Trophy Husband (7 page)

He gives me a thumbs up, his standard
cameraman-slash-videographer response.

“That’s why I like working with you. For the
wordless thumbs up,” I tease as I wind the cord to the microphone
around my fingers, barely paying attention, doing the routine by
memory. Then I hand Andy the microphone and wipe one hand against
the other. Done.

“I’ll have that online in thirty minutes,”
he says as he breaks down his gear, carefully folding up the tripod
and shutting off his camera. His curly brown hair is a little
shaggy as it hangs close to his brown eyes. Andy clucks his tongue
a few times but says nothing. Uh oh. That’s what he does when
something’s bugging him.

“What is it, Andy? What’s bothering
you?”

“I dunno,” Andy says with a shrug, his hair
flopping down in his eyes as he leans in to put his camera into its
sturdy Port-a-Brace bag. “I guess I just don’t think this is such a
good idea.” He zips his camera bag, averting my gaze.

“The bateau top? You really hate it that
much?”

“You know what I mean.”

“What do you mean?”

“You looking for this, this…” His voice
trails off. He can’t say the words.

“Oh c’mon. You probably want a Trophy
Husband as much as I do.”

“Ha. But not funny.”

“Fine. Sorry. But I’m twenty-seven, you’re
twenty-nine. Don’t you like a hot young guy?”

“Who I like is not what I’m worried
about.”

“Andy, what are you worried about?”

“Anyway.” He hoists the bag on his shoulder
and heads to the stairs.

“Hey.” I follow him. “This is not how we
have conversations. This is not how we talk. Don’t walk away. Talk
to me.”

“McKenna.” He sighs.

“What, Andy? What is it?”

“I don’t think you should look for a guy on
TV.”

“One, I am not looking for a boyfriend. I’m
looking for a husband,” I say, correcting his word choice. But, to
be honest, the two words are kind of interchangeable for me: A
Trophy Husband feels a hell of a lot more like a boyfriend right
now, especially since husband is a term I’m not terribly fond of,
given how the almost husband I had dumped me. But Trophy Boyfriend
just doesn’t have the same ring to it. “Two, it’s not TV. It’s the
Web. Three, it’s not even about the guy. It’s about making a
point.”

“Look, I’m just worried. You don’t know what
sort of problems this is going to create. I gotta go.”

Then he shuts the front door behind him.

Later, after the video posts, Erin calls
from work. “You are so totally wearing that bateau top. It’s you.
No question about it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I loved it and Julia loved it. I
couldn’t reach Hayden because she was meeting with a client, but I
say two out of three ain’t bad.”

I laugh as I step away from the computer.
“You’re crazy. I can’t believe you called the Brain Trust to survey
them on my wardrobe choices.”

“We’re your inner circle. We are part of
this project. We watched the video together. Well, on the phone,
but together. And if viewers get to have a say, we get to have a
say as well in every single aspect of the Trophy Husband quest,
including how you dress.”

“So it is written, so it shall be.”

“And details, McKenna. We all wants details
on the date.”

As I say goodbye to Erin, I keep thinking
how my girlfriends are always the ones who know what’s best for
me.

* * *

I told you so.

When I see those four words in my text
messages, I tense. Was Andy right? Are there some weird problems
already?

Then I see the name. Chris. The Video Game
Guy with the green eyes and the smile that both melted me and made
me want to climb up on his body and wrap myself around him.

I tap the message, opening it fully. There’s
a close-up picture of my camera, zoomed in on the the green
on-button. He pulled it off.

I write back.
Wow, you are Mr. Fix-It.

Minutes later he
replies:
I’m having tee-shirts made up
with that saying. In any case, your camera works again, so let me
know how to return it to you.

I stare at the message. For a minute. Then
another. I don’t know what to say. Should I say “by mail” is fine?
Or “Should we meet for coffee?” But that would be so weird. He
didn’t ask to meet for coffee, just to give me back my camera. Am I
supposed to suggest a meeting place? A means to return it? Carrier
pigeon? Dog sled? I am entirely baffled, and so I stand at my
kitchen table, the phone in my hand.

