Romantically Challenged (12 page)

“The best breakfast place I know,” he said.

“Which is?”

“My house. Assuming that’s okay with you. I figured now that you knew my whole life story it would be okay for us to meet in private.”

“You did, huh?”

“Yes. If I were going to murder you I wouldn’t do it at my house. Too obvious.”

“But maybe that’s just what you would want people to think. Then they wouldn’t suspect you.”

“No, they still would. I’d be the last person to have seen you alive.”

“But how would the police know that?”

“I’m sure your friend Kaitlyn would tell them. Don’t tell me you didn’t tell her about our plans?”

“No, I told her. But maybe you were planning on killing her too—too keep her quiet.”

“That’s a great idea. Where does she live? We can stop and pick her up on the way.”

“She’s not home.”

He snapped his fingers. “Too bad. I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with just breakfast. We’ll save the double homicide for another day.”

It was eighty-five degrees and sunny. A perfect day for a drive with the top down. We wound our way west along Sunset Boulevard and I had to fight to keep from singing along to all the Beatles songs blaring from the car stereo. I’d just glimpsed the Pacific Ocean when Joe turned off Sunset onto a tree-lined side street. After a succession of lefts and rights, I quickly lost my bearings. I’d never driven through the Pacific Palisades before and had no idea where we were.

Joe pulled into a circular driveway at the end of a cul-de-sac and parked in front of a huge peach stucco house with white shutters and a red-tiled roof.

“You live here?” I didn’t think bartender/caterers made that much money.

“It’s my aunt’s house. I live in the guesthouse out back.”

Joe led me down a gray flagstone path, around the house, and out to the backyard. I followed him past the patio and the Olympic-sized swimming pool, to a cottage in the corner of the yard. It was the same color and style as the main house, but a quarter of the size. Joe led me inside and gave me the tour. The living room, kitchen, bedroom and bath were all decorated in cream and beige with occasional splashes of turquoise and peach.

“My aunt decorated this place years ago,” he said.

“I assumed. You didn’t strike me as a turquoise and peach kind of guy.”

He flashed me his perfect smile and led me back to the kitchen. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“What are my choices?”

“Eggs, an omelet, pancakes—you name it.”

“How about a bagel?” I asked.

“Sorry,” he said. “No bagels. But I have English muffins.”

“Do you have blueberry muffins?”

He opened the refrigerator and scoured every shelf. “I’m out of blueberries. How about banana muffins?”

“I hate bananas.”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Wait here,” he said and grabbed his keys from the counter.

Now I felt bad. “You don’t have to do that. An English muffin is fine. Or pancakes. Whatever you feel like making.”

“No, I promised you the best breakfast in town and I intend to deliver. I’m sure my aunt has some. I’ll be right back.”

I settled into the overstuffed living room chair and read the travel section of the Sunday paper, careful to make sure the newsprint didn’t stain the cream cushions. Joe returned a few minutes later with a pint of blueberries.

From my perch on the high-backed kitchen counter stool, I watched Joe measure, mix, pour, and fold. Then I licked the batter bowl while he squeezed orange juice and ground coffee. Half an hour later we were sitting at a wrought-iron table on his aunt’s patio eating warm blueberry muffins and cold strawberries with cream. I could get used to this.

When we’d finished eating, Joe disappeared into the guesthouse. He returned a few minutes later carrying two towels, which he spread out on the lounge chairs next to the deep end of the pool. I grabbed my purse and joined him in the sun.

“Do you want to go for a swim?” he asked after we’d settled in.

“I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”

He turned on his side to face me. “You don’t need one,” he said with a wicked grin. “It’s a private pool.”

I hadn’t intended to have the “just friends” discussion until the end of the day, but if he was planning on us getting naked, then I needed to move it up. “Listen Joe, I think we should talk.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It’s nothing bad. I just think it would be better if we didn’t get romantically involved.”

“It’s only a swim, Julie. Don’t make more of it then it is.”

Typical man. “Joe, I’m not looking for an afternoon quickie. I’m looking for a relationship. Something potentially long-term.”

