The Frog Prince

Chapter Five

C hapter F ive

I wish I could say the night improved.

It did not.

Tom Lehman liked to talk, especially about himself. Within the first hour of our cocktails, I learned that Tom had attended Brown University, considered going back to school for his MBA, but by then was making so much money as a broker, he passed on higher education to continue building his financial portfolio.

Tom owns his own condo by the water—stunning place, with a view—and has two cars: the BMW and a fun SUV for hauling his toys. He co-owns a “rustic place” in Tahoe with some buddies from the firm so they can ski every weekend in winter (the hot tub Tom insisted they put in has been the best investment ever), and he’s decent on skis but kicks ass on the board.

“You look like a skier, Holly,” he says, motioning to the waitress that we’d like another round. He’s already had two martinis to my one, and I could use another drink, but I can’t stomach another sickly sweet-tart appletini, which is what Tom ordered for me since all girls like it.

“Can I just get a glass of chardonnay?” I ask, trying to smile at Tom as I flag the cocktail waitress down. I don’t know why I feel compelled to ask permission—must be a leftover trait from my good-girl training days—because I really don’t care if he approves or not.

“You loved the appletini.”

“I know. It’s great, it really is, but I don’t want to get too tipsy before dinner.”

Tom winks. “Gotcha.” He orders the wine for me and another Stoli martini for himself, dry, three olives, up. “You don’t have to worry,” he adds in a whisper as the waitress moves on, “I’ll take care of you if you do have too many.”

I smile small and tight. “I’m sure you will.”

He laughs, ha ha. “So what were we talking about?”

“I don’t remember,” I answer, because honestly, at that point, I don’t. And for a moment there’s silence at our bar table, and Tom glances around, drums on the table with his fingertips. He’s not bad-looking—decent features, dark sideburns on the short side, blue eyes-^but his energy makes me nervous. He continues to scan the interior of the bar as if looking for someone or something.

“I usually know people here,” he says abruptly. “It’s wild, but every time I’m here, someone I know walks in.”

“Really?”

He shakes his head. “It used to piss my girlfriend off. She said we were never alone, we always had a half dozen of my friends hanging around.”

“Ah.”

“We were going to get married. I mean, we’d talked about it.” His gaze keeps darting to the door. “I was the one that broke it off. I felt like shit when it ended. She was a good girl, she really was, and I don’t like breaking anyone’s heart, but man, she could be clingy. She didn’t have any opinions of her own. Couldn’t make a decision without asking me what I thought.” He sighs, a heavy, tired sigh. “She just needed so much.”

I find this fascinating. I can’t imagine any woman who’d need Tom that much. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs again, reaches up to pat the back of his head where his missing hair should be. “She took it pretty hard when I broke up with her. I think for a long time she thought we’d get back together.”

“How long were you together?”

“Seven months.”

I nod because he nods, and for a moment we stare at the table, and I think Tom must still have feelings for her, because his expression is distant, almost brooding.

“Christ, she had a hot body,” he says after a minute. “A really great body.” His hands rise; they’re broad through the palm, fingers medium size, and he shapes his hands as if he’s grabbing coconuts. “The sweetest, tightest little fanny ever. I loved her butt. Her face… it was okay…”

And then he looks up at me, straight into my eyes. “But nothing like yours.”

I don’t know what to say.

Tom is leaning so far forward that I feel as if we were in prison, exchanging secret information. “You’re beautiful.”

I pull back. “It’s just a face.”

“No, no. You have a great face. Really pretty. Beautiful eyes.” He’s still leaning forward, and he smiles warmly. He’s paid me a huge compliment. He wants me to realize that it’s significant. “I’m sure you know, there are two kinds of men: the kind that just want a hard body and don’t care about the face, and then there are the men that need a pretty face and can put up with a wide ass.”

I gather I fall into the wide-ass category. “So you’re saying I don’t need a paper bag?”

He laughs. Ha ha ha ha. “No. I’d never put a paper bag on your head. I’d want to see those beautiful eyes when I make love to you.”

