I devoured breakfast. By
early evening, I’d only made it through half the stack of papers, but I had
divided out some of the transcripts, setting aside curious emails that needed
to be linked together in order to tell a more accurate story.

I knocked off in time to primp and dress before catching a
cab to Velage, arriving right on time. There was a line at the door and I
wondered how I’d even get into the popular venue, not having any personal clout
or even a reservation. Plenty of people before me were turned away. I didn’t
have Biel’s number, but she had my card. Hopefully, she’d give me a jingle if I
didn’t make the grade with the hostess.

When I stepped up to her podium, I announced, “I’m meeting
Biel McKinley,” and felt ridiculous for saying so. Who would ever believe me?

Sure enough, the twenty-something waif sized me up. In a
haughty tone, she asked, “And you are?”

“Lacey Mansfield.”

She consulted the open reservation book lying flat on her
stand and then gave a quick nod. “Come with me,” she said in a more congenial
tone, since my name was “on the list”.

Ah, I’d not been publicly humiliated with roaring laughter
over having claimed I was supposed to be here with a supermodel. Thank God. And
Biel.

I followed the hostess into the chic nightclub that was
decorated in pewter and silver with crisp white linen on the tables and dozens
of candles glowing seductively, providing the majority of light. The atmosphere
was elegant and warm, yet still edgy enough to be trendy. In a far corner by
one of the bars, the hostess sat me at a large table elevated along the back
wall and accompanied by a curving, plush, charcoal-gray sofa that created a
semicircle big enough for six or seven people.

“Miss McKinley hasn’t arrived yet,” I was informed. The
hostess shifted her attention from me and called out to a waitress, “Maxine,
VIP! Miss Mansfield.” Then she turned sharply on her mile-high heels and
sauntered off.

Many pairs of eyes were on me and I felt like the meek lamb
who’d mistakenly wandered into the lion’s den.

I set aside my small clutch as Maxine swooped in. “Hi there.
What can I get for you, Miss Mansfield?”

I was tempted to say cosmo, but knew Mike was right. Too
cliché. So I jumped off the cliff with a very confident tone. “Gibson, please.
And Lacey is fine.” Formality was never the order of the day for me.

My drink request was met with a blank expression from the
server, who I pegged to be nineteen or twenty. “I’m sorry?”

With a sigh, I said, “It’s a gin and vermouth martini with a
pearl onion.”

“Hmm. I’ll see if we have that.” She smiled politely, then
made a beeline for the bartender.

Should have stuck with the cosmo…

While I waited for Biel to arrive and wondered what she
considered fashionably late, the bartender shook up my cocktail with a smile
and delivered it personally to me.

“No one orders a Gibson anymore,” he said in a friendly,
though somewhat delicate voice as he set the martini glass lavished with three
tiny, speared onions balancing across the rim in front of me. “But I keep
stocking pickled onions every week, regardless.”

“You’re a fan?”

He nodded emphatically. “My dad used to drink them and he
was terribly classy. You obviously have exceptional taste. Love the suit. Very
Ingrid Bergman. Or is it Lauren Bacall I’m thinking of?”

“Bacall. She had a great figure for suits. Always looked so
sharp.”

“You do too.” He flashed me an appreciative grin, though I
suspected he was gay. Even having been subjected to numerous Bacall movies,
Mike would never think to compare me to a Hollywood icon who wore suits. He’d
no doubt prefer it if he could relate me to lingerie model.

“Well, enjoy your drink,” the bartender said. “And let me
know when you need another one. I’m George.”

“Thanks, George.”

As he returned to his station behind the bar, I ventured a
sip of my Gibson. The martini was excellent and the onions lent a subtle, yet
somehow tantalizing taste to the cocktail when I dropped them into the glass. I
adventurously bit into one and found the slight tartness a nice contrast to the
alcohol and the onion flavor was mild and complementary to the drink.

Way to go, Mike.

Just thinking of him made me smile.

“Oh thank God you’re not grumpy because I’m late.” Biel’s
distinctive voice nabbed my attention. She slipped gracefully into the booth at
the end opposite me and let out a long breath. “So sorry. Piper and I had this
huge fight and I was, like, ‘Why are you doing this to me after such a horrific
evening at the Montlimiere?’ She was totally beside herself and said, ‘I saw
how you looked at Lacey at the launch, before I left for my other appointment.
And then you got off on her watching us in the studio. What the hell?’.”

Biel waved her hand in the air in what seemed to be a
typical fashion for her. Continuing on, she said, “So I’m not allowed to look
at other women? God forbid I find someone else attractive? I mean, it’s not
like I asked you to join us this afternoon!”

I nearly spewed Gibson. This drew Biel’s gaze to my drink.

“What is that?” she asked as she shifted on the seat and
scooted around the semicircle to sit right next to me.

“Gibson,” I told her as my eyes watered from having almost
snorted gin through my nose. “Martini with pearl onions.”

“Huh.” She studied my glass, then asked, “You mind?”

“No, go ahead.”

She took a sip and perked right up. “Oh that’s tasty!”

Maxine appeared suddenly and Biel ordered a round for us
both. Two women at a regular table on the level lower than ours eyed us
curiously and whispered indiscreetly. Biel smiled at them and wiggled her long
fingers in a little wave.

Lifting my glass to them, she said, “It’s a Gibson.”

Catching Maxine before she made her way to the bar, Biel
called out, “Two more, please, for these lovely ladies.”

