Mine Are Spectacular! (15 page)

“How disappointing,” Kirk whispers to me. “I thought an ‘afternoon delight' was a romp in the hay.”

“Please, it took me a solid week just to get ready to
cook
on TV,” I say, laughing. But I'm flushed, and caught up in the excitement. Am I really going to be a TV star? Will strangers on the street ask for my autograph? Will Stila name a lipstick after me?

I'm still fantasizing about my acceptance speech at the Golden Globes—do I thank Kirk first or Bradford?—when Berni moves into action. “We'll go for it,” she says to Ken, as usual speaking on all our behalfs. “When do you want to hammer out the deal?”

“No time like the present,” he says. “Come on over to my office.”

But Berni suddenly realizes that the present is not a good time at all. She's been away from the twins too long and her breasts must be leaking. She glances down and we both notice that a small stain on her blouse is quickly getting bigger and bigger.

“Excuse me, but I'm going to run,” Berni says. She picks up her jacket to mask the mess, but it's already too late. Her shirt looks like it could be used for target practice. Double bull's-eyes. Berni throws air kisses all around.

“Sara, you were great,” she says, rushing toward the studio door. “You too, Kirk. Ken, I love you, but we'll negotiate later. Right now a couple of really important clients need my attention.”

In a flurry of clacking heels and flying hair, Berni's gone—and Ken Chablis looks miffed. “More important clients,” he grumbles, misunderstanding her quick departure. “She's wrong. You two are going to be her biggest stars.”

That won't take much, given that the only other stars in Berni's life at this moment are under ten pounds. But Ken doesn't know that. And I'm flattered that he sees celebrity potential in my pudding.

Kirk, Kate and I pack up and say our good-byes. Out on the street, Kirk hails a cab and just before he ducks in, he grabs my hand and kisses the top of my finger. “Tasty, even without the chocolate on it,” he says, flashing me a big grin. I laugh and kiss him on the cheek.

“By the way,” I say. “I was incredibly calm throughout that whole show. Amazing pills you gave me. Bring them next time because I think I'm hooked.”

“They're pretty potent,” he says, nodding gravely. “You've got to be careful.”

Now I'm worried. One day on a TV set and I may have taken my first step toward rehab.

“What were they?” I ask, concerned. “What's in them?”

Kirk gravely pulls a small box out of his pocket and shakes it. He tosses a handful of the pills into his palm and pitches them into his mouth.

“Tic Tacs,” he says, smiling and tossing me the rest of the box. “I've taken them for years. The orange work best.”

Kirk's cab pulls away and Kate laughs as we wait for the light to change.

“Now I'm embarrassed,” I say as we cross the street. “It just takes a breath mint to calm me down. An Altoid would probably put me in a coma.”

“Don't feel bad, the placebo effect is real,” Kate says, still laughing. “Anyway, I'm glad to hear your friend Kirk isn't dispensing dangerous drugs without a prescription. You two were terrific on that show together. And by the way, he's awfully cute.”

I brighten. “He is, and he's funny. And smart. And single. And he majored in philosophy. You should go out with him.”

“I'm taken,” she says.

“Not this afternoon,” I point out. “And not tonight, I'm guessing.”

“My heart belongs to Owen,” she says, sounding like a bad country-and-western song. Or maybe a good one. “Anyway, you're the one Kirk likes, in case you didn't notice.”

“He's a pal,” I say. “He thinks of me as a sister. An older sister.”

“Good thing, since you have eyes only for Bradford,” says Kate.

“But does Bradford have eyes only for me?”

Kate pauses and looks at me to see if I'm being serious. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” she asks. “Bradford would never fool around.”

“I don't know if you'd call it fooling around.” I take a deep breath. “But Dylan tells me that Skylar told him that Mimi told her that she and Bradford were getting back together.”

Kate looks relieved, but she refrains from telling me I'm a complete idiot. “You're not exactly hearing it from the horse's mouth,” she says dismissively.

“But what if it's true? Everyone seems to know about it.”

“Right. And ‘everybody' knows a lot of things that are wrong.”

