The Sexiest Man Alive (6 page)

“No, but—”

“Don’t believe any of that ‘I don’t want the attention’ bullshit. There’s not a guy alive who wouldn’t enjoy having women flinging themselves at his feet. If you seriously want to scare off predatory women, you introduce your fiancée.
Girlfriend
is just a challenge;
fiancée
has got chops.”

“But I’m not his fiancée. Ben doesn’t want to get married.”

Magenta gave her a searching look. “Well, what about you? Do you want to get married?”

“No.” Mazie wiped off the mascara blobs under her eyes. “Yes.” A beat. “Maybe.”

“You’re too focused on Ben Labeck,” Magenta said. “Why don’t you ask yourself what
you
really want?”

Magenta was Mazie’s best male friend. He was also her dog sitter, landlord, fashion guru, and yenta. He owned the building, including the boutique he’d named for himself. He lived in the apartment above the shop and rented the flat behind the store to Mazie at a rate far below its
fair market value. He was tall and high-cheekboned, with short dyed-black hair spiked like a sea urchin, hazel eyes made larger with eggplant-colored eyeliner, and perfectly conditioned, subtly bronzed skin. Once upon a time, in a place called Saskatoon, Magenta had been Wally Pfluge, an insurance agent living in a suburban ranch house, married, and miserable. He’d gotten divorced, come out of the closet, and moved to the United States. Refusing to live one more moment with a name he thought sounded like an off-brand anti-diarrhea medicine, he’d changed his name to Magenta, one of the characters in
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
.

Tonight, he’d taken one look at Mazie’s woebegone face when she’d shown up on his doorstep and hauled her into his apartment. He’d peeled off her wet clothes and shoved her under a hot shower. When she’d finally emerged, he’d wrapped her in a fluffy robe and sat her down on his sofa. He’d made her a hot lemon tea and a tuna and pickle sandwich. Brokenhearted or not, Mazie had discovered she was ravenous. The sandwich was gone in fifteen seconds. Then she’d poured out her whole vile day into Magenta’s sympathetic ear.

“You know what your problem is?” Magenta shoved the Kleenex box closer to Mazie. “You’re too available.”

“Juju said the same thing.” Mazie wiped mayo off her fingers.

“Well, she’s right. You need to make Bonaparte Labeck work to deserve you. Frankly, he’s been a jerk.”

“He has not!”

“Time for you to take Auntie Magenta’s ‘Is He or Isn’t He a Jerk?’ quiz—each correct answer worth five points. Ready? Okay. When the schmuck is doing his hockey warrior thing do you (a) tell him you have shopping to do and you’ll see him later, or (b) sit in some dirty-sock-smelling ice arena freezing your butt off?”

“Sit in the arena,” Mazie admitted. “He needs to know I support him.”

Magenta snorted. “Here’s number two. Does he reciprocate? Let’s say you get tickets to
Jersey Boys
. Does he say: (a) Sorry, I have to wash my jockstrap that night, or (b) pick you up at seven in a limo?”

Mazie gave a noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. Muffin jumped up on the sofa, ignoring the no-dogs-on-the-furniture rule—which he didn’t feel applied to him—and licked her face. Muffin was not much larger than an average-size zucchini. He had pale gray, curly fur, black button eyes, and long white whiskers. He’d once belonged to Mazie’s mother-in-law but
had switched his loyalties to Mazie, and now she didn’t know how she could live without him. He was a product of purebred shih tzus, the dog of Chinese emperors, and bichons frises, which sounded snobby and French, but Muffin didn’t give a hoot about his elegant ancestors; to his own way of thinking, he was an Irish wolfhound who just happened to be packaged in a body the size of a beanie baby.

“Next question,” Magenta said. “When you go out to eat, who picks where you go? You—or him?”

“We never go out to eat.” Mazie wrapped one of Muffin’s curls around her little finger. “He’s always working, or editing film, or—”

“When was the last time you had an honest-to-God, genuine date with Ben Labeck?”

Mazie thought. “Tonight,” she said finally.

“And tonight was only because he had a coupon, right? It doesn’t count if the guy doesn’t pay for the meal. Did you get all dressed up?”

“You saw what I was wearing,” Mazie said, sniffling.

“It was nice. You put some effort into it. What was Labeck wearing?”

“Jeans—but they were clean—and a short-sleeved button-down shirt.”

“A tie?”

“No.”

