Arm Candy Read Online Free PDF Page A

of her.
    Wes shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t know,” he said sheepishly. “I’m alone a lot. I read a ton. And take lots and lots of long walks.”
    “You know what I think?” Eden asked, stopping him and putting her hand on his shoulder. “I think I want to come along.”

5
    Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.
    —Bob Dylan
     
     
     
    E den barely unpacked into Allison’s studio when she began spending every night at Wes’s apartment down the street. Her heart pounded every time she was headed to see him. Wes was almost too good to be true. He was softer, more nurturing to her than other guys had been. He never tried to control her; they never quarreled. He was wise, sweet, and most of all, he respected her.
    Each night he’d study, his blue downward-gazing irises behind his glasses as he sketched and traced blueprints through the night while Eden danced with a glass of wine in the background to her The The vinyls. He gave her that feeling in her stomach, like she felt on the swinging pirate ship ride when she and Allison snuck into a traveling county fair as children: nauseating and thrilling at the same time.
    Could this be the L word they talk, sing, write, and scream about? Eden moved in within four weeks. And as the months blissfully passed, she saw no end in sight. They spent every free moment together. He taught her all about architecture; she took him to outdoor free concerts where they would lie in each other’s arms. They seemed to have their own language, and even had a special nickname for each other, which they hatched after only a few months together.
    One night at their late-night haunt, the diner on the Bowery where they first met, Wes was signaling Eden inside from her cigarette break. Like everyone in New York at the time, she had started smoking, despite years of having called her mom the Chimney.
    “Honey, the burgers are ready,” he said, sweetly tapping on the glass.
    “Thanks, honey,” she said through the window as she threw the butt on the ground and came in.
    An older Greek guy who sat on the stool beside them laughed as he ate his fries.
    “This is very funny, you calling your lover ‘honey,’” he said in his thick Mediterranean accent, swiveling toward the cute couple. “In my country, this word is not used for affection, it is ingredient. This is like in your country calling your lover ‘maple syrup.’”
    Wes and Eden cackled out loud, totally getting how random calling a beloved “honey” might sound to a foreigner. Wes moved Eden’s hair from her cheek and kissed it.
    “You’re absolutely right,” Wes said to the man. “Everyone says honey. I actually like maple syrup much better,” he proclaimed with a smile. He looked at Eden and smiled. “I now christen you Maple.”
    “Okay, Maple.”
     
     
    “Eden is in looove,” Allison teased.
    “Shut up, I am not!” Eden said sternly.
    But in truth, when Wes would tickle her back as she fell asleep or make her pasta with the best marinara sauce outside Naples, Eden couldn’t help imagining what it would be like to grow old with him.
    On deadline for his next project one freezing snowy Sunday, Wes finally put down his pen and paper to take a break. Dazzled by Eden’s sensuous dance moves around the apartment as music played, Wes took off his glasses and flopped down on the bed. He lay on his stomach, his pencil grazing the paper gently as he watched Eden in her camisole and panties as she spun around. He smiled as the graphite perfectly rendered what he had intended.
    “What is that you’re drawing?” she asked as his pencil dotted the pad. “A constellation of stars or something?”
    “Nope.” Wes smiled. “It’s all the beauty marks on your back.”
    He showed her the pad. The little brown spots were sweetly mapped with expert precision.
    “Shit, I have that many ?” She lay down next to him.
    “Yes, you do. Serious mole cartography,” he teased.
    “Great,” she