There’s a scratching sound. I turn. Ms.
Pac-Man is looking out the bay window at a squirrel racing across a
tree branch. Then another buzz. It’s the phone. Chris is calling.
His name on the screen startles me, and I’ve lost all capacity to
react normally. So for some inexplicable reason, I toss the phone
onto the couch like it’s a hot potato.

Crap.

That’s not what I wanted to do.

It keeps ringing and I dive for it, hurtling
over the back of the couch, landing on the cushions, and saving it
from the disastrous fate of me having inadvertently thrown it away
when a cute guy called.

“Hello?”

“Hey. So your camera is good as new, and I
can get it back to you anytime.”

“Great.”

What do I say next?

“So, I go surfing every morning, but could
meet up with you after that.”

“Ocean Beach?”

“Yep.”

“I actually have to go over in that
direction tomorrow morning,” I say, thinking that Shakespeare
Gardens isn’t far from the beach. “I could meet up with you
tomorrow. What time?”

“How’s eleven?”

“Perfect.”

We pick a location and say goodbye. I make a
note on my to-do list to buy some fresh tuna for Chaucer as a
thanks for peeing on my camera. Then I remember I need to make sure
Chris isn’t an axe murderer who lures women with the whole “I can
fix the camera your friend’s cat peed on” line, so I Google
him.

No wonder he knew so much about Halo.

He’s not just some hard-core gamer. He’s an
expert, and he’s a star in his field.

I find articles about him,
links to him, stories in gamer magazines. I click on his Web site
and see the video for his show,
Let the
Wookie Win.
It runs online, and also on a
cable network for gamers. Damn, the guy with the beautiful eyes,
and the hair I wanted to run my fingers through, and who kissed me
in my imagination that day, has his own TV show.

Impressed, I hit the play button and watch
the most recent episode. Chris shares some inside tips on new
games, from car games, to sports games, to shooter games. I watch
as he demos a baseball game where you have to use your whole body
and he simulates swinging a baseball bat. He looks like a star
athlete, like a pro in the batter’s box. He’s ultra casual in a
green Volcom tee-shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops, demonstrating
how to hit a hanging curveball. As he stands there in the batter
box in his studio with feet apart and arms raised slightly, poised
to hit, I can’t help but notice again that, even with his shirt on,
his midsection looks fairly trim. I could eat every meal off of abs
like that.

Maybe he can be my video game tutor. Maybe
we can play video games together, and laugh, and work on destroying
bad guys as a team. And before we moved onto to the next level of
the game, he’d turn off the Xbox, toss the remote onto the ground
and slide me underneath him on my couch, one quick hand moving down
to my hipbone, touching me there in a way that sends fireworks to
every point in my body, before he smothers me in a kiss.

It’s a kiss that doesn’t leave any
questions. It’s a kiss that turns the rest of the world black and
white, and only this, only him, is in color. A gentle slide of his
tongue, an insistent press of his soft lips, and I am his, swimming
in the sweet heat. I can feel the kiss in the center of my being,
and then it radiates all the way to my fingers and toes. I want to
be kissed like this always. By someone who knows how to kiss me,
and who says in how his lips consume me, in how his hands hold on
tight, in how he shifts his hard body against mine, that he wants
all I have to give.

I’ve become hypnotized as I watch him,
mesmerized by the way his body moves with a fluid sort of grace. I
place my palm on my chest, imagining my hand is his hand, that he’s
touching me gently for the first time, that he’s exploring my body,
eager to learn how I respond to his touch, to his strong hand on my
breast, then my belly, then my hips. I’m him for a moment, fingers
trailing across my mid-section, ready to sneak under the fabric of
shirt, spread his hand across my stomach and…

What the hell? I’m in some sort of trance,
touching myself, pretending he’s touching me.

I put on the brakes. If I let this go
further I’ll be a tongue-tripped mess when I see him tomorrow
morning. And we just can’t have that, can we?

* * *

My timing is impeccable.

