Beautiful Illusions (4 page)

Crazy isn’t the word for that. There are no words for that.

We drove along in silence for a few minutes. I was back to my speechless mode. This was all so bizarre to me. I mean, I had experienced this kind of crazy ardor before, usually from some weaselly loser who won’t stop calling me. Never from somebody like Ryan.

“What’s on your mind?” Ryan asked, driving.

“I am just trying to figure out what it is that you see in me.”

Ryan smiled. “
That’s easy. You're fun. You're real. You’re passionate. You're damned sexy. And you're beautiful.”

I blushed, finally beginning to believe that he was really into me, and I wasn't on an episode of
Punk'd
after all.

We got to his trails, and I immediately felt that the
whole scenario was not for me. For one thing, I was terrified of going down the trails. We started out on some flat trails, and this was fine. I could roll along and keep up. However, when it came to the steep downhill trails with all the rocks and branches, I couldn’t go down them because I was too fearful. The few times I tried, I wiped out and landed painfully on rocks. Ryan was always very good about this, coming to my aid, and he was ready with some bandages and Neosporin, but I ended up with a great deal of road rash for my efforts.

And biking up these steep hills? Forget about it, although Ryan
was an expert at all of this. I watched his sinewy legs peddling up those hills, and I momentarily forgot my misery. Only momentarily, though.

Finally, we arrived at one of the streams that he was talking about earlier. He had a lunch ready, with turkey sandwiches and granola bars. We got our water bottles out of the cages on the side of our bikes, and sat down beneath a tree.

“So, how're you doing, beautiful?” he asked with a gentle smile. I saw him looking at the road rash sympathetically.

“I don’t know if this is for me.” I felt defeated.

He smiled. “Relax. We can try again, if you like. If you don’t, it’s no biggie. Really. Honestly.”

I shook my h
ead skeptically, remembering that we had talked about how he loved to ski last night as well. Ryan told me that he skied black diamonds. I had to Google this, not knowing what black diamonds were, then found out that they were the most difficult course. “I don’t ski, either,” I said, miserably.
This guy is going to get so bored with me.

“Sweetheart, it's ok.
I like you. I don’t care if you're not into adventure sports. I'm impressed that you're trying this. Most girls wouldn’t.” He tousled my hair, and lay down on the ground next to me. He patted the ground, and I lay down as well. He kissed me slowly, lightly, and the familiar jolt of electricity coursed through my body. I had to admit that I didn’t recall ever feeling this way about anybody else before. At least not this amount of electricity. I understood that he was feeling just as much electricity, because I could sense it from him.

We lay there for a little while, kissing
passionately, yet innocently. I found myself wanting him to strip off my clothes right then and there, and explore my body eagerly with his tongue.

Looking into my eyes, Ryan said “We should probably get going
before it starts getting dark. Uh, the trail exits onto the street, which might be better than taking the trail all the way back. I think you've had enough of mountain biking for the day.”

Truer words were never spoken.
So, we followed the trail for a little bit, then were soon out on the street. We biked the 10 miles back to the car on the street, me struggling to keep up, but not wanting him to know that. I wanted him to think that I was better than I really was.

“So, what would you like to do now?” Ryan asked when we got to his Escalade and put his bikes away.

“Well, I have to admit I am starved.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I might cook for you this evening.”

My eyes grew huge. Cook? He can cook?
Riggghhhht. Next thing you know, he will tell me he does his own dishes.
This was one thing that I was definitely not used to. My old boyfriend lived on Doritos and frozen pizza, and he was pretty typical.

“That sounds groovy,” I said, smiling
.

We made our way back to his house in Hallbrook. Hallbrook was the neighborhood where Joe Montana lived while he was playing for Kansas City, and was now the home of CEOs,
hedge fund managers, venture capitalists, large-firm law partners, heart surgeons, and probably more than a few drug kingpins. It was the ultimate in gated communities.

We arrived at his gorgeous, and enormous, Tudor revival home. The home had a brick and wood façade, with three of the signature wood triangles on the outside of the home. The driveway was a circle drive. The front of the house was surrounded by flowers and perfectly manicured bushes. A fountain that looked vaguely Japanese was in the middle of a little courtyard, surrounded by marble benches. The front door was ador
ned with a stained-glass bird, and looked like it cost more than my car brand new.

My legs felt like spaghetti as we walked up to the house.

I felt a bit more comfortable walking in, as he had two very friendly mutts who ran to greet him. “Maximus” and “Brutus” were two rescue mutts, he explained, who were about to be put down before he saved him. One was a pit bull mix. Because I rescue pit bulls, I felt a special affinity for this dog. Instinctively, upon meeting the dogs, I laid down on the floor so that they could come up to me and lick my face, which they did, being dogs. I rolled around them for a little while, and Ryan did the same, laying on the floor with me and the dogs.

“Looks like you really love dogs.”

“Definitely. I want one so bad, but can’t have them in my little apartment. So, I rescue them instead.”

His house was beautiful inside, spotless and elegant,
with just enough masculinity. The kitchen was large, with an 8 foot island in the middle, and the kitchen counters were entirely made of Italian marble in a dark blue color. His kitchen cabinets were made up of real cherry wood, with more stained glass on the cabinet doors. The kitchen tile was mosaic patterned, with rust, blue, yellow and greens blended in.
My entire apartment could fit in this kitchen
I observed.

