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What Have I Done For Me Lately?
Isabel Sharpe


Jenny Hartmann's sizzling bestseller What Have I Done for Me Lately? has made her a minor celebrity, never mind sexually confident and savvy.Women across the country are snapping up her trendy advice book, and men…well, men are avoiding the bookstore altogether! Now Jenny's about to take her own "you go, girl" advice to heart–by indulging in a fantasy fling with Ryan Masterson. Back in college he'd called her boring and unadventurous.Well, Jenny is going to show this former bad boy how dynamite she can be in bed. Except she isn't expecting how good Ryan can be at reading between the lines…









“What do you want from me?”


“Isn’t it obvious?” Jenny murmured over the phone line.

“Just sex?”

“It’s as good a place to start as any. Tell me, Ryan, what have you done for yourself lately…?”

He frowned even as he started picturing all the possibilities. Like her, moving beneath him. “Why do you want this?”

She took in a long deep breath, let it out and even managed to make that sound sexy. “Ryan…”

He should hang up the phone now. Right now. “Yes?”

“I’ll be at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East Ninety-sixth at exactly 2:00 a.m. this morning in a white Volkswagen Passat. And I’ll be—”

“No.” He was already shaking his head. “I’m not going to—”

“I’ll be wearing a black lace bra, a low-cut red top and high-heeled shoes.” She exhaled on a low mmmm that made him immediately harden. “And that’s all.”

A click and the line went dead.







Dear Reader,

I’ve always loved the juxtaposition between shy/demure and bold/wild. Shy girl meets dangerous bad boy or quiet guy meets hot-blooded vixen. It’s an irresistible opposites-attract chemistry.

So I started thinking, what if you had the shy/wild combination in each character? How about if my heroine, Jenny Hartmann, grew up shy and became wild, and my hero, Ryan Masterson, was a bad boy who sobered up later in life? Add in that they, ahem, knew each other back when they were opposites, and are bumping into each other now, years later, when they’ve switched character traits, and the fun starts.

Enjoy their wild ride!

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe




What Have I Done for Me Lately?

Isabel Sharpe













www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my mom and dad,

whose side-by-side battle against one of life’s

unfair challenges was more romantic

than anything I’ve ever written.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15




1


“MY WIFE PATTY has done a lot of needlework in her time.” Mr. Jed Baxter sent the sour-faced woman beside him a look of adoration.

Ryan Masterson raised his eyebrows as if this was the most exciting thing he’d heard in nearly forever, mind spinning over the absolute nothing he knew about needlework to try to come up with a follow-up question. He’d been sitting in the Union Square Café for the better part of two hours with Jed and Patty Baxter, a middle-aged couple who’d just moved to Manhattan from Dallas. The point of the meal was to get to know them, let them get to know him, and to interest them in his firm’s latest venture-capital fund, for female- and minority-owned businesses in the city. However, the ebb and flow of conversation had been heavy on ebb and light on flow. He’d already struck out on the topic of rodeo, a passion of Jed’s. Ditto barbecue, because what could be said after your guest emphatically denied you could have an opinion being from the North? They’d had to resort to a discussion of tax law, a subject he could only b.s. his way through at best.

“Needlework. Really. What kind?” That had to be a safe and relevant question, didn’t it? Wasn’t there more than one kind of needlework? He was pretty sure Jed wasn’t talking about tattooing or body piercing.

Patty flicked a glance at Ryan and went back to staring at something past his head. “Needlepoint, knitting…”

“Sweaters?” He took a sip of water. Sweaters? He was scraping absolute bottom. Times like this he needed a woman beside him, maybe someone like Christine, the woman who lived across the hall. That might sound sexist, but while he was sure there were men into needlework, he was just as sure he didn’t want to date any.

“Yes. And embroidery. Crewel tablecloths.” She glanced at him again and almost smiled, which was the closest thing to an expression he’d seen all evening.

Ryan put on his most impressed face. Whatever cruel tablecloths were, they clearly deserved a reaction. “Well. I’m in awe. Did you ever think of starting a business?”

