1. My Glitter Dealer
1
MY GLITTER DEALER
Veronica
A tiny speck of glitter floats through the afternoon light from the living room window, like dandelion fluff. Then, it hovers above my keyboard and parachutes onto the letter Q.
Oh, hell no.
Glitter is the devil.
I flick at it, but the obstinate turkey won’t vacate the key. I lean forward in my vinyl kitchen chair, then blow on the enemy.
Bye, bye, you glittery imp. You will not ruin my editorial letter to Agnes Millicent.
With the keyboard again pristine, I return to my letter to one of the cleverest children’s book writers of this generation. I’m ready to tell her how she can tease out the conflict between the frog and the prince a smidge more when . . . bastard!
Another emerald particle skydives onto the keyboard.
I head to the bathroom, my tan Chihuahua trotting gamely behind me because no woman is allowed to use the restroom without her dog. I check out my reflection, and what the hell? My neck shimmers like tinsel on a Christmas tree.
“Did you knock a tube of glitter onto me, StudMuffin?” I ask my boy.
Big bat ears pop up like radar dishes, but he doesn’t confess. He tilts his head in the direction of . . . of course.
The sleeping Siamese lies posed like an odalisque, his rotund body stretched across the hall floor.
“I mean, maybe he did it,” I say to the dog. “Cats are like butlers.”
This glitter could be left over from the Little Artists class I taught yesterday at the creativity co-op over on Christopher Street. Grabbing a washcloth from the shelf behind me in the bathroom, I daub at the emerald sparkles on my throat, trying valiantly to Sherlock Holmes my way through the Case of the Glittery Neck.
Hmm.
That new silk scarf my sister lent me—well, I lifted it from her wardrobe last weekend, but those are sister’s rights—did have a little sheen to it. I scrub my skin clean, then return to the kitchen table, ready to conquer this letter, one that will surely impress my editorial director, who’ll then promote me, lauding me as one of the most talented editors ever at McGee Whitney Books for Young Readers.
StudMuffin whines at my feet as soon as I start typing. I invite him into my lap, patting my bare legs. Pants can suck it on remote-work days.
He doesn’t jump but instead races to the door in a flurry of tan fur and desperation. “Hold on, handsome. I’ll be right there.”
I dart to my bedroom and grab the red polka-dot skirt I left on the bureau after art class and pull it on. One pocket sags, and I stuff my hand in, groping around. Ah, there’s a tube of glitter from class yesterday, a lipstick, and I think my pair of skull earrings with the missing hook. But I have to jet, so I leave the treasure trove intact. Then I snag the scarf, because I am not going to offend Manhattan by showing them my nest of unwashed hair.
No way.
I fly to the door, leash up my pooch, and stuff my feet in flats. We rocket down the three flights in my walkup building, sprint out to Grove Street, and arrive at his favorite tree just in time for the little guy to make his mark in Manhattan.
I catch my breath as he whizzes.
Man. Nothing like the fear of dog pee to make a gal run. As StudMuffin does his business, I scan the busy block for . . . well, for anything out of place. New York seems to be under construction these days, so my street has become a postcard for scaffolding. A cement truck swings onto my block, and then I hear a whisking noise.
Dammit. I know that sound. I have to know that sound.
I spot the cyclist as he hops from the street onto the sidewalk to avoid the truck. This is bad. The guy on the bike is now twenty feet away, and my dog hates bikes as much as I hate bad grammar. “StudMuffin!” I warn as he lowers his leg at last.
My brown-eyed boy glances innocently at me while I tug on his leash. I’m about to scoop him up and out of the line of fire when he catches a glimpse of the wheeled velociraptor.
He loses his canine mind. We’re talking ear-splitting howls of bike rage as he prepares to ambush the two-wheeler, now five feet away.
I lunge for StudMuffin before he can attack the front wheel. Immediately, the cyclist yanks the handlebars and steers the bike into the tree, stumbling off it, but landing on his feet. “Whoa,” he mutters as I hug the dog to my chest, my pulse spiking.