This was the first room I hung out in, but he gave a
tour of the rest of the house. The living room was about 1,000 square feet, with cherry wood hard floors and throw rugs with various patterns on the floor. The ceilings were vaulted, with a skylight at the top. The furniture was modern, with leather sofas, coffee tables and end tables that were glass-topped and marble-bottomed, and tall lamps that had crystal bells and brass stems. An enormous fireplace was on one of the walls, with a 10 foot by 10 foot mural done in the style of Thomas Hart Benton above it. Upon closer observation, I realized that it was a Thomas Hart Benton original.
Oh, shit.

He saw me looking at the mural
. “I got that from my parents. Tom was a friend of my father’s.”

Well, Benton
did grow up and make his art in the Kansas City area, and Ryan’s father was very prominent in Kansas City business, so that makes some sense.
“Yes, my father also knew a local artist,” I said, stupidly. “Her name was Marjorie Holman. She did two portraits of my sister and me.”
As if Marjorie Holman could match up to Thomas Hart Benton.

The rest of the living room appeared as if an interior decorator had designed it. And, of course, there was nothing out of place. I wondered if he ever let his dishes pile up for three days, as I remembered my three day stack of dishes still in my tiny sink
.

“Here, make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to an empty stool next to the kitchen island. I observed the pots and pans above my head. They were copper-bottomed, and looked very professional. I wondered if this guy could really cook.

He opened up a bottle of wine. “I hope you like this.”

I sipped the wine. It was s
mooth, full-bodied and fruity. It was very good. “I like this. Where did you get this?”

He looked a bit embarrassed
. “I, I, I, um…” It was his turn to stutter. He turned bright red. “Listen, Iris, I don’t want you to feel intimidated here. I guess I should have warned you about the Benton.”

Yes, but what does the Benton have to do with this wine?

I looked at him, puzzled.

“I really like you. I mean, I reallllllyy dig you. I don’t want to scare you away.”

I looked at my wine, taking another sip. Very tasty. I looked up at him, expectantly. He was acting very strange. He had been so confident before.

He took a deep breath. “I actually, uh, I actually own a winery in Italy.” The “own a winery in Italy” was mumbled so softly, as he looked down at the floor, so I had to ask him to repeat it. Which he did.

I nodded my head.
Well, that makes sense. What is so wrong with that?
I looked at him, furrowing my brow, wondering why he was so embarrassed about that. “My dream man!” I joked.

He looked relieved. T
he color returned to his face. I guessed that I was getting to where nothing would surprise me anymore about this guy. He told me last night that he went to Harvard for his undergrad, and Oxford for his MBA. He also told me that his father was a CEO for a major utility company in town. Plus, he owned a Benton mural. Owning a winery went perfectly with this guy.

He smiled. “You surprise me sometimes.”

I smiled back. “I do? How?”

“Well, last night
, you seemed so nervous around me. I, I, uh, kinda get the feeling that you might not be used to… things. But the Benton and the winery didn’t seem to phase you.”

“Yes, I guess maybe I’
m getting more comfortable around you somehow.”

He smiled “That’s g
reat.” Then he kissed me tenderly, while longingly stroking my face.

“I’m gonna steal that painting, just so you know. Benton is actually one of my favorite artists.”

“Mine too. It’s only fitting to have his art in my house, since he’s such a large part of this area.”

I nodded, then suddenly re
alized how badly I needed to use the restroom. “I need to use the little girl’s room,” I said with sudden urgency in my voice.

“Around the hall to your right.”

After returning from the restroom, I felt a little more queasy. Thomas Hart Benton was one thing. de Kooning was another, and he had an original de Kooning in the hallway leading to the bathroom.

Good lord, this guy has millions hanging on his wall
.

He looked a little sheepish.
“I guess you saw the de Kooning, too, huh?”

I smiled, nodding slowly.
“Pour me some more of that Italian wine.”
Lord knows I need some now.

Whatever he
was cooking smelled divine. It was clam sauce, with a little butter, wine and garlic. He brought out a freshly baked loaf of bread, baked, evidently, by hand. He also brought out some Caesar dressing in a container. Also freshly made. He chopped some romaine lettuce, and then shredded some Parmesan Cheese. The entire meal was simple and freshly prepared.

As we sat down to eat, he raised his wine glass. “Cheers! Bon appetit!”

I smiled. On my first bite, I was amazed. More than amazed. “Oh my god, this is delicious! I feel like I’m eating in the best Italian restaurant!”

He sm
iled, too, blushing profusely. “Try the bread.”

The bread was infused with rosemary and something else. It, too, was divine. “This bread is amazing! What herbs did you use?”

“Rosemary and lavender.”

Lavender. Who would have thought?

Even the butter was delicious. It was herb butter, and Ryan explained that he had melted the butter with garlic and herbs, than let it set up.

Then the dessert. Ginger pear flan. “I found the recipe in one of my cookbooks.”

After dinner, he finished giving me a tour of the rest of the magnificent house. There were six bedrooms, including one that had been converted into an enormous office. I smiled upon going into the office, seeing that he was human, after all – he had papers everywhere piled up, randomly, on his desk, and magazines were strewn all over a table. Some of the magazines were related to his work as a bank president -
Inc
. and the
Wall Street Journal,
for instance. But some of the magazines were more relatable to me – I saw that he had subscriptions to
People
magazine and
Entertainment Weekly.
These were two of my favorite magazines. He also appeared to have subscriptions to
GQ
and
Maxim.
And I had to smile upon seeing several copies of
Star Magazine.
He looked embarrassed. “Guilty pleasure,” he said.

“I love that magazine too!” I said, smiling. “You always gotta know what is going on with the Kardashians and Jennifer Aniston.”

Maybe we'll get along after all.