She blinked in apparent alarm. “No.”

With that chatty and fascinating response, the waiter brought back the signed copy of the bill, thank God, and Ryan could end this misery. At the door to the restaurant, he kept a warm smile on while he shook hands, sure this was the last time he’d get that chance. Jed and Patty were old money, liberal, new to the city and in search of a place to leave their mark. Gilbert Capital’s newest fund fit their needs perfectly. But why would they give over large sums to someone they couldn’t connect with? Trust and compatibility were vital to the process, and Ryan was generally very good at eliciting both, even at first meetings. The Baxters had defeated him. Done in by bucking broncos and table linens.

“Well, it’s been a lovely evening.”

“It certainly has been.” Jed and Patty exchanged glances wearing polite smiles and made their escape, going east on 16


Street toward Union Square.

Ryan went west, turning back once to lift a hand in case the Baxters had the same impulse.

They didn’t.

He sighed and pushed impatiently at hair that insisted on ignoring careful combing, and diving over his forehead, aiming for his eyes. He needed to cut it, but he couldn’t bring himself to part with this last symbol of his rebellious youth. Maybe the Baxters liked short hair. Jed’s had been buzzed close to military-short. Maybe they liked bawdy humor instead of intelligent conversation, maybe they liked beer instead of wine, maybe they’d rather have gone to a deli for pastrami sandwiches. Jed was obviously devoted to his wife, and Ryan couldn’t find a single topic to draw her out, maybe that was it. If Patty made the decisions in the family, Ryan and his fund were definitely going nowhere.

A man bumped into him on Fifth Avenue and Ryan instinctively felt for his watch and wallet, then dodged another man aiming too close. New York, New York, a helluva town. He turned onto West 14


Street and a stiff breeze dislodged the rest of his attempt at a controlled hairstyle. Warm for mid-April. Nearly summerlike tonight.

At the Sixth Avenue subway stop, he paused, got a whiff of stale subterranean air and kept walking, straight and brisk, or as brisk as the crowd would allow. The thought of being underground, cooped up in a metal car, squashed among strangers’ bodies never appealed, but tonight it seemed unbearable.

Not for the first time, and more frequently in recent months, the country’s largest city felt too small, too tight. He’d never be a country boy, but he craved less crowded spaces, a more peaceful pace of life, a motorcycle between his legs, a pair of female arms wrapped around his middle and nowhere in particular to go.

Which would accomplish what?

He needed a change, but he needed to move forward, not back. His motorcycle days were over long ago, and with them, his reckless youth. Instead of high-speed alcohol consumption followed by high-speed driving, his social life consisted of low-key evenings with friends, work-related outings or charity events, an over-thirty soccer league and occasional dates. In short, he’d grown up.

When he left the city, he’d leave it for a commuting suburb, maybe in Connecticut, his home state, a big friendly house with a loving wife and a bunch of kids to play in the green backyard. That would be his next journey. And if his increasing restlessness in Manhattan was any indication, he was due to be starting it soon.

A taxi screeched to a halt near him, horns blared, people shouted.

Very soon.

He reached home, a typically New York nineteenth-century brownstone on Bank Street, and got into the elevator with a middle-aged woman and her yappy little dog who lived a floor above him. The woman looked, as usual, as if she’d just had a horrible fight with a loved one. The dog was one of those jittery bug-eyed ones that always looked as if they were about to explode. Hostility. Suspicion. Stress. Daily facts of life. He’d had enough.

On the fourth floor, he got off the elevator, calling out a good-night that wasn’t returned, and strode down the narrow cool hall. The second his key hit the lock of 4C, the door to the apartment across from his opened.

“Hey, Ryan.” The soft throaty voice filled the hallway.

Christine. He turned and nearly dropped his key. Christine? Wearing the kind of negligee he’d only seen in the pages of Victoria’s Secret catalogs.

Er, not that he ever wasted time looking at those. Of course.