Please let me throw up, so I have a reason to go home.

“Tell me, Holly. I want to know. How old do you think I am?”.

I think he thinks he’s being deep. I also think he thinks this is a really great conversation. However, I will go with the trivia questions any day if it means we don’t have to talk about him making love to me. “Twenty-eight?”

He grins. I guessed well. “Thirty,” he says flatly, firmly, clearly impressing me. “You couldn’t tell.”

“No.”

“I work out a lot. Run. Lift weights. Spend a lot of time on the elliptical machine.” He looks at me, as if waiting for me to ask the question I’m dying to know, and when I don’t (because I haven’t a friggin’ clue what he’d want me to ask now), he supplies more. “In case you’re wondering, I’m in great shape.”

“Yes.”

“ Reaaalllly great shape.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve got stamina.”

Ah. I see where he’s going now. We’re back to sex. We get to talk about Mr. Penis now, and I suddenly think of my brother, Jamie, and I can’t imagine him ever talking about his body parts. Not on a date. Not even to other guys. Jamie would be appalled. But then, he’s never had a difficult time meeting women. They’ve always fallen all over themselves to get to him.

Jamie was a star baseball player in high school, went to Arizona State on a baseball scholarship, and his senior year he was Mr. October in the Arizona State University calendar the sororities put together to raise money for literacy.

Clearly Jamie never felt his masculinity questioned, although Tom seems quite insecure about his at the moment.

Tom’s still talking. “I swear. I can go all night.”

This guy’s amazing, I think. He’s everything I never wanted, and more. “That’s fantastic, Tom. You must love night skiing.”

“Night skiing?”

“You said you could go all night.”

“I’m talking about… sex.” He leans forward. “In bed .”

“Oh!” I feign ignorance. “Wow. Congratulations. That’s really wonderful. You must be so proud.”

Tragically, it seems he is.

We somehow make it from the bar, across the city to Ghirardelli Square. A new restaurant has opened opposite the square, and this is the cool place Tom’s been talking about. It’s certainly crowded when we arrive, lots of young, glamorous folks standing in the entrance, and even more spilling from the bar. It’s a big restaurant, and yet every table is full. The over-the-top lighting—red spotlights only, softened by little votives glowing on all the tables—illuminates the massive statue in the center of Ovio, the statue resembling a Mayan god with a massive erection.

“What do you think?” Tom asks as we’re led to our table.

“It’s cool.”

“I love it here.”

I’m not surprised. This is the ultimate in phallic power, and once seated, I realize that at least half the tables are filled with couples that are just men.

“Another drink?” Tom asks, trying to catch the eye of a server.

“No, I’m good.”

“One more won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t want to pass out.”

“You won’t pass out.”

“No, but I will be sick, and I’d hate to do that to your car.”

That’s enough to keep Tom from pushing more liquor on me.

For the next half hour we manage small talk while he has another cocktail and I try not to go mad with hunger. It’s nearly a quarter to nine by the time a food server appears to take our order, but before we can actually order anything, the waiter’s called away.

I feel like screaming. Or throwing something. I’m so hungry and tired, and have I said really, really hungry? But Tom’s oblivious. He’s happy with his drink, has launched into another discussion, this one about the best private golf courses in Monterey and Carmel, and all I can think about is food. I’m finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything Tom is saying.

Please just give me some bread. A little appetizer. One bite of salad. I’ll even accept a leaf of iceberg lettuce at this point.

Finally, finally, twenty minutes later, our waiter reappears with a smile. He shakes his head. “It’s always like this.” He puts his hands on his hips as he surveys us. “Have you two had a chance to look at the menu?”

We’ve had over an hour. “Yes.”

“Any questions I can answer about the menu, or Ovio?”

I’m past hungry. I’ve hit super grumpy. “Do we actually get anything to eat here?”

The waiter stops smiling, and Tom covers my hand. “Little feisty, aren’t you?” he says, squeezing my hand and laughing. Ha ha ha ha. “I think we have to feed Baby.”

