Spicing It Up

She blinked at me. “Sorry. I was being supportive. I’m really excited about this book, and the tour. It’s all so unlike you!”

As complimentary as she’d no doubt intended that to be, it somehow felt like a reverse insult.

“Absolutely,” Carrie chimed in. “You’ve always been so closed off, sweetie.”

Closed off? Because I didn’t discuss my sex life over dinner, or sit around asking everyone to analyze a weird dream I’d had or, as Eric was wont to do, pick up a newspaper and make an announcement whenever I headed for the restroom?

When my cell phone chirped, I dove for my purse like a carb-addict for the last croissant. “Miriam Scott.”

“Miriam, it’s Dylan.” His voice poured across the line, whiskey-smooth. “Is this a bad time?”

“In the course of history, there has never been a time this good.”

There was a pause before he chuckled. “Right, then. I wanted to let you know I finished reading your book.”

“Oh.” And what had been his reaction to “Brownies to Bring Him to his Knees”? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“I don’t want to interrupt your evening, but you said you were accustomed to keeping late hours. I’m a night owl, too, actually, so if you aren’t otherwise engaged after the family dinner, would you like to get started tonight? We could meet at your place. You’ll probably be more comfortable there than at my hotel, and we’ll need somewhere private for the videotaping.”

He’d explained last night that one of the first things we would do was tape me, then work from there once we’d viewed the results. Won’t that be fun? I hadn’t been this excited since my root canal in college.

“Or,” Dylan said when it became clear that my un-enthusiastic silence was stretching on with no end in sight, “we can start fresh in the morning. Entirely your choice.”

Spend time with the man who left me tongue-tied, sweaty-palmed and aching to follow every piece of advice between the pages of my book, or stay here and be further traumatized by mental images of my parents’ love life. “How soon can you get to my place?”

4

The way to a man’s heart is through succulent breasts: Five mouthwatering chicken recipes.

ONCE DYLAN AND I had agreed on the estimated time we both thought it would take us to meet at my apartment, I hung up the phone, struggling to look apologetic about my excuse to leave. My family was understanding, but Mom delayed my departure by insisting she should pack food for Dylan.

“I’m a chef,” I reminded her. “You don’t think I’m capable of feeding a guest? Although it’s probably a moot point, since I’m sure he’s eaten dinner by now.”

“So he can have dessert,” she said as she flipped open cabinets, searching for a travel dish for what was left of the pie. “Don’t underestimate the power of winning a man through food.”

“How could she?” Eric asked from the table. “She wrote the book on it!”

I groaned in my brother’s direction. “Why again would having a man in my life be a good thing?”

Carrie shoved plates in the dishwasher, laughing. “They have their uses. Let me know if you change your mind about wanting one…We have some friends coming in tomorrow for a wedding this weekend, and I think Michelle’s brother is single. Want me to pass on a copy of the book for him? It would give him a glimpse of your picture and your personality, and I can make sure Michelle knows you’re available.”

“That’s not necessary.” Just what I wanted a guy’s first impression of me to be, the big-haired photo and an entire section titled “Asparagus: A Phallic Side Dish with Stamina.” All that plus hints that I was looking to hook up with a stranger? Pure class.

It took a little longer than I’d anticipated to say good-bye, kiss both of my nieces and carry the book box, minus a half-dozen copies, and a plastic container of pie out to my car. I drove home using a somewhat loose interpretation of the speed limit, suddenly aware that my comfy sweatshirt and scuffed jeans weren’t necessarily the clothes I wanted to be wearing to greet Dylan.

Since he was here to consult with me on creating a sexy image, it would be nice if I at least gave him some potential to work with.

Once inside my apartment, I barreled toward my bedroom. I slid open the mirrored door of my closet, eyeing the contents with indecision. I couldn’t even figure out what impression I was shooting for, much less how to accomplish it. Which explained why I needed Dylan’s help in the first place.

I seemed to have a selection of businesslike and formal clothes, which had been appropriate for loan meetings, church, job interviews and most events with Trevor’s moneyed family. Then there were my grungy clothes, which worked for babysitting the twins, making a mess in the kitchen, and watching TV at three in the morning. Didn’t I own anything in between—something casual but flattering, something that would draw a man’s interest without looking like an obvious attempt?