“I’m not making any promises, but I don’t have any commitment phobias, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He wasn’t making this easy. “That’s not it. I just think it would be better if we kept this platonic.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t see this relationship going anywhere.”

“How come?”

“We’re not compatible.” It was the first thing that popped into my head.

“You don’t know that. We just met.”

“Trust me,” I said. “I know.”

“How?”

Most guys would’ve let it go by this point. Either he was incredibly inquisitive, unbelievably horny, or he actually liked me. I didn’t know him well enough to know which one.

I ran through my options. I could only think of two plausible lies. I could tell him I was getting back together with my ex-boyfriend, or I could tell him we didn’t have any chemistry. The problem with the second lie was that he’d probably try to prove me wrong and I didn’t think I was strong enough to pass the test. Since he didn’t know about Scumbag, the first lie might work. But then if we did become friends, he would ultimately find out the truth, and then he’d hate me for lying to him.

I didn’t see any alternative. I was going to have to be honest. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Joe, but you’re just not husband material.”

He sat up in his lounge chair and faced me. “Really. Why is that?”

“Because you’re a wannabe.”

“I’m a what?”

“You’re a wannabe. A want-to-be actor.”

“I’m not a wannabe actor!” he said in an octave higher than his normal voice. “I
was
an actor. Now I’m a chef. If I’m a wannabe anything, it’s a wannabe restaurateur.”

There was no point in arguing. I laid back down. “Fine, Joe. Whatever. But all we’re ever going to be is just friends.”

“Let me see if I understand this,” he said, even louder this time. “You don’t want to go out with me because you think I want to be an actor, even though I told you that I
was
an actor and
now
I’m a chef.”

“You’re telling me that if someone offered you a role in a movie right now you would turn it down?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I might. It would depend on the role.”

“Exactly. You haven’t given up the dream. You’re still a wannabe.”

“And you’ve got something against wannabes?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been burned before.”

“We’ve all been burned before. It doesn’t mean you stop living.”

Now my voice rose too. “I haven’t stopped living! I just don’t want to date you.” What an ego!

“But you want us to be friends?”

I wasn’t so sure anymore. “I thought it might be nice, but not if you don’t want to.”

He stood up and told me to stand up too.

“Why?”

“Can’t you do one simple thing without an argument?”

I stood up.

In a romantic gesture worthy of a Harlequin Romance novel, he put one arm around my back, the other under my knees, and lifted me up in his arms. “Are you sure you want to be my friend?” he asked.

“Why?”

He walked over to the edge of the pool and threw me in.

Swimming Without A Suit

The water was freezing and tasted like chlorine. When my butt hit the bottom of the deep end, I kicked back up to the surface. After I stopped choking, I swam to the side of the pool and hauled myself out.

The goose bumps on my arms made me look like a plucked chicken. My clothes were clinging to me and I was only wearing one shoe. Its mate was somewhere at the bottom of the deep end. It wasn’t worth retrieving. The tan sandal on my right foot was clearly ruined.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” I screamed.

“We’re friends aren’t we?” he said. “That’s just the kind of thing I do with my friends.” He was trying hard to keep the smile from his face, but he couldn’t quite pull it off.

“You’re a real prick.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” This time he let the smile shine through.

I could’ve killed him. Instead, I grabbed him by the T-shirt and attempted to push him into the water. He managed to disentangle himself from my grip, and in the process I lost my balance and fell back into the pool. This time I lost the other shoe.

I heard his laughter as soon as I broke the surface. “Would you like me to help you get out of those wet clothes?” he asked after I’d hauled myself out for the second time.

“Is that what you do for your friends?”

He ignored my sarcasm. “Not usually, but for you I’ll make an exception.”

I looked down at my now see-through tank top. My nipples were standing at attention. I pulled the towel off the lounge chair and wrapped it around my shoulders, covering my chest. “Just take me home.”

“Are you sure? We could lay here and sunbathe while we wait for your clothes to dry?”