I pull my hand out from beneath his, attempt to order, but Tom has a different idea. “I know the menu,” he says. “Let me handle this.”

Why the hell not, Tom? You’re doing everything else tonight.

Tom places the order, assures me I’ll like what he’s selected, and lets the pissed-off waiter escape.

“You were a little argumentative, weren’t you?” Tom says. “You have spunk. Fire. I like that.”

“I don’t think I was that unreasonable. It took him an hour to wait on us.”

“But we’re in no hurry. We’re having fun.”

I suddenly think that Tom and I are from two different galaxies, traveling through space at almost the same speed and time. “Did I embarrass you?”

“You can’t embarrass me.”

I almost believe that.

“I’m confident,” he adds. “You can probably tell.’

I can.

“But women like confident men.” Tom shakes his martini glass, dislodging the olives. “You like confident men.”

Again I’m so fascinated I can hardly speak. I have no idea where he’s going with this, and I’m dying to know what he’ll say next.

“You do,” he says, leaning across yet another table, creating yet more intimacy. “You. Like. Me.”

“I do?” I say it like a question, I mean it like a question, and yet he takes it as a statement of fact.

“You do. Because women can’t resist confident men. It’s the number one thing that turns them on.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Maybe not up here”—and he taps his forehead—“but here,” and now he taps his chest, where I assume he thinks the heart should be. As he’s tapping his chest, I notice the glint of a blue stone set in a big gold ring on his finger. It looks like a ring from his alma mater.

“You do here,” he adds, tapping his chest again. “You know it when you’ve found someone who can handle the situations life throws at you, who isn’t afraid to step up to the plate, who will always look out for you and put your needs first.”

This is getting really good. I don’t know if it’s the martini talking or he honestly believes this stuff, but I’m hanging on every word.

“I like you, Holly.”

I’m trying to keep a sober expression. “Thank you.”

“I mean it. I. Like. You.” He picks up an olive, sucks it dry, chews it. “And I like the vibe we’ve got going.”

There’s no vibe. I feel nothing but a desperate desire to escape, and yet I feel like a deer caught in headlights—I can’t make myself move.

Tom is popping another olive into his mouth. “I knew when I met you there could be something. I felt the spark, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He’s already continuing the conversation alone. I admire the energy he brings to the table.

“You’re not like most women I meet. There’s more to you. There’s”—and his hand waves. in broad circles—“a lot to you. Inside. You’re deep. If you know what I mean.”

“That’s really nice, Tom, but—”

“No buts.” He’s leaning on the table, the fire of gin in his eyes. “I’m a take-no-prisoners guy. I won’t accept anything less than unconditional surrender.”

The waiter—still in a snit—appears with our appetizers. I’m amazed they need sixty minutes to take our order and only five to prepare it.

Tom’s reaching for a miniature white corn tamale. “Tell me about your meeting yesterday. What’s going on?”

In my favorite Greek myths and fairy tales, the heroes were all the strong, silent type. Unfortunately, Tom seems to be neither. But I can’t ignore his attempt at sincerity. “We’ve an event that’s going south.”

“Why?”

“Nobody’s coming.”

“Why?”

I almost smile, my first real smile. This is funny to me. “Olivia says it’s been done to death.”

He nods, runs his tongue across his back teeth, picking out little bits of shredded chicken. “You need a new angle.”

“Exactly.”

He points at me. “All you have to do is something new.”

I nearly slap the table. “Exactly.”

“You can do it, baby.”

I hate the “baby.” The “baby” needs to die. Fortunately, more food arrives, and for the next half hour we’re diverted by platters and samplers, and we eat so much that my waistband starts to cut me in half. And yet Tom really wants me to order coffee and dessert, and I do.

If only to put off what’s coming next.

I don’t want to get into his car with him. It’s not just that he’s been drinking, but I have an idea how this is going to play out, and I want no part of it.

I linger over my coffee until Tom’s paid the bill, pocketed his credit card, and climbed to his feet. He reaches for my hand and I feel as if he were inviting me to dance.

