The Sexiest Man Alive (16 page)

Olivia took a sip of her wine and eyed Ben sideways. “I have to tell you—I’ve been seriously crushing on you,” she confessed. “Ever since I saw you out running.
Vous êtes un jeune homme chaud
.”

Ben was impressed. “You know French!” he said, as amazed at the perfect Parisian accent as at the fact that she thought he was hot.

“I took six semesters in college.” Olivia smiled modestly, the most perfect smile Ben had ever seen, a smile that should have been headhunted by every dental advertising agency in the country. “I spent my junior year at the Sorbonne.”

As they chatted, Ben discovered that Olivia taught college courses part-time—statistical analytics, whatever that was—at Carroll University and that she ran her own small investment firm. An only child, she’d grown up in a suburb of Milwaukee. Her mother was a concert violinist and her dad was a stockbroker. Olivia had a habit of sweeping the hair out of her eyes and tossing it back over her shoulders about every ten seconds, a trait that ordinarily annoyed Ben, but on Olivia was just plain sexy. She loved sports. She played tennis, racquetball, and golf and shyly asked Ben if he would like to join her for a round at a local country club course the following Saturday.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” he said. He’d always wanted a girlfriend who loved golf. He was already picturing the two of them spending the rest of the summer golfing, playing tennis, or swimming in the pool at her condo. Olivia modestly confessed that she’d been captain of her college swim team and had at one time considered training for the Olympics.

“Do you ski?” asked Ben, who loved the sport.

“I do when I can get away. There aren’t any decent runs in Wisconsin, though. I guess I’ve been spoiled by Jackson Hole. I usually fly out every other weekend in the winter. Have you skied there?”

Ben said he hadn’t, not wanting to admit that he would have had to sell a kidney to even afford the lift at Jackson.

“But Alta and Snowbird are really great, too,” Olivia said, name-dropping the most prestigious resorts in North America. “I mean, the powder is incredible. There’s something about the mountain air there that makes for perfect snow cover.”

A group on the first floor was getting noisy, laughing and talking. There were six of them—they’d shoved a couple of tables together. He thought he caught a familiar voice. Looking down over the balcony railing, he saw that Mazie Maguire was one of the group. Juju was there, too, along with three other women, probably skaters from Juju’s Roller Derby team, unwinding after skate practice.

Mazie had a clear, carrying voice—maybe a result of trying to be heard over her brothers at the family dinner table—and whatever she was saying was bringing shrieks of laughter from
the other women. He didn’t want to hear, but he couldn’t help himself.

“… and how is that
fair
? Why shouldn’t it be men who have to paint their faces and wear tight pants and sequins?”

“Vail is
way
overrated,” Olivia was saying. “Although they’ve installed new lifts and now you can get in maybe four or five runs in a day and those slopes will give you a workout, trust me—my thighs were screaming for mercy last time I skied there.”

Ben nodded to show that he was listening, but he wasn’t really; he was tuning in to Mazie’s voice, catching snatches of what she was saying, something about visiting a whooping crane preserve during mating season.

He stole another look down at the first floor. Egged on by the skate team, Mazie was standing up on her chair, flapping her arms and hopping on one leg. “… so then the guy crane spread out his wings and ran around in circles, and the girl crane was just washing her feet, not even looking in his direction—”

“Doing her nails,” Juju put in.

“Checking her text messages,” said someone else.

More laughter. Two college guys drifted over from the bar, asked to sit down, and joined Mazie’s table.

“… most people choose the sunny slopes, but I think the north-facing hills are better because they stay colder and dryer, even into spring, don’t you agree?” Olivia said.

“Absolutely.” Ben nodded absentmindedly.

“… then the guy crane jumped up in the air and came down with his legs spread apart and made these sort of bullfrog noises,” Mazie said, “and you could tell from the look on the female’s face she was thinking, ‘What a cretin!’ ”

“Of course a lot of people prefer Whistler, but it’s so unpredictable—you can be snowbound for a week up there,” Olivia said.

Ben wished she’d be quiet for a minute. He’d missed some punch line that brought howls of laughter from the group below.

Was Mazie drunk? He didn’t think so. He’d seen her looped and this wasn’t one of those times—this was Mazie being egged on by Juju, who always brought out Mazie’s wild side. Another man sauntered over to join the group.