I whip around to face the cyclist.
It’s . . . holy hell . . . no way.
My dog bike-tripped Mister Sexy Pants. The hot, clever guy I talked to once upon a time in a cake shop a few months ago. The guy whose name I never got.
His back is to me as he untangles his . . . pants leg.
Gah. Not helpful. His butt is so cute in those tight pants.
Think fast, Veronica.
I huff out a breath. Check. Cinnamon-y.
I lift a hand to my wild hair. Thank goddess I hid it in a scarf.
A breeze blows by. It’s summer, so the air feels good on my legs.
The guy straightens and peers at me, studying my face, then my body.
“Oh. Hi. Miss Polka Dot,” he says, using the nickname he gave me that day at the shop. He remembers, which is awesome, but a little terrifying, considering my state of attire. “Um. You . . . well, you have . . .” he says in a voice straight out of my daydreams. And my night dreams. And my dirty dreams.
I flash a self-deprecating smile as I lift a hand absently to my neck. “My neck is covered in glitter. I thought I got it all off, but I must have missed some,” I say.
But he doesn’t laugh. He winces like he’s borderline embarrassed.
“Actually,” he begins, swallowing, then stopping. He was smooth the day I chatted with him in the cake shop, but he’s awkward now and it’s so cute. I love awkward men. They’re such a breath of fresh air. “It’s not your neck. It’s your . . .”
He points, lowering his hand in the general direction of my...fresh air.
My ass!
That’s why there’s a breeze.
I slap my hand to my butt, and it’s swinging in the summer breeze. I hurriedly tug my obstinate skirt hem out of the waistband of my panties.
Where it’s been the whole time.
Great. Just great. I’ve been flashing New York City my cheeky black panties with pink cartoon devils on them since I hightailed it out of my home.
My other cheeks heat, my face surely the shade of a candy apple. Setting my dog down, I swing around, smoothing my skirt one more time when StudMuffin barks, lunging at the bike. I spin back to grab him but as I whirl, the contents of my pockets clatter to the sidewalk.
Ugh.
This is not my day.
Squatting, I reach for the lipstick, its brand name like an advertisement for all my naughty fantasies— Come to Bed Red . Yup, I’m a beet now. Holding the bike, he bends to grab the glitter tube.
My swoon meter shoots sky-high. Mister Sexy Pants is a gallant gentleman.
Come to bed, indeed. Maybe he’ll ask for my number next, offer to make me a panini, then indulge my balcony fantasies.
“Here you go,” he says, holding out the glitter, his fingers grazing against mine, and oh my god, the invite is coming in three, two, one . . .
Then the top pops off the tube and a spray of green glitter spews up onto his sexy, whiskery beard. He’s sooo going to rescind the panini and post-panini offer before he even makes it.
“I’m sorry. The tops are kind of . . . kludgy,” I say, as I roam my gaze over his emerald-green beard. He looks like a leprechaun, and why in the holy hell is he still sexy?
Hot guys can get away with anything, but I feel awful. This is all my fault. Obviously. “I’m sorry for the glitter bomb,” I say. This was not how I was supposed to encounter Mister Sexy Pants from the cake shop convo. He was supposed to stride up to me some evening when I looked stunning and smart coming from the office, being all sexy librarian and sandwich-worthy, not like a hot mess express in cheek-revealing panties.
Wincing, I brace myself for him to go all growly dickhead on me and grumble out a “Watch what you’re doing, miss.”
But he flicks some specks off his scruff, then retrieves the top from the ground and hands it to me. “Glitter tops are the worst. Next time, I’ll be sure to give you the number of my glitter dealer,” he says all deadpan and charming, and adding kerosene to my crush.
I take the top, a little dazed as he mounts his wheeled steed then adjusts his helmet. Dipping his head maybe, just maybe, to hide a smile, he mutters pink devils while he rides away.
As I fasten the top back on the glitter, I am officially both mortified and turned on. Which sums up my life in a nutshell.