I stared at her, astonished. “They were just gossiping about
you.”

“I know.” She tossed back her dark auburn hair and settled
more comfortably in the seat. “The men who watch me walk by are much more
blatant—but nothing terribly offensive is really going through their minds
except ‘nice tits’ or ‘tight ass’ or ‘damn, I’d love to bang her’. The women,
however… They’re all looking for something to criticize that makes them feel
better about their own bodies.”

“Well, sure. You’re perfect.”

“No, I am not,” she insisted. “Believe me. But it’s like
that scene in
Eyes Wide Shut
, you know, with Tom Cruise and Nicole
Kidman?”

I nodded. “I’ve seen it.”

“Okay, so Nicole is in the bathroom getting ready for a
party or something and she’s just in her underwear and she’s absolutely lovely.
Flawless. And you really want to hate her for it.”

“I’ve experienced that feeling a time or two,” I deadpanned.

Ignoring my comment and my sardonic tone, Biel said, “Well,
then the camera pans over her body and you see this tiny dimple in her ass—and
what’s the first thing that goes through every woman’s mind? ‘Oh my God! Nicole
Kidman has cellulite!
Hallelujah
, she’s just like the rest of us!’ And
they tell all their friends and the men in their lives and that makes them feel
better.”

She paused as Maxine delivered drinks. Once again, she
raised her glass to the two women at the other table and said “Cheers!” in her
vibrant tone, then returned to her conspiratorial diatribe.

“So they’re just hoping they find something about me to make
a claim about what a bitch I am or how I don’t look nearly as good in person as
I do on TV or in magazines. Someone must airbrush me or some such thing.”

“In other words, you don’t give them a reason to feel
inferior around you.” Like the eye contact at the launch. There hadn’t been a
hint of snobbery in her eyes, just confidence and maybe a twinkle of delight
she was fortunate enough to be Biel McKinley. And once she’d made that eye
contact with me, hadn’t I wanted to save her from public humiliation?

Hmm. Smart cookie, she was.

“Well, I’m not a bitch,” she said with conviction.

“Doesn’t the scrutiny make you crazy?”

She laughed. “Are you kidding? I’ve been modeling since I
was seven. There’s absolutely no escaping public attention or criticism. You
learn to live with it.”

Biel had a healthy outlook on the microscope under which she
lived, but it also seemed she garnered life lessons from movies too, suggesting
she was intuitive and perceptive.

“So, you’ve never considered leaving the industry?” I’d
wondered about that the other night, when I’d been curious if the Montlimiere
disaster was a way for Biel to get out of the business.

But she said, “Hell, no. I love being the center of
attention.” She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I wouldn’t know what to do
with myself if I passed magazine stands and never saw my face on a cover
again.”

“And what about Piper?” I had to ask. “Does she mind sharing
you with the masses?”

“No, not that masses,” she said. “Piper loves the limelight
too. In fact, that’s why I was so thrown by her rant this afternoon. We’d
weathered the debacle at the product launch, so it was a complete surprise for
her to go off on me today. She gets jealous and insecure so easily.”

Biel reached for her drink and took a deep sip. Then she let
out a long sigh and said, “She broke up with me.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a shrug. “I mean, this
isn’t the first time. She broke up with me a year ago over something so stupid
I can’t even recall what it was. And then she did it again about six months
later, because I wouldn’t wear the diamond ring she gave me on my left hand.
How idiotic is that? We’re committed to each other and who cares which hand I
wear the ring on?”

“Why haven’t you two gone public?”

Biel needed another gulp of gin to fortify herself. Then she
looked me straight in the eye and said, “I know there aren’t any legal
ramifications anymore, but Piper and I first got together when I was sixteen.
She was twenty. Whether my parents would have wigged over that and charges
could have been pressed, I don’t really know. I’m not sure how statutory rape
works with lesbians. But we didn’t want anyone to know so Piper wouldn’t get
into trouble and I wouldn’t lose her. That’s just the way it’s always been
between us. An old habit I can’t break.”

“Do you think if people knew now, the pressure or backlash
or whatever would be too great to keep you together?”

She lifted her hands in the air in an erratic fashion. “I
can’t predict what will tear us apart these days. I seriously don’t know
anymore. She loves me, I don’t doubt that for a second. Frankly, I think it
scares the hell out of her, so she breaks up with me in order to retain some
sort of control over the situation.”

Tears pooled in Biel’s emerald eyes and they tugged on my
heartstrings.

“I can relate to how she feels,” I told her. But that didn’t
make it right—for Piper or myself—did it?

I thought of Mike and how he’d admitted to not having slept
with a woman for months. I hadn’t really allowed myself to see that because I’d
come to the conclusion that he’d always be with a woman, one right after the
other. Yet perhaps because I had such strong feelings for him, which I’d
successfully buried until recently, I hadn’t permitted myself to acknowledge
that he’d been spending more time at my apartment lately than out on the town
or at his own place.

He’d been comfortable using my shower when his was out of
commission because my pad was his home away from home. And the honest-to-God
truth was…that made me happy.

In addition, falling asleep with him in my bed last night
had been equally delightful, though I’d been slightly relieved he hadn’t been
there in the morning, since I’d needed time to process our evening together.

But what Biel said about Piper trying to stay in control of
the romance because Piper’s feelings scared her was most definitely something
I’d have to ponder—as it applied to my situation—when I returned to my apartment.