7. Optical Data
SEVEN
OPTICAL DATA
Ian
“Thanks for the cookies, Veronica, but I’m about to start mowing the yard.” I remain in the foyer to the kitchen, not wanting to walk any farther into the house. My words don’t invite further conversation, and my stance should give her the social cue that she isn’t welcome.
Not picking up on any of these things, or simply not caring, Veronica walks past me, places the cookies on the kitchen island and looks out over my yard, dashing any hopes for a short visit when she continues talking.
“I can’t believe you are still mowing your own lawn.
I mean honestly , there are people to do that for you.
” She turns, crossing her arms under her unnaturally round breasts, breasts that are not supported in a bra, and smiles, looking slightly feral.
“I’ll give you the number of my lawn guy.
Then you’ll have time for other things instead. ”
I’m at a loss at how to handle this. I hate being unprepared.
I like to account for all possibilities, all outcomes, but I’d been so busy concentrating on what I’d say to the HOA guy that I hadn’t prepared for a sneak attack from Veronica.
Always surrounded by her neighborhood groupies, she’s never come over by herself.
By bringing Trish here, I’ve upset the natural state of things. I failed to account for neighborhood curiosity.
One of Veronica’s hands trails along her collarbone, trying to get me to focus on her unbound assets.
Why is it the girl I want, the one actually living in my house, can successfully avoid all contact with me, but the married woman four houses down keeps orbiting me like a piece of space debris?
“That’s okay, I like mowing my yard.” I turn even more toward the front door, trying to sound firm while still being gracious as I try again to send her on her way. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Her smile tilting into an evil grin, she saunters closer to me. And now, without the plate of cookies in front of her, her exposed flesh looks even more unseemly. I look pointedly at her Botoxed forehead.
“No thanks needed.” Her square-tipped French manicure with rhinestones on the tips scratch down my forearm. “That’s what neighbors are for, after all.”
I’m about to give up on being polite and just bluntly tell her to get out when a flash of skin peeking through the stairway banister distracts me.
Trish is gliding downstairs in high heels.
In a bikini.
It takes me a minute to remember how to swallow.
“Veronica, dear, how lovely to see you.” Trish struts up to us, the contrast between the neon green of her suit and her milky white skin making me blink.
For once, Veronica seems at a loss for words. “I, uh…”
Trish’s hand slides up my back and hooks over my shoulder, edging Veronica back a step. “To what do we owe the honor?” Trish’s fingers dig into me like she owns me.
A sudden blast of victory shoots through me. There can be no other explanation for Trish’s sudden appearance and apparel (or lack thereof) than jealousy.
Recovering, Veronica squares her shoulders. “I didn’t realize you were still here.” She tilts her head and flutters her lashes. “I heard that the HOA wouldn’t allow trailers in the neighborhood.” She clucks her tongue. “All those rules to keep out the riff-raff. Such a shame.”
Trish smiles back and flutters her own lashes, making me wonder if women have their own Morse code for these situations. “Yes, it is nice to keep out unwanted visitors. Especially those who just show up with ulterior motives. Never can be too safe now.”
Veronica glances at me before changing tactics. “Yes, well.” She sweeps her hand toward the counter. “I just brought over some fresh-baked cookies for y’all to enjoy.”
Trish places her other hand on top of the one at my shoulder and glances up at me wide-eyed. “Well, isn’t that nice, sweetie? Cookies for us to enjoy later.”
Years growing up in the mine fields of politics has still left me ill-equipped for this moment. “Um, yes.”
Veronica’s eyes narrow. “How nice for you to be able to stay with someone of Ian’s stature.” She looks over Trish’s bathing suit. “Must be such a departure from your normal hangouts.”
I know it’s wrong, and that I should be above such thoughts, but all I want to do is throw Jell-O on them and ding a bell.
Trish hums a noncommittal reply before sliding her hands down my arm, circling one around my waist, her eyes still on mine. Without thinking, I wrap my arm around her shoulder.