“Hi, there.” He suppressed his cave man reaction and grinned, glad to see a friendly familiar face after the strained evening. Christine would have been a welcome addition at dinner tonight. He’d bet she could have chatted easily with the Baxters, as she seemed to be able to do with everyone. The tone of the evening and the outcome would have been decidedly different. He’d probably still have a chance at their participation in the fund.

“Just home from work?” She hefted a small bag of trash, her apparent reason for being out in her nightgown. She worked in the office suite next to his firm’s and had asked him six months ago, shortly after she started, if there were any vacancies in his building. He’d hesitated when the first one that came open was across the hall. Did he really want to invite a stranger he’d see fairly regularly at work to be his neighbor?

But something about Christine brought out his protective side—maybe that she was relatively new to the city and Manhattan could batter people who weren’t used to it—and he’d given in. A few weeks later, she was his neighbor, and had proved to be as friendly and sweet as she seemed, with a knack for baking—and more importantly, sharing what she’d made—that made his eyes roll back into his head with pleasure.

His suburban-house fantasy crystalized. A harborside mansion in Southport, Connecticut. His lovely wife, Christine, not only at his side wining and dining clients, but beside him at home as well, the beautiful, gentle mother of his kids. The picture was pleasant, comfortable and logical. If her face weren’t so innocent, the outfit—and the fact that she often appeared when he was either coming or going—would make him wonder if she’d had similar thoughts herself.

Maybe Fate had put her in his path tonight, when he’d been thinking about settling down.

“Yes, I’m just back. I had a dinner with prospective investors.”

“Oh, how’d it go?” She appeared all wide-eyed interest and he managed to keep himself from visually exploring her generous cleavage, displayed by cream-colored material that looked delicate enough to snag on his hands. Her blond hair had been twisted up into a clip with just enough strands loose to make her look soft and vulnerable and…luscious.

Luscious? That was a new one where Christine was concerned. Everything about her seemed different tonight. Was it how she looked? Or how he was seeing her?

“It…went.” He gave in and examined the negligee and the body in it, not at all sorry once he started. She was tall, five-seven or eight, with endless legs, one of his favorite female traits—physically speaking. “Did you wear that to work?”

She laughed, blushing, and clutched the semitransparent robe closer. “You caught me. I was hoping to sneak to the trash chute and back before anyone saw. I was trying to play it cool when you appeared, but frankly, I’m mortified.”

He chuckled, and in deference to her discomfort, dragged his gaze reluctantly back to her eyes, hazel and luminous, looking at him with something primitive he’d never seen there before. His body reacted; he moved backward toward his door. He needed to think this through before he let his other brain take over. “I didn’t mean to embarrass—”

“It’s okay. Really.” She spoke hurriedly and he stopped his retreat.

Was he nuts? Was she sending him a yes, please signal? Or was she only being her usual cordial self and her outfit had turned him into a testosterone-driven beast?

“Well, good night.” He turned resolutely away, put his key in the lock, jiggled it slightly while twisting and opened his door. Dating someone who worked and lived so close to him could turn into disaster.

He kept the door open with his foot, reached in and flipped the light on in his entrance hall.

Or it could turn out great.

He’d gotten a pretty good sense of Christine over the past few months. He’d helped her out here and there, recommending restaurants, hardware stores, auto repair places, giving her directions and advice. He’d also helped with a few heavy-lifting and handyman chores in her apartment, which he had a feeling would have been done better by Fred Farbington, the building super. Several times they’d found themselves leaving the Graybar building at the same time on their lunch hours and had joined forces. He liked her. A lot. And with the sudden sexual zing in the air tonight, he wanted to get to know her better. A lot.

She didn’t strike him as a complicated person, but far from dull, she seemed intelligent and ambitious, already earning herself a promotion at the insurance firm where she worked. And anyone who could move to Manhattan without knowing a soul and appear to thrive had strength in spades. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a mean-spirited bone in her body. She was calm, beautiful and elegant, but didn’t come across as snobbish or—

Okay, he’d convinced himself.

He went back into the hall, found Christine at her door again, having gotten rid of her trash. “Christine.”