I sigh as we approach Sixth Avenue. I guess Kate didn't believe last week's cover story in the
National Enquirer
about the crop circle made by the two-headed alien. I bang the button on the pole to get the light to change. Then hit it again.

“Don't bother,” Kate says. “Those buttons were all disconnected years ago. The city just leaves them there to make you feel like you're doing something. Traffic placebo.”

“Well, I do need to do something,” I say, slamming my finger into the button one more time. We stand there for another minute, and the walk sign finally flashes. “Any advice for me about Bradford and Mimi?”

“Talk to Bradford,” says Kate. “He's going to say you're a nutcase, but that's okay. Make it a romantic evening. Bring it up in bed.”

I can do that. Skylar's at Mimi's tonight and Dylan has a sleepover. And if I do say so myself, I did pretty well at sexercise class.

 

Bradford promised me he'd be home early, and sure enough at eight o'clock—early for him—I hear the front door swing open. Upstairs in our bedroom, I give a secret smile and adjust the thin strap on my pale silk nightgown—an upgrade from the Yankees T-shirt I usually sleep in. Only downside to this plan is I don't get to see the thrilled look on his face when he takes a look around and realizes what's in store.

I've pulled out every romantic trick I could think of—turned off all the lights in the house and filled the foyer with dozens of flickering candles that lead up the staircase and directly to our bedroom. I've tossed rose petals everywhere and filled the air with the scent of my own Annick Goutal fragrance. Nora Jones is softly crooning her siren songs from the CD player, and there's a bottle of white wine chilling in a silver bucket by the side of our bed. A little old-fashioned compared to mood cream, but reliable.

I flutter around the room, trying to decide where I should be posed when Bradford comes in. Too bad nobody smokes anymore—holding a cigarette seductively between my fingers would give just the right decadent touch. Instead, I grab one of the fluted wineglasses—there's no time to open the bottle, so I just hold the empty glass and sprawl languidly on the satin settee. I'm so filled with anticipation that my heart's pounding harder than it did on the set of the TV show. I wish I had one of those Tic Tacs to calm me down.

I cross and uncross my legs at least a dozen times and lean my head sexily against the palm of my cupped hand. But it's taking Bradford so long to get upstairs that my hand falls asleep and I sit up abruptly to shake out the pins and needles. Okay, I'll lean against the pillows.

But what's keeping Bradford? Maybe he's slowly stripping on the way upstairs. Very slowly stripping. Finally, I see under the door that the hallway light's snapped on—didn't I leave enough candles there?—and Bradford bursts in.

“What's going on, honey?” he asks, slightly put out. “I came in and there were no lights anywhere. I figured something was wrong so I went to the basement to check the fuse box. Banged my shin. Then I came upstairs and saw all the candles. Somebody trying to burn the house down?”

“I thought it might be pretty,” I say mildly, my previously pounding heart now sinking.

“They were a little close to the curtains,” he says, tossing aside his Canali suit jacket and pulling off his tie. “And I cleaned up all that stuff on the stairs so nobody slips and falls. Oh, and by the way, somebody left the CD player on. Did the remote get lost again?”

My plan has definitely made an impression on Bradford. But not the one I intended. I'm looking for romance and Bradford's figuring we need a new housekeeper.

“Have a hard day, sweetie?” I ask, trying to get things back on track.

“You bet,” Bradford says. He turns around and finally notices me in my nightie. “You're ready for bed,” he says in surprise. He glances at the clock on the side table and then looks at me with concern. “It's early. I figured we'd have a nice dinner, but are you feeling sick or something?”

Sick is exactly what I'm feeling. And kind of stupid. I pulled out all the stops to make a perfect night, and instead I've made a perfect mess.

“I wanted tonight to be special,” I say. “Candles. Music. And the stuff on the stairs was rose petals. I picked them myself.” I flop down on the bed. Right now I feel so ridiculous I just want Bradford to go away. But instead, he comes over and puts his arms around me, holding me tightly and massaging my shoulders.

“I'm so sorry,” he says, obviously feeling equally ridiculous. “This is wonderful of you. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess my head was still at the office.”