Turning so her head rests on my shoulder, Trish looks Veronica over. “Oh. Did you get your hair done? It looks so nice.”
Veronica blinks at the surprise compliment. “Uh, thank you.” Looking unsure for the first time, Veronica’s lips turn down at the corners.
Trish taps a finger to her chin, thinking. “Tell me, what do they call that color?”
I never understood the term ruffled feathers until Veronica vibrates in anger. “I’m a natural blonde.” She fluffs her hair. “I just get highlights.”
“Sure, sugar.” Trish winks before grabbing my hand, pulling me toward the plate of cookies. I follow without thinking. I’m so far out of my depth. I’d bet my trust fund that if more women were in politics, within a year all major problems would be solved. They are so much more cunning than men.
Reaching down, Trish plucks a cookie off the top with two fingers and takes a bite. “Oh, store bought.” She places the cookie back down, unfinished, making a show of trying to swallow. “Well, it is the thought that counts.”
Veronica’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of her head. “Well, I never?—”
“Thank you so much for your thoughtful gift, Veronica, dear.” Trish brushes her fingers together as if to get rid of unwanted crumbs.
“But I’m afraid Ian and I can’t visit right now.
Ian insists he rub sunscreen on my back before mowing the yard.
He does dote on me, you know.” She flutters her lashes at me now.
“I see.” Nostrils flared, Veronica finally takes a step toward the door. “I’ll just be going, then.”
Quickly, I head to the door, swinging it open wide. “Thanks for stopping by, Veronica.”
“But please do call first next time,” Trish calls out from the kitchen, pushing the plate of cookies farther away from her like they’re poison, all the while smiling. “Bye now!”
Veronica doesn’t respond, just power walks out, marching across the flagstone path.
When I shut the front door, a sense of relief flows through me. That is, until I turn around and see Trish, hands on hips, platform shoe tapping on my wood floor.
“Trish?” Warily, I walk back to the kitchen.
Her eyes narrow, making her look like a pissed-off chipmunk. “Does she normally come over offering you her baked goods?”
I stifle the laugh her adorable pique inspires. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate me pointing out that she’s acting as green as her bathing suit. “Um, no. That’s the first time she’s ever come over before.”
She snorts. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Really. I don’t know what that was about.”
She cocks one eyebrow in response and picks up the plate of cookies. “Bless your heart. Aren’t you the na?ve one?” Spinning, she opens the cabinet with the trash can and tosses the cookies in, plate and all.
I can’t help but laugh now. “Jealous much?”
“I am not jealous!” She stomps her foot. Her boobs bounce in the triangle-shaped top. And unlike Veronica’s, I can’t seem to look away from them.
“No?” I point to the trash, smirking.
“Don’t be so full of yourself. I was just…” She waves her hands in the air, the gesture making my pants feel tight. “I was just trying to protect you from store-bought processed food.” She turns partially away, arms crossed, looking out the French doors. “You’re welcome.”
I choke on a laugh. “Thanks,” I manage, trying to control my amusement. “I’ve heard processed food can be really dangerous.”
Not looking at me, she nods. “It is.” Her lips purse in a pout. A very kissable pout.
In profile, she looks even more naked, just the ties on her hips visible. “And the bikini? Is that for me too?”
“Yes.” She nods again. “Wait.” Hands shooting down to her sides, she turns and glares at me. “I mean no. Of course not. I was simply…”
“Simply?” I prompt, feeling my eyes crinkling at the corners.
She huffs. “Making use of your pool.”
Feeling more relaxed, I lean an elbow on the counter, smile wide. I haven’t felt this happy in days. Not since the food truck buffet. “You haven’t come out of your room for two days, and you’re telling me you come down now, in a bathing suit, right when Veronica shows up, just to use the pool?”
“Yes.” Nose in the air, she brushes the escaped wisps of hair from her face.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’re home early today.
I usually go out to the pool at this time.