Ben scowled. He recognized the guy. He was the goalie for the Royals, one of the
Snowplows’ rival teams. He said something to the waitress and a moment later she brought over a pitcher of beer. The goalie squeezed in next to Mazie, close enough to look down her cleavage. She was wearing a bright pink top sprinkled with some sparkly stuff, probably another of her thrift store coups—cheap chic, she called it.

They all looked like they were having fun, Ben thought wistfully. Why hadn’t he and Mazie gone out more when they were together? Did she behave differently when she was with him—did she perceive him as somehow being a wet blanket? No—the truth was, he hardly ever took her anywhere. They usually stayed home in her living room, watching TV, because he was always really beat after work. So now was Mazie making up for all those nights she’d sat at home with him?
Had
he been a wet blanket? He thought of the Phero-mates event, when she’d asked him the odd question about going to a play with her, and he’d made up some excuse.

Mazie hadn’t cared about the play, he realized now; the real question had been: How much do you care about
me
?

“Ben? Mr. Sexiest? Hel-l-o?”

“Sorry.” He grinned sheepishly, annoyed at himself, and turned his attention back to Olivia. Here he was, sitting across from a beautiful, desirable woman, and he wasn’t even doing her the courtesy of listening to her go on about overpriced ski resorts where a guy like him would be hauling the movie stars’ luggage.

“… and the male inflates this red sack that sort of looks like he’s turning his lungs inside out …,” Mazie was saying, and the college guys were cracking up.

Ben thought of the times with Mazie when they’d made each other laugh so hard that tears streamed from their eyes and they staggered around bent over, trying to catch their breaths.

With Mazie, you never knew what you were going to get. An orderly life was not a high priority with her. He’d once watched her dive four stories into a pile of manure. Another time, she’d appeared in a beauty pageant wearing a hoop skirt that resembled the Fuji blimp. She’d taught him how to do the polka, how to milk a cow, and how to pick a lock. But he didn’t want a girlfriend like that, did he? An unpredictable, disorganized woman who was ruled by emotion rather than logic? A woman who didn’t mind making a public spectacle of herself in a bar, where every straight male was thinking how hot she’d be in bed?

“I think we should go,” Olivia said, flipping her hair back.

“You don’t want another drink?” Ben asked. He didn’t want to leave. What he wanted to
do was vault over the railing, kick that dickhead goalie’s ass, sit down next to Mazie, wrap his arm around her to warn the interlopers she was his, and—he had this weird urge to show her his mating dance.

How messed up was that? He turned his attention back to Olivia again.

“I thought we could go back to my place.” Olivia stood, picking up her purse, aiming a flirtatious look at Ben. “I make the world’s best martinis.”

Ben smiled back at her. He didn’t want to go. And he didn’t like martinis. “Yeah. Sounds great.”

As they descended the stairs, one of the women in Mazie’s group sang the first line of “Take a Chance on Me.” Someone else picked up the second line and then the whole group joined in, and only a group containing Mazie Maguire could segue from whooping cranes to Abba. They sounded really bad. But as though they were having a blast.

Olivia linked her arm in his. Close up, he could smell her perfume—something subtle. A kind of white perfume to match her outfit, he thought. “I’m just a block away,” Olivia said. “Just a long enough walk to clear our heads.”

Her condo was exactly the way he’d pictured it. Restful, tastefully decorated, everything done in beiges, taupes, and whites, with expensive-looking paintings on the walls, abstract sculptures in display cases, and shelves of leather-bound books. It looked like the centerfold of
Architectural Digest
. Olivia gave him a tour of the place, then went to her minibar to mix drinks. Sitting on a suede sofa in the living room, Ben watched her work, appreciating the graceful way she moved.

“Want some help?” Ben asked.

“No, I’m fine.” She smiled at him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He sat back, crossed his legs, and hummed to himself. He stopped when he realized he was humming “Take a Chance on Me.”

Olivia brought the martinis, then turned on her music system and set it to a muted level. Thelonious Monk, Ben thought, as the strains of a jazz sax filtered out. He knew he was supposed to like jazz; he claimed he liked jazz; but the truth was he was indifferent to it. Olivia sat down next to him. They clinked glasses, holding each other’s eyes as they sipped.