“Did he bring you flowers?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Never?”

Mazie shook her head. “He’s not the flower type. He buys me useful stuff—an exercise ball, a flashlight, a toaster oven, a big bag of sweet corn from the farmer’s market, a cordless drill. Oh, and a new bathroom plunger.”

“Know where I’d tell him to stick that plunger?”

“I think I can guess.”

“What about sex?”

Mazie’s face flamed.

“Is it still good?” Magenta pressed.

“Yes,” she mumbled. “It’s very good.”

“Stop having sex with him.”

“I—
what
?”

Magenta found a tube of moisturizer and squirted a dab onto Mazie’s hands and a dab onto his own large, well-manicured hands. “I mean it, Mazie. I’ve been through umpteen breakups and I know how it goes. He comes back to you after a week and says he missed you, yadda yadda, kiss, kiss, squeaky bedsprings, and terrific makeup sex—then you’re back in the same old rut. You need to go cold turkey on Labeck.”

“I can’t just—”

“From now on you’re on a strict Ben Labeck–free diet,” Magenta pronounced. “No calling him. No taking his calls. No returning stuff he left at your place as an excuse to see him.”

“I borrowed his laptop. I should—”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

Mazie bit her thumbnail.

“And of course you have to start dating.”

“Dating?”
Mazie squawked. “That’s ridiculous. I’m too old, too—”

“Thirty is the new seventeen.”

“Magenta? Are you listening? Because I have an ear wax flusher I’ve been dying to try out. I am not going to date other men. End of story.”

“Got it. Not dating, I agree. Not until you have a makeover. No offense, doll, but Muffin’s backside looks better than your hair. You need to use more eye makeup and I saw the state of your underwear just now—”

“Magenta! You’re not supposed to—”

“Your bra is—functional. That’s the best I can say about it. Do you know how lucky you are having breasts? What I wouldn’t give to be able to go into a store and pick out a dozen luscious, lacy, brassieres! Not that I want to be a woman—but I totally get why straight guys like to dress up and parade around in their wives’ undies.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever had to wear a bra.”

“Where were we? Oh, a makeover. Starting with your self-image. No more self-deprecating shit. Start telling yourself how great you are.”

Mazie’s phone rang. She snatched it up. Ben’s number flashed on the caller ID. She looked pleadingly at Magenta, who shook his head. She gnawed her lips, swallowed the lump in her throat. Her hands shook. Her finger hovered over the phone.

Her finger jabbed the
OFF
button.

She felt an actual physical pain in the region of her heart.

Magenta squeezed her hand. “Thatta girl. One step at a time.”

It rained for the next three days. The fish were biting madly, but so were the black flies. Funny how his mind had filtered them out when he’d been picturing the lake, Ben thought. He’d remembered the fun of fishing—the smell of piney air and lake water, the challenge of selecting the bait, the feel of warm sun on his body—but forgot the balky boat engines, the mosquitoes, and the times it rained until moss grew on his skin. Wearing a poncho over his clothes, Ben kept reasonably dry, although at times it rained so hard that he had to bail the bottom of the boat. He’d rented a twelve-footer with a quiet Mercury outboard motor that got him around with barely more noise than an electric shaver.

The first day Ben basked in the peace and quiet. His muscles relaxed; his beard grew; the tension in his neck and shoulders disappeared. The second day he slapped flies when the sun was out, caught fish when it rained, drank an entire six-pack of locally brewed beer, and slept twelve hours. By the third day, he had to admit, he was a little bored.

Out in the middle of the lake, he phoned his parents, feeling guilty that he thought to call only when he had nothing better to do. To his surprise, the phone reception was excellent, maybe because northern Wisconsin was three hundred miles closer to Quebec Province.

“Allo?”
Mamma answered. They spoke in French, which his mother claimed Ben now spoke with an American accent. Mamma caught him up on the news, while Ben, feeling a little homesick, propped his long legs on the boat’s bench seat, lay back, and listened, enjoying the sound of his mother’s voice. His relatives claimed that Ben had inherited his mother’s eyes, a warm chestnut brown, fringed with dark lashes. Marie-Claire Labeck was a petite woman with outspoken opinions. She had a master’s degree in sociology and taught at St. Amelie Community College. Ben’s feelings toward his mother were a mixture of admiration, love, and—even after all these years—slight fear of her disapproval.

Finally, after he’d learned that his sister Lillian had made him an uncle yet again, his mother asked, “And how is the lovely Marguerite?”

