Chapter Thirteen
Supper is an extravagant affair of soft-shell crab, stuffed artichokes, and popovers fresh out of the oven. I tell Jonathan, “You didn’t need to roll out the red carpet for us. We would have been happy with meatloaf or burgers or something.”
“I didn’t request anything special on your account,” he says. “I asked for what I wanted.”
“This is an ordinary meal for you?” Sky asks, slack-jawed.
“I don’t do ordinary.” He sounds like a real jackass. I want to call him out on it, but I don’t know him well enough to do that. It doesn’t stop me from mimicking him in my head though.
Steven announces, “I make a mean meatloaf. I’ll have you two over for supper some night while you’re here.”
“That would be wonderful,” Sky croons, making it clear to even a blind man that she is more interested in Steven than the ground meat he’s offering. Steven seems oblivious.
After our dinner dishes are cleared by Helga, Jonathan turns to his brother. “Would you mind showing Skylar the rose garden? I have a few things I’d like to discuss with Emily before dessert is served.”
“Oh, well … I guess … I mean, you know… if she wants to.” Steven is not selling enthusiasm. I feel horrible for Sky.
“I could just go up to my room,” she offers dejectedly.
“No, no, I mean, I’d love to show you the garden if you want to see it,” Steven fumbles.
Sky stands up, looking more like she’s on her way to her own beheading than about to take a stroll in a beautiful garden with a gorgeous man. Steven Silver is not behaving as one might expect. That would be with him falling over his feet to gain the interest of my lovely friend.
After they leave, Jonathan says, “My brother is shy. Please tell your friend he means no disrespect.”
“How in the world is he shy, looking the way he does?”
“You think he’s good looking?” Jonathan asks, sounding surprised.
“Total babe,” I reply before adding, “You look like twins.”
A small smile crossed Jonathan’s mouth. “You think I’m good looking?”
“Yeah.” A straight woman can tell a gay guy he’s hot without any weirdness, right? Why is it then that I feel so weird right now? “Oh, Emily,” I chastise myself, “do not fall for another gay guy.” Tom Hardy in junior high dazzled me with his fearless ability to blend argyle and stripes. I was hopelessly in love with him through all of eighth grade until he confronted me and told me that as much as he adored me I’d never be his type. I was devastated, but luckily I bounced back when Michael Farland moved to town.
“I’m not gay,” Jonathan says like he’s reading my mind again.
I nod my head in a placating fashion. “Of course not.” I don’t believe him though.
“I’m guessing by the way Skylar is fawning over my brother, that you and she aren’t an item.”
“I’m not gay,” I tell him.
“I believe you,” he says. “It’s just that when you said you had a friend coming to stay with you, I thought she might be more than just a friend.”
“Nope, just a friend,” I say before adding, “I think Sky has developed a little crush on your brother. I thought bringing her here would be a good way for them to see if they were a fit.”
“Maybe,” is all he offers.
“What did you want to talk with me about?” I ask.
“Nothing. I was doing the same thing you were. Trying to give Steven and Skylar some time alone.” Hmm, maybe Jonathan’s a nicer guy than I’ve been giving him credit for.
I decide to change the subject. “My place looks great, by the way. Greta did a bang-up job cleaning it.”
“You should really hire someone to do that for you,” he tells me. “A clean house is the sign of an organized mind.”
“A clean house is the sign of a boring person,” I retaliate.
“Only if you are the one doing the cleaning.”
“Jonathan, you need to lighten up. Seriously, this uptight, neatnik thing you’ve got going on is going to turn Stan right off.”
“Who’s Stan and why do I care what he thinks of me?”
“Stan is my neighbor. I have a hunch that he might be the one you’re supposed to meet by staying at my house.”
“I’m not gay!” he yells at me. Then he stands up, grabs my hand and pulls me toward the house. After practically dragging me into his library (the library in Beauty and the Beast could take a few pointers) he pushes me down onto the chair at his desk.
He opens a photo slideshow on his computer screen. Every time there’s a picture with him and a woman, he says, “See?”
After the picture of a bikini clad supermodel sitting on his lap, I start to believe him. She’s practically performing a tonsillectomy on him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were straight?” I demand.
“By my count, I’ve said that at least a half dozen times. The question is, why haven’t you believed me?”
“You’re too perfect,” I tell him before wishing I’d kept my mouth shut. This guy needs a bigger head like I need more dust in my life.
“Thank you for the compliment,” he says smugly.
“What compliment? That wasn’t a compliment. Women don’t like perfect men,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
“It’s too much pressure. There’s enough pressure being a woman in this town without having to feel like you can’t live up to your partner’s flawlessness. Metrosexual was so last summer.”
“I’m not metrosexual.” He sounds offended again. “I don’t pluck my eyebrows, get facials, or fake tans, and I’ve never colored my hair.”
“That’s all natural?” I point in the vicinity of his head.
“Yes!”
“Okay.” I don’t believe him. No one has highlights like that at his age without paying dearly for them.
“You’re really starting to get on my nerves, do you know that?” he asks while turning off his computer.
“It’s not like I’m your realtor and you have to work with me or anything,” I tell him. “You don’t have to like me.”
“Good thing.”
I look down at his fingernails and declare, “You get manicures.”
“I do not.”
“Your fingernails look filed.” I don’t know why I’m persisting with this, but if push came to shove, I’d have to admit that I like tweaking Jonathan Silver. I’m pretty sure he’s not used to anyone doing anything less than bowing down to him.
“I do clip my fingernails. One wouldn’t think that’s some over-the-top grooming ritual.”
“I guess not,” I concede. “But I don’t for one minute think your highlights are real.”
“You are an infuriating woman. I can see why you’re still single.” Ouch.
“Well, I can see why you’re still single, too.” In my head, I add, “You big meanie.”
“I’m leaving now. Greta will be serving dessert soon, so you might want to go back out to the veranda.” Then he just walks away from me like I’m of no consequence at all. Good luck to this guy finding a woman he deems perfect enough for him. I can’t imagine such a paragon exists.