We walk arm in arm (I’m not happy about this) through the restaurant and exit onto the street.

The fog’s moved in, and as the valet attendant runs off to get Tom’s car, Tom uses the opportunity to put his arm around me.

I stiffen instinctively. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone touch me, so long since I let a man get close, and this is not the man I want close. Tom’s arm feels heavy. His touch is strange. We’re not a couple, and yet he’s moving ahead, surging forward, as if everything were already planned.

The cold, damp fog chills me, and I shiver. I don’t mean to; I don’t mean to give Tom anything at all, but Tom seizes on yet another opportunity and wraps the other arm around me, sandwiching me between his arms, against his chest.

“Cold, baby?” His voice drops, and he places a kiss on the top of my head. Ugh. And now he’s rubbing my upper arm with the palm of his hand.

I shiver again, this time repulsed.

“Poor baby.” He brings me even closer. I can smell his dinner. Feel the hair on his chest press through his shirt. His body is sturdy, square, and it probably isn’t horrendous naked, but I don’t want his body touching mine.

I try to pull away. He doesn’t notice. Tom just keeps rubbing my arm, back and forth, back and forth, while the word “baby” screams like a banshee in my head.

“ Baby. ”

I wasn’t ready for dating. I know it’s going to be a long time before I can think about making love with someone other than Jean-Marc, and even though it’s a little thing, I don’t want the cutesy nicknames, especially when they mean nothing.

Endearments shouldn’t happen on first dates. I’ve never been comfortable with endearments, but early on, when things are developing, endearments are plain wrong.

Endearments are alienating.

If a man uses an endearment too soon, he’s going to be one of those touchy-feely types. And women aren’t all that comfortable with touchy-feely men. A lot more women have intimacy issues than folks know, and an indiscriminate use of “sweetie” or “baby” is bound to have negative, and lasting, repercussions.

Tom, for example.

He was trying to do so much so right. And I’m going to give him points for trying, but the “baby” thing is playing in my head, over and over like that annoyingly cheerful kids’ song “The Wheels on the Bus” (go round and round, round and round; the wheels on the bus…), and I know this is mean, but when Tom says “baby” and rubs my arm, my first thought, after getting rid of the wheels-on-the-bus refrain, is, Dude, you don’t know me.

But I don’t say it; I don’t know how to say anything I need. I couldn’t ask Jean-Marc why he stopped loving me, and I can’t ask Tom Lehman to stop touching me.

Instead I fixate on the use of endearments and think maybe Arnold Schwarzenegger (before the whole governor thing started) could get away with a “baby” and still seem masculine, but unless you’re built like the Terminator, or you’re Tarzan and still mastering human language, “baby” is out.

And so is “honey,” and “sweetie.” They’re icky.

If there are rules for good girls, then there should be rules for singles, and the number one rule would be no endearments outside serious, monogamous relationships. Casual endearments make the user look (a) weak, (b) desperate, and (c) cheap.

Valet pulls up with Tom’s BMW, and the uniformed kid climbs out from behind the wheel. “Nice car, isn’t it?” Tom says about his own car to the kid from valet.

The kid nods but doesn’t look as impressed as Tom probably thinks he should be.

We get in the car, and before we pull away, Tom leans over and kisses me. This is not a tentative kiss; this is big and wet and hard, right on the lips. His mouth feels funny against mine, and the hair on my nape tingles.

I try to dislodge myself, but Tom’s plunging ahead, pushing his tongue into my mouth, and my nails bite into the palms of my hands.

I don’t want the kiss, can’t imagine how he could feel one thing and I feel absolutely nothing, but I can’t say this, just as I’ve never been able to say what I really need. My eyes burn hot, a salty stinging, before I finally wrench away.

His thumb strokes my cheek. “You’re so sweet.”

I’m so not.

And then he guns the engine a little and pulls away from the curb. I’m disgusted, not with him but with me.

Tom turns the music up, cranking it all the way, and after he opens the sunroof again, he accelerates like mad.

Michael Andretti on his way home.