Marie-Claire thought the name Mazie too trite and was the only one who called her by her baptized name, Marguerite.

“She’s—I haven’t seen her for a few days.”

He winced. Shouldn’t have told her that. Mamma immediately picked up on his tone. “Have you two quarreled?”

“No. Well, she quarreled with me.”

“What did you do, Bonaparte?”

“Nothing.” Torture couldn’t force him to reveal that his being named Sexiest Man Alive had caused a rift with Mazie.

“Don’t lie to your mother. I like that girl. You be nice to her.”

“Mamma—you only met her that one time.”

“I can tell a person’s character in thirty seconds. Marguerite is very sweet, smart—and tough. Exactly what you need—someone who can stand up to you. When are you bringing her to meet the rest of our family?”

His mom had met Mazie several months ago, when Ben, a temporary fugitive from the law, had been shot in the leg. Somehow she’d gotten wind of his being wounded—he blamed his blabbermouth sisters—and had flown to Milwaukee to check up on him. Unmindful of the fact that her son was a full-grown, independent adult, Marie-Claire had landed on his doorstep with a suitcase full of pills, bandages, and ointments.

“Marguerite was so kind to me,” his mother said. “She even tried to speak French to me. She called me a croissant.”

“She called you a
croissant
?” Ben laughed. It sounded like something Mazie would say. “What did she mean?”

“Who knows?” Ben could picture his mother’s shrug. “She was very nervous. So eager to make a good impression, stumbling over words, but trying very hard.
Très charmante
.”

Charming
. It was the highest compliment his mother could give. Charm encompassed everything—concern for others, a sense of style, and some elusive quality that couldn’t be put into words but which his mother recognized when she saw it.

It was one of the few things Ben and his mother agreed on. Charm. Mazie had it.

The first time he’d laid eyes on Mazie Maguire had been at her murder trial. She’d been accused of murdering her husband, Kip Vonnerjohn, who was a major skirt-chaser and all-around tool who, as far as Ben was concerned, had deserved killing. Working for a cable news channel then, he’d covered the whole trial. He remembered the day the jury had pronounced her
guilty. Pale and thin, Mazie had stood up to hear the verdict. She’d been wearing a blue dress that emphasized her beautiful blue eyes. Ben had been near the front of the courtroom, close enough to see that her hands were shaking. Yet she’d stood straight, shoulders back, chin up, as though facing a firing squad. Ben had felt something move inside his chest. A pang, an ache. The notion of love at first sight was ridiculous, an invention of poets—but in that moment he’d felt something that defied logic. Infatuation? Obsession?
Love?

The evidence against Mazie had been overwhelming, but Ben absolutely didn’t believe that she was capable of murder. He was certain she’d been unfairly convicted. There was nothing he could do about it, however. Four years had passed. He’d gotten on with his life and his career, but she’d always been there, in the back of his mind.

Then Mazie Maguire had broken out of prison and crashed back into his life, and since then nothing had been the same.

It rained for three days straight. Excellent moping weather. It fit Mazie’s mood to a T.

She felt Ben’s absence as a physical loss, as though part of her had been scooped out and she couldn’t take deep enough breaths. Her face felt frozen, and she felt it might crack if she attempted to smile. The rain clouds were redundant because it seemed as though every dumb decision she’d ever made, every stupid word she’d ever uttered, every embarrassing mistake she’d ever made had all glommed together into a smoglike cloud that enveloped her wherever she went. She didn’t feel like eating and actually lost a few unregretted pounds.

Mazie went to work, came home, halfheartedly threw together meals, and took Muffin for walks. Muffin didn’t mind walking in the rain. He would dash around trying to bite the raindrops—dumb dog—but he was small and short-legged, and halfway back home, his energy would flag and Mazie would end up carrying him back, slung over her shoulder, the smell of wet dog in her nostrils.

Sometimes, despite her best intentions, she found herself walking past Ben’s place. He lived in a second-floor walkup in back of the Oriental Theater only a few blocks from her own flat. He’d hidden her in that apartment when she’d escaped from prison. He’d helped her hunt down her husband’s murderer, even though doing so put him at risk of arrest himself. Outwitting the cops and eluding the bad guys—it had all been tremendously nerve-racking and exciting, a heady blend of adrenaline, nail-biting terror, and sexual chemistry, and she and Ben had fallen hard for each other.