He loved the air of calm that Olivia projected. It was impossible to imagine her running out of a restaurant during a thunderstorm. Or standing atop a chair in a bar and doing a whooping
crane dance. He didn’t know what kind of car Olivia drove, but he was certain it didn’t have a conga line of raisins painted on it.

They set down their drinks, moved toward each other, kissed. Her long blonde hair tickled his shoulder. Her lips were soft and sweet and parted under his. Her skirt rode up and he set a hand on her warm, firm, exquisitely muscled thigh. This was it; Olivia was giving him all the signs. This was what he wanted.

But all systems were not go, Ben discovered to his horror. He couldn’t have a flat tire, not now, not when the woman of his dreams was all hot and ready for him. What the hell was wrong with him? Had his drink been spiked with saltpeter?

They broke apart. Olivia eyed him. “Where
are
you?” she asked, sounding mildly peeved, which was probably her equivalent of a full-throttle temper tantrum. “You’re back at that club, aren’t you?” Olivia moved away the length of one cushion and regarded him coolly. “You’re thinking about your ex.”

Time to recover his fumble. He lowered his voice. “I’m thinking you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever—”

“I saw her at the Guinness Club tonight. You kept looking at her. I thought you two were over. She said you were over.”

“Mazie said that?”

“I ran into her Monday evening. She said there was nothing between you, that she was dating other men.”

A pang cut through his chest and for a moment Ben wondered if he was having a heart attack. Even men his age sometimes had heart attacks. “It’s true,” Ben said, shrugging, trying to keep his face neutral. “Whatever was between us is over.”

Olivia shook her head. “I know this sounds kind of immature, but I think you’re using me to make Mazie jealous.”

“Olivia, come on—that’s ridiculous. She couldn’t care less who I go out with.”

“Why did the two of you break up?”

He reached for his martini and took a sip. “Mutual decision.”

“That doesn’t tell me anything. You mutually decided because …”

The crossed arms were a bad sign, Ben thought. He’d never once had a woman cross her arms and had anything good come of it, and now she was crossing her legs, too. Olivia was a
logical person, one who based her actions on reason, not impulse. It was what he liked about her. Wasn’t it? He couldn’t give her a logical explanation for breaking up because Mazie was an illogical, maddening person whose life ran like a train headed for a derailment.

“Look,” Olivia said, sighing. “It’s not fair to any relationship we might have if you still have unresolved issues with your ex. You need to get your head straight on how you feel about her before you decide if you want to see me.”

“My head is straight.”

“I think you should go.”

“Come on, Olivia …”

The arms remained crossed, the eyes cool. The eyes, he’d discovered, were gray-green.

“All right,” Ben stood. “Will you let me see you again?”

“Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“I will.”

She smiled, kissed him. It was a nice kiss. He didn’t have to bend down to accommodate her; she was at his level. They fit together perfectly, her body firm, lithe, and sexy against his. The kiss was perfect—not too much pressure, not too little. It gave him a pleasant tingle.

But that was all. A mild tingle. Ben left, feeling disgusted with himself, and yet somehow relieved, the way he felt after he’d just mailed in his tax return. He’d intended to walk to his car but discovered that his feet were carrying him back to the Guinness Club, and he was humming that damn song again, “Take a Chance on Me.” But the Guinness Club was quiet when he walked in. The bar patrons were watching a ball game, Mazie and the skate girls had left, and the jukebox was playing Def Leppard’s “Too Late for Love.”

The doorbell rang as Mazie was ransacking her apartment for her car keys. She went through the lost keys drill at least once a week. Sometimes they migrated to the underbelly of her purse and sulked amid the coins and linty Tums and other bottom-feeders. Other times they played pranks, hiding in her hoodie pocket, in the laundry hamper, and, on one maddening occasion, inside her umbrella.

“Hold on,” Mazie yelled at the door, because she was running late and in no mood to be pleasant to any Jehovah’s Witnesses. She yanked open the door without looking—which of course was exactly what you should never do—and found a man standing on her doorstep. He was medium height, with a round face, a buzz cut that looked like sandy Astroturf, and watery brown eyes behind wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He wore a light blue sports jacket, sharply creased dress slacks, and a pink tie. He was holding a supermarket bouquet of multicolored daisies. The overall effect was vaguely Easter-y.