“I want to leave. Now!”

“Whatever you say,” he said. “I’ll go get my keys.”

I sat on the edge of the lounge chair and steamed. He returned minutes later jangling a ring of keys in his hand. “Ready?” he asked.

“I need my shoes. They’re at the bottom of the pool.”

“I can wait.”

“I thought maybe you could get something to fish them out. Don’t you have one of those things with the net people use to clean the pool?”

“I don’t know. My aunt has a pool service.” He must’ve caught my glare. “But I’ll look.”

He dropped his keys onto the other lounge chair and disappeared into the shed near the shallow end. After some clanking and cursing, he returned with a skimmer attached to a ten foot pole. I watched Joe plunge the silver rod into the water and attempt to scoop up the shoes. Every time he’d catch them, they’d slip off the net and he’d have to start all over again.

I sat and waited, in my wet clothes and my bare feet, getting angrier by the second. How dare he throw me in the pool just because I don’t want to go out with him. Who the hell did he think he was?

I wiped my eye makeup off onto his white towel, hoping it would stain. When I looked up, I noticed that he’d switched tactics. He was now trying to push my shoes up the slope into the shallow end. He wasn’t having much success, but it gave me an idea.

I reached over and grabbed Joe’s keys off the lounge chair and slipped them into my purse. Then I waited until he was precariously perched at the edge of the pool, and when his back was towards me, I pushed him in. Then I ran.

With his keys in my hand, I sprinted as fast as I could around the house and out to the driveway. I jumped in his jeep and took off, lunging and lurching down the street. I hadn’t driven a stick shift since college.

I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew I didn’t want to be there when Joe got out of the water. I drove to the end of the block, made a right, a left, another right, and somehow managed to end up back on the same street. Luckily, I recognized Joe’s aunt’s house before I reached it and had started my u-turn when I was still three houses away. Unfortunately, I couldn’t cut the turn tight enough to clear the parked cars. When I put the jeep in reverse and turned around, I saw Joe running towards me in his dripping wet T-shirt and jeans.

I turned forward and shifted the jeep into first gear. It stalled. Shit! I started it up again, pushed the stick shift into first gear, and slowly eased up on the clutch. It stalled again. By the time I started it for the third time, Joe was standing next to me with one hand on the windshield and the other hand on the roll bar. I guess he thought he could physically stop the car from moving forward.

“Enough,” he said. “Give me the keys.”

“Not on your life.”

“Julie, I’m not kidding around. Give me the goddamn keys.”

“If I give you the keys how am I going to get home?”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“If you don’t give me the keys we’re going to be here all night. I’m not letting you leave with my car.”

I believed him. “How about I drive us both to my house and then you can drive yourself home?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because by the time we get to your house I’m not going to have a clutch left.”

He had a point. But I didn’t trust him. I was afraid that if I gave him the keys he would take off and leave me standing in the middle of the street. Scumbag had done that to me once. We’d had an argument in the grocery store parking lot and he drove home without me. Luckily, I only lived six blocks away, so it was an easy walk. Joe’s house was at least ten miles from mine. Too far for an afternoon stroll, especially without shoes.

I shut the ignition and twisted the car key off its ring. Then I stood up and stepped into the passenger seat. With my belt buckled and the rest of Joe’s keys buried at the bottom of my purse, I handed him the ignition key. “Okay, you drive.”

“Am I going to get the rest of my keys back?”

“As soon as I arrive safely at my doorstep.”

He climbed into the driver’s seat and smoothly shifted the jeep into first gear. We took off down the street. About halfway through the silent thirty minute drive to my house,  I caught him glancing at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I only noticed because I was stealing glimpses of him. I still had the towel wrapped around my shoulders. All he had on were his wet clothes. His clinging T-shirt revealed great pecs and a six pack stomach. I looked away. Too bad that body was wasted on a wannabe.

Joe pulled up in front of my apartment building and left the engine running. I unbuckled my seat belt and opened the passenger side door. I’d only managed to maneuver one leg to the ground when he grabbed my arm.