those women who really doesn't have to watch what she eats. I'm thin, too thin if you ask me, and I always have been. There's a downside, just so you know. Being called Bones. Having small breasts. Looking malnourished. My stepdad actually counseled me on eating disorders once.
This morning we were safe with bagels and blueberry muffins. Store-bought. Kera hadn't had time to prepare anything exotic, thank God. I don't think I could have handled another breakfast like last week's. A strawberry-barbecue-and-blue-cheese ostrich egg omelet. Just the memory upset my stomach.
"Well?" Kera said. "Are you making a move on him or not?"
"I'm not attracted to Royce," I told her, hoping I sounded convincing. (I didn't.) "Therefore, I'm not making a move on him. And what's up with him and his wife applications?"
"He's eccentric and looking for love," Kera said, as if that explained everything.
Mel took a sizable bite of her bagel, chewed, swallowed. "He's a man. Men like naked photos and will do anything to get them. End of story."
Now that made sense.
Mel and Kera were identical twins, but they were different in so many ways. Kera had been born with an angel on her shoulder. Mel had been born with the devil on hers.
Mel had thick streaks of bottle-red running throughout her blond hair. She also sported several tattoos and piercings. In contrast, Kera appeared delicate, practically angelic. Both women were five-four with petite bodies and bright blue eyes.
"Did you drool over him during your meeting?" Mel asked.
"No. Of course not." Did liars go straight to hell or were they granted some sort of immunity? It wasn't like liars were murderers or anything. "Why would you ask me something so ridiculous?"
Eyes twinkling, Mel slathered cream cheese over her bagel. "You've been drooling over his picture all morning."
I gasped. "That is sooo not true."
"Oh please. I could bathe in the puddle you've created. A long, leisurely bath, at that." She raised our copy of the Tattler, "But, if you insist you're not attracted to him, I'll just get rid of this." She cast a meaningful glance at the trash can and eased to her feet.
Quick as a snap, I grabbed her arm and snatched the tabloid. "Give me that." As if I hadn't stared at it for the last hour, I studied the large black-and-white photo gracing the front page.
Royce had his arm around a leggy brunette, a slight smile curling his lips. The caption underneath read, "Son of multimillionaire Elliot Powell caught with Gwendolyn Summers. Has Royce found his bride already?"
The article vaguely mentioned the two were at some sort of charity gala for kids with cancer, and I had to wonder which was the real Royce. The womanizer I suspected him to be-wife applications, for God's sake-or the Good Samaritan who donated money and time to charity?
I sighed. To my consternation, the last two weeks had passed with amazing speed, and most of my nights had been filled with images of Royce and me cavorting like sex-starved nymphs who had only a few days to live.
I couldn't banish the man from my mind.
After getting a new driver's license and finding a new tube of Chocolate Mystique lipstick-which had taken four hours and six different stops-I should have been happy. Instead, I thought of nothing but Royce. And that made me... unhappy.
He'd sent me a check, as promised, with a note attached that said if I had any trouble finding the right lipstick to let him know and he'd have one made. How sweet was that? I wouldn't have taken him up on it, but still. I was on the road to obsession, almost to the point where Royce would need a restraining order against me.
I knew better than to let myself desire the man. Yes, Royce was handsome (okay, deliciously gorgeous), but he was a Triple C, just like Richard. Plus, he apparently wanted a wife. I never wanted to get married again.
Did my body care about that? Noooo.
Each evening before I went to bed, I made a list of the reasons why I shouldn't be attracted to Royce, why I shouldn't want to rip the clothes from his body and have my wicked way with him. In fact, I'd made several lists.
None of them helped.
"Look, even if I did drool over him," I told my cousins, "Royce is a man. That means he's only interested in women who are not boobularly challenged."
Frowning, Mel brandished the butter knife she held through the air. "Boobs so don't matter anymore.