Eye Candy Read Online Free PDF

back. Grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands off my head.
    I stumbled over the curb, gasping for breath, my heart pounding. My lips throbbed. Were they bleeding?
    Brad stood with a crooked smile on his face. Almost as if nothing had happened. But he was breathing hard, too.
    My whole body tensed. I balled my hands into fists. “Listen, Brad—”
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I . . . slipped.”
    Slipped?
    He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away from him.
    â€œI’m a total klutz,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Sorry.”
    I stared hard at him. Was he for real?
    â€œYou coming, Mister?” the cab driver called.
    â€œHey, I’ll email you,” Brad said. He didn’t give me a chance to reply. He ducked back into the cab. The door slammed shut, and the cab pulled away.
    I stood at the curb, licking my cut lip. It throbbed with pain.
    Did he really slip? Was he just nervous?
    I hurried into my building. Riding up the elevator, I thought about Brad’s laugh. Such a loud, showy, angry laugh.
    At Caroline’s, Brad had laughed loudest at all the totally sexist jokes. He howled at every joke putting women down. And a guy who told joke after joke about blondes—
What kind of word-processing program can a blonde use? A pencil!
Ha ha ha—that guy made Brad roar.
    Did he think I was a dumb blonde, too?
    Well . . . I felt all mixed up about Brad. I mean, he was cute, like a big stork with that bird face of his and that crooked smile. And he was almost as tall as me. But what was with that kiss?
    Now, here we are, one week later, with Jack Smith. We had to get back to him sometime, didn’t we?
    He’s been doing the Whisker Dance and telling me his ideas on how to market Cat Chow. And I’ve been thinking about Brad, and Ben, and Luisa, and Ann-Marie, thinking about how I got into this, and trying to listen to Jack. I mean, trying to be nice and concentrate on what he’s saying, but, come on, Cat Chow just isn’t at the top of my Most Fascinating list.
    We get out of the restaurant. I’m gulping like a fish for fresh air. “It’s such a nice night,” Jack says. “Let’s walk back to your apartment.”
    The play was free, dinner was free—and now he doesn’t even want to spring for two bucks for the subway to get me back to Seventy-ninth Street?
    â€œI’m feeling kinda wiped,” I tell him. “Maybe I’ll just jump in the subway over there.” I point to Forty-ninth Street. “Where do you live, anyway?”
    â€œHoboken. Right over the river.” He points west. “My dad lets me use a condo he owns. Rent free, do you believe it? It has the greatest view. I mean, why live in Manhattan when you can see it all from the other side?”
    â€œSounds great,” I say, trying to sound convincing.
    â€œWell, I guess this is it,” he says, blue eyes crinkling up. Even the crinkling eyes don’t win me over now. “I’m heading downtown. You know. The PATH train.”
    You mean you don’t
walk
back to New Jersey? Wow. Big spender.
    â€œWell . . . goodnight, Jack. Thanks for the play and everything.”
    He nods. “It was great.”
    Two taxis squeal to the curb. The drivers, both big, burly men in turbans, jump out and begin screaming at each other. They’re both waving their fists in the air, bumping each other with their broad chests, cursing each other, screaming, spitting on the pavement.
    â€œI . . . I’d better go,” I say.
    Jack nods again. We take a few steps away from the battling drivers. A crowd has quickly gathered on the corner to watch the fight.
    Jack has to shout over the screaming voices. “Can I call you?”
    Oh God. Did I give him my number? I don’t remember giving it to him. How did he get it?
    I don’t want to encourage him. And I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s not a bad guy, really. Especially if