For a few minutes Norah or Sade or whoever she is fills the BMW with longing sound. I don’t buy CDs like this. I don’t find that this husky, throaty singing does anything for me.

Tom’s another story. His head is back against the seat; he’s driving as if all the blood in his body were rushing to his pants. I can feel the tension build. Something’s going to happen, and it’s not good.

Please just get me close to home before he makes a move. Please, God, just get me within walking distance. Please…

Tom’s hand settles on my thigh, a good six inches above my knee.

Obviously God’s not listening to me right now.

This is my fault. I married to avoid all this—married to sidestep the stuff I didn’t know how to do—and yet suddenly I’m alone again and even more vulnerable than before. How am I supposed to handle men if I don’t know how to handle myself? Or worse, if I don’t even know who the hell I am?

I’m screaming inside my head now. I don’t want to be divorced. I want to be married. I want to have kids and make pot roasts and string popcorn and cranberries for the most wonderful old-fashioned Christmas tree ever.

“I enjoyed tonight,” Tom says.

I try to make myself go numb, because hysterics are pretty much overrated and the screaming in my head doesn’t help my sense of calm or control.

And while I try to be numb, I try not to obsess about his hand, but his fingers are resting on the inside of my thigh, and they’re gently kneading the muscle—if there were muscle.

“Yes,” I say, and it’s strangled.

“You’re a lot of fun, Holly.” His hand is sliding up, his fingertips stretching.

What do I do? What do I do? I try to calm myself; I force myself to think.

Cross the legs, Holly.

Good idea. I shift, cross my legs, trapping his hand between my thighs. He doesn’t seem to have noticed. I wiggle, trying to dislodge his hand. He uses the shift of my hips to try to go in for the kill, and this time I forcibly remove his hand. There’s no point in subtlety. “I’m flattered, Tom, and as great as you are, I’m not ready for anything more than friendship.”

“But I can take care of you.” His hand lands on my thigh again, this time the other one. “You need someone like me. Someone strong, sure of himself, someone—”

“Confident,” I conclude, knowing where this is going, thinking he’s got persistence on his side, that’s for certain. I remove his hand again. “As you know, I’ve just gotten out of a serious relationship, and I’m not ready to start anything new.”

Tom takes the corner fast, and I suddenly recognize my neighborhood. We’re not far from my apartment now. Just a couple of blocks.

“Tell me about your ex,” he says. “What’s his name?”

“Jean-Marc.”

“Jean-Marc? What was he? French?”

“Yes.”

“Meet him in France?”

“No.” I don’t want to get into details, not with Tom. When I don’t say anything else, Tom looks at me quizzically. “Are you still in love with him?”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

“No.”

“You sound hung up on him.”

How would he know? I look at Tom, his face lit by the blue dashboard lights, and I wonder at his audacity, or what he calls confidence. I couldn’t ever be like him. Couldn’t force my opinions on people.

“Why didn’t it work out?” Tom persists. “Did he cheat on you?”

“No.”

“So he didn’t have an affair?”

“No.” My hands are clenched; I feel so tight and tense on the inside, I can hardly breathe.

“Most men can’t stay faithful. They’re dogs,” Tom adds helpfully.

“Are you ?”

“No. I’m one of the good ones.”

God help us women.

For a moment the car is silent except for the longing and craving coming out of the stereo. Then Tom clears his throat. “What made him so special, this Jean-Luc—”

“Jean-Marc.”

“Whatever.” He pulls up in front of my house, turns to face me, waits for an answer.

I want to tell him that “whatever” is rude and that I find him incredibly boorish and that even Jean-Marc had impeccable manners. But I don’t. I hug the car door instead, fingers inching toward the lock. “I don’t know.”

“Was he gay?”

God, I hate Tom. “No.”

“You’re sure? Did you have sex?”

That pretty much does it for me. I fling my door open, and Tom is quickly coming around his side of the car, but before his lips can get anywhere near my face again, I’m running up the front steps, waving and shouting good-bye.

Tom shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’ll call you.”

The horrible thing is, I think he means it.