” With a regal air, Trish bends and grabs a bag I hadn’t noticed lying on the bench by the door.
She hikes the canvas strap on her shoulder, the bottom of the bag slapping against her barely-covered ass.
“So, don’t get so full of yourself, rich boy. ”
With a flick of her wrist, she unlocks the door and marches out to one of the lounge chairs set up by the pool.
I make a mental note to come home early every day this week.
Trish
Jealous? Please .
I stomp my espadrilles over to the blue-and-white-striped lounge chair and drop my bag beside it.
I did come here yesterday, after still more hours of not being able to write, thinking a change of scenery would help the words come. It hadn’t, but that doesn’t mean my decision to throw my bikini back on has anything to do with jealousy. I roll my eyes even though there’s no one to see.
Flopping down on the cushion, I kick my legs up, crossing both them and my arms. Images of a braless Veronica and her freaking cookie offering run through my mind. I supplement them with fantasies of me popping her silicone chest orbs and pulling out her “natural blonde” extensions.
The sound of a lawn mower starting up brings me back to reality, and I analyze my surge of violent thoughts.
Salt on a sugar cookie. I am jealous.
I recross my legs. Whatever.
“All those rules set to keep out the riff-raff.”
Sugar honey iced tea! I can’t believe I let that woman get to me.
Reaching into my bag, I grab my sunscreen spray and stand. Holding my breath, I cover myself with SPF 50 before pulling out my oversized visor that makes me look like an LPGA member but shades my entire face before sitting back down. Sun damage is no joke.
Shimmying my shoulders, I try to relax on the lounge.
The mower gets louder as Ian drives it out from behind the garage.
I blink. Then I blink again.
Ian’s shirtless. Wearing nothing but swim trunks and sneakers with white ankle socks, he should look ridiculous. Except he doesn’t. It’s the most casual I’ve ever seen him, and he’s every pool-boy/lawn-guy fantasy rolled into one.
He lifts one hand off the wheel and waves to me.
Ignoring him and his blinding white smile, I slide my notebook out of my bag and look over the list of story ideas I made earlier.
With my last book already sent to my editor, I’ve been trying to come up with an idea for the next book. I haven’t been able to produce much.
Idea #1 Enemies to lovers. Cowboy hero. Housing developer heroine.
Idea #2 Second chance, secret baby. Professor heroine. Student hero.
Idea #3 Billionaire romance. Hero and heroine CEOs of rival companies.
I make a big X over the list and turn the page. After all the knowledge I threw at Ian and my classmates the other day, I still can’t settle on which tropes to utilize and which character archetypes to lead with.
So much for getting work done. Besides writer’s block, now I’m having idea block. Nothing seems interesting.
Under the shade of my visor, I keep tabs on Ian driving back and forth across the large yard. The way the sun reflects off his skin. How his biceps bunch every time he turns the wheel.
I fan myself with my notebook.
If things were different, maybe I wouldn’t have rebuffed Ian from the start.
Maybe I would’ve said yes to a date. He would have opened the car door for me and pulled out my chair at dinner.
Maybe I’d be living in an apartment. Somewhere upscale, so that when Ian kissed me good night, he wouldn’t feel uncomfortable coming inside, laying me down on a large king-sized bed, running his hands up to spread my legs.
My hand fans faster.
His kiss would be gentle at first, gradually getting harder, until we were both in a panic to undress, to feel each other’s skin, bask in the heat our bodies make.
I fan so hard I lose my grip and bash my nose with my notebook.
“Ow.” Eye watering, I blink the tears back and rub the bridge of my nose. “Get your head out of the clouds, Patty,” I mutter to myself. Things are not different. This isn’t one of my books. I pull the pen out from my notebook’s spiral spine and tap it against the cover. If it was, I’d?—
I sit up straight, an outline forming in my head. “If it was…” Glancing at Ian again, I swallow hard at the sight of the peaks and valleys of his abs.
And then I start to write.