Bradford's strong, comforting hands on my back are definitely doing their job.

“I'm liking the sexy nightie,” he says, running his fingers over the strap. “Maybe I'm dense, but I finally get it.”

“A little late,” I say, teasingly tossing the pillow at him.

“But never too late,” he says, tucking the pillow behind me and unbuttoning his shirt. “What if I make myself so irresistible that you can't keep your hands off me?”

“And how would you do that?” I ask.

“Maybe with something like this,” he says leaning over and letting his tongue play softly on the edge of my lips. Then he nibbles the corners of my mouth and only slowly, slowly, moves in for a long kiss that—he's right—is irresistible.

I start to reach for him but he says, “Not yet, still my turn. You set the stage. Now I get to play.” He gently pushes me back on the bed and kisses my neck, and starts moving slowly down my body. “As much as I like this pretty nightgown,” he says, “I think it's time to take it off.” I slip the straps off my shoulders and he helps me slither the silk down my body. But when it gets to my hips the slithering turns to tugging. And pulling. I sit up, the soft fabric scrunched uncomfortably around my midsection.

“Maybe we should pull in the other direction,” I say, immediately breaking the mood that I worked so hard to create. “My butt's too big.”

“Your body's perfect,” he says, kissing my now bare breasts.

“You're at the good part,” I admit.

“They're all good parts,” Bradford says, grasping the nightie in his hands and lifting it smoothly over my head.

I start to tell him that he's wrong and that the thighs are even bigger than the butt. Then I stop myself. Bradford likes my curves. He's told me a million times. And the way his hands are now caressing my hips, I have to believe him. I can worry about those few extra pounds when I'm trying to fit into my old Levis, but not when I'm alone in bed with my lover. What a waste that would be.

I lie back and instead of thinking about everything that's wrong with me, I abandon myself to Bradford's sensuous touch, and enjoy the pleasure he takes in my body. His hand strokes my thigh and as he folds his body into mine, I just revel in everything about the moment that's right.

A little while later we're contentedly lying in each other's arms. “I love you,” Bradford says, stroking my hair.

“I love you, too,” I tell him.

I cradle my head against his warm shoulder and rub my finger back and forth across his broad chest, thinking about why I set up this whole night in the first place. My worries about Mimi seem so silly now. I'd like to just forget about them. But something tells me that if I do, they'll still be with me tomorrow.

“Am I allowed a foolish question?” I ask, snuggling even closer, and knowing there's nothing you can't ask the person you love. Especially after you've both just had earth-moving orgasms.

“Let me guess,” Bradford says, stretching his arms playfully above his head. “You want to know how I could be such an amazing idiot when I came in and such an amazing lover afterwards.”

“No,” I tease back. “But I do want to know how you became such an amazing lover.”

“Years of experience,” Bradford says.

Just banter, I know, but still I recoil slightly. Bradford feels my back stiffen.

“That was a joke,” he says, rolling over to kiss me.

“I know. But it's actually kind of the subject I wanted to ask you about,” I admit. I bite my lower lip. “Honey, maybe this is ridiculous, but you and Mimi seem to be friendly again. Spending more time together. It's making me uncomfortable.”

Now Bradford's the one whose back stiffens. He brings his arms back down and slowly crosses them in front of his bare chest. “I don't ever want you uncomfortable,” he says carefully. “But I do think you're making an issue where one doesn't exist.”

“Mimi certainly exists,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

“Yes, and she's Skylar's mother,” Bradford says. “We still have a lot of parenting to do. I'm glad that Mimi and I are getting along again. It's the same thing I was trying to tell you about James.”

“But Mimi's acting like it's more than that,” I say. “She's made it pretty clear she wants me out and you back.”

Bradford swings his legs over the side of the bed, hesitates for a moment, and then gets up. “I'm not worried about what Mimi wants, and you shouldn't be either.”

“But you have this whole life that I'm not a part of,” I say, sitting up and getting more agitated than I should.

“So do you,” he says, heading into the bathroom. “You were right the first time. This is ridiculous.”