I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris
walk across the sand, so there’s no reason for me to be on time
when I can be early.

I park on Taraval Street along Ocean Beach,
get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling
with my phone, and checking compartments in my purse, but when
Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked
under his arm, I freeze.

And then I blush, remembering what he did to
me in my mere imagination yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be able to
tell, to read it in my eyes. I really should pretend I’m not
watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during
that scene in Casino Royale either when Daniel Craig emerged from
the water. He wears board shorts, low on his hips, and a pair of
flip flops. I watch him as he walks through the sand, closer,
closer and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I
would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his
abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the
feel of that kind of firm outline.

He’s lickable. He’s kissable. He’s
chat-up-able. He’s precisely the type of guy a girl can fall into
some kind of crazy crush for. He catches my gaze, and I should be
embarrassed, I should act as if I’m not staring, but there’s this
fluttery feeling inside me, and I want to hold onto it, especially
because he’s looking at me and not letting go either. Those green
eyes of his are the definition of dreamy, and if I were a writer,
I’d find a way to pen a song about them, how they draw me in,
romance me, entice me.

Soon, he’s mere feet from me, scratched-up
surfboard by his side, in all his glistening, ocean-ed up glory.
Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and it’s the
kind of silence that’s filled with unsaid things.

With wishes, with hopes.

Mine at least.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Thanks for meeting me here,” he says, as a
wet shock of hair falls across his forehead. He pushes it back.

“Thanks for being a surfer,” I say, then I
want to kick myself for sounding so goggly-eyed.

He flashes me a grin and walks to his car, a
sporty red car that I recognize as being one of the newest hybrids.
He stows the wetsuit in the trunk, then slides the board into the
rack on the roof, stretching his arms to lock the board in place. I
picture myself slinking into the narrow space between Chris and the
car, the look of surprise on his face, then wicked delight, as he
closes the gap between our bodies. He’s warm and wet from surfing
and sun, and I’m warm and wet from him, and I imagine him lazily
tracing a finger down my arm, enjoying the way the slightest touch
sets me ablaze. I’d shift closer, my hips inviting him to become a
puzzle piece that locks into place with me.

I force myself to shutter those images,
because they have no bearing to reality.

He opens the passenger door, reaches inside
and hands me a bag with the camera in it.

“Good as new,” he says.

“How did you fix it?”

“I can’t give away all my secrets now, can
I?”

I smile. “I suppose not.”

“But maybe you’d be willing to tell me your
last name now that I’ve fixed your camera.”

Another smile. Another nervous laugh.
“McKenna. McKenna Bell.”

“Well, thank you for letting me fix your
camera, McKenna Bell.”

“Maybe if I’m lucky, the cat will pee on my
router next.”

He smiles, then runs a hand through his wet
hair. There’s something so effortless about the way he moves, so
natural, that I don’t even think he’s aware of the effect he has on
women.

Of the effect he has on me. I want to run my
hands down his chiseled chest, exploring the lines between his
muscles, the way his stomach is outlined so firmly. I want to know
what those arms feel like wrapped around me, pulling me in close. I
want his hands on my hips as he teases me and taunts me with sweet
kisses on my cheeks, my eyelids, my forehead. Then his tongue
flicks across my earlobe, and I gasp with pleasure. He pulls back,
a satisfied little grin on his face before he returns to my neck,
burning up my skin in an instant with those lips that were made to
mark my body.

Then I stop the fantasy from going any
further. If I don’t, I’ll just start panting right here on the
sidewalk, and he’ll know I was this close to undressing myself for
him.

“I should go, Chris. But thanks again. This
is awesome.”

There. I’ve got plenty of self-control, and
he surely can’t read my mind and know I was about to become liquid
heat for him.

“Yeah, watch out for cats,” he says, and
that’s all. That’s it. No flirty comeback that says his imagination
is running wild too.

Then it hits me. A guy like this –
successful, hot, and totally talented – must have a girlfriend. He
must have many girlfriends. He has that California ease about him,
a laid-back charm that reels girls in.