Apparently not.

No wonder I’d barely had any dates in the past six months, as Amanda so frequently reminded me. I would bet money that she’d never had this problem in her life. The woman projected appeal and confidence, and even when she was dressed in ultracasual clothes, her hair and makeup still made her look attractively put together. I’d seen Amanda take fashion risks of mad genius, selecting clothes that made me wince when I saw them at the mall but then drew admiring stares when she wore them in public. I, on the other hand, was just discovering I owned four navy skirts and two pairs of nearly identical low-heeled pumps.

Miriam, you trendsetting daredevil, you.

Cosmetics weren’t my forte, either. As one of the bridesmaids in my cousin Beth’s wedding last summer, I’d tried to use an eyelash curler for the first time and had almost put my eye out. All right, so I’m a tragic spaz when it comes to girlie tools of grooming, but I’m poetry in motion with an herb mincer. And I’d pit my potato-ricing skills against anyone at the CIA—the Culinary Institute of America, not the group with the spies.

The loud buzz of my nonmelodious doorbell left me with mixed emotions. While I regretted not having changed, at least now I could stop fretting in front of my closet, feeling like an idiot because I had zero idea what to wear.

I turned toward the front of the apartment, pulling out the alligator clip I’d had my hair tucked into and fluffing the liberated locks with my fingers. Perhaps it was for the best that I didn’t have time to check my handiwork in a mirror.

Dylan was looking yummier than anything I’d ever cooked, in a pair of gray slacks, a loose-weave mid-night-blue sweater and the same leather jacket he’d worn yesterday. A black camcorder bag was slung over one broad shoulder, and in his hand he held a spiral notebook along with—yipes—a copy of Six Course Seduction. I ushered him inside thinking that here was someone who had probably never felt like an idiot. He had the air of a man who always knew the right thing to say or right tie to wear or right wine to order with a meal. This last analogy reminded me of Trevor the Annoying, but I managed not to grit my teeth as I spoke.

“Hi, your timing’s perfect. I just got back from my parents,” I told him, omitting my flirtation with wardrobe-induced nervous breakdown.

Dylan set his bag on the sand-colored linoleum long enough to shrug out of his jacket. I breathed in the faint whiff of cologne, inhaling as deeply as if I were judging the aroma of a simmering stock.

“I hope you didn’t rush home on my account.” His words distracted me from olfactory nirvana.

“Just the opposite, you did me a favor. I love my family dearly, but…have you ever wanted to move far, far away from your relatives?”

He grinned, his green eyes crinkling at the corners in that unfair way that makes men look rugged and sexy, and women just plain old. “Mine live in London.”

“Ah.” I experienced a spark of kinship over our respective kin. “So you do know the feeling?”

“Intimately.” He leaned down to pick up his camcorder, then straightened, raising his eyebrows in question as he hoisted his jacket on a couple of fingers. Maybe he was used to women who had coatracks. And who wouldn’t blind themselves with eyelash curlers.

I gestured past the four-by-four foyer and into the living room that made up the front of my place. “You can just throw it on the back of the armchair, if you like. I always toss every—”

My words broke off in horrified silence as I glanced into my mostly tidy living room and realized that a bra lay forgotten and partially wedged between two cranberry-striped sofa pillows. I’d shrugged out of it last night while watching an old television movie with incredibly bad special effects.

I grabbed his arm, propelling him farther into the apartment, toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I’d be happy to whip us up something.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Or there’s pie,” I said, feeling unbelievably grateful to my mother. “Homemade, brought it back from my parents’.”

He eyed the container that I’d dropped on the kitchen counter while speeding through my apartment. “I could go for pie.”

Great. I’d dish him up some dessert and excuse myself just long enough for a lingerie recon mission.

As he sat on a bar stool on the other side of the kitchen counter, I pulled out a plate. “Want anything to drink with it? Coffee, maybe?”

“Thank you, no. Water will be fine.” He smiled. “I’m here to work for you, not the other way around. Unless you wanted some coffee…”

Hardly. I felt jittery enough without the full-octane caffeine.