“Yes?” She turned and smiled, not blushing this time, not clutching the robe closed, and he saw again, more distinctly, that flash of awareness that she looked good and she knew he noticed and was glad he had.

Well, well. The fantasy house in Connecticut suddenly acquired a detailed master bedroom.

“Do you do any needlework?”

She laughed, a sudden nervous burst he didn’t blame her for. She probably thought he’d lost it.

“What kind?”

“Tattooing, piercing…I want to get my nose done.”

She started to look horrified and he grinned to show he was kidding. “I meant craft needlework.”

“Oh.” She put a hand to her chest and his eyes followed it enviously. “Sure. I used to sew a lot. I still knit occasionally, when someone in the family has a baby. I never did needlepoint or embroidery—”

“But you know what they are.”

“Yes.” She gave him a “you-feeling-okay?” look. “I know what they are.”

“I could have used your help tonight.”

“You’re stuck on a knitting project?”

He laughed at her joke, feeling keyed up and happy, the way he always felt when a promising relationship was starting—though it had been well over a year and he’d had quite a few disappointments before this. His decision had made itself for him. “Have dinner with me tomorrow? Been a while since I had a good Thai meal. I’d like to share one of my favorite places with you.”

She looked astonished at first, then her sincere delight made him feel as if he’d been crowned king of a small nation. “I’d love that, Ryan. Thank you.”

“I’ll knock at seven?”

“Perfect.” She smiled again, and he watched her go through her doorway, then pause and half turn as if she wanted to say something or look back. She must have changed her mind because she continued on and the door swung slowly shut behind her.

Christine Bayer.

He lingered, staring across the hall, then went into his own place and tossed his keys on the cherry table in the foyer. Interesting. Unexpected. She’d been under his nose all along, and he’d never really seen her as anything but a friend. Okay, maybe a few times, he was a guy for Pete’s sake. But after tonight…

Christine could turn out to be not only what this evening had needed. But what his life did as well.



CHRISTINE WAITED UNTIL the door to her apartment had closed completely before she let her pleased smile widen into a joyous grin that verged on outright laughter. Yes! Yes! Yes!

She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes, breathing fast, occasionally breaking into a giggle.

Ryan Masterson had just asked her out.

Finally! After six months of putting herself in his path, of baking him treats, “bumping into him” time after time in the hallway here or at work on her lunch hour, asking for favors the odious building superintendent, Fred Farbington, would be only too happy to take care of, offering to sew on buttons or pick up something for him at the supermarket…In short, after gradually working them into a comfortable friendship before she took the next step…

Well, she’d finally taken that next step.

You couldn’t ambush men like Ryan Masterson, tempting as it had been the first day she’d laid eyes on him to say, “Hello, how are you? I’m Christine. How ’bout it?” For one thing she might as well get in line. Men like Ryan weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, and women definitely noticed. For another, the approach was too obvious, too easily ignored or rejected. Not to mention that if he did jump, it was too easy for him to jump away just as quickly.

Christine wasn’t interested in one night or one month or one year with Ryan. She was all for giving forever a shot, and forever had to be approached with caution. Those fools who dived into forever without checking carefully first were in danger of banging their hearts on the bottom and becoming emotional quadriplegics.

The trick with a man like Ryan was to insinuate yourself into his life slowly, nearly imperceptibly, then just when he’d gotten used to having you around, when his brain no longer sounded the “possible female in pursuit of a relationship” alarm, then you pulled out the stops. Not all the stops all at once. Slowly, a bit at a time, one, then two, then the rest, before he even knew what hit him.

Like wearing the kind of negligee that made men weak from lack of blood to their brains. But not acting as if she’d worn it on purpose. No seduction intended, no, of course not. Far from it, she’d been caught on what was supposed to be a surreptitious sneak down the hall. Oops! She was so embarrassed!

Yes, it was sneaky and manipulative, but oh the ploy had worked. She couldn’t even stand how terrified she’d been that it wouldn’t. Putting on the negligee, putting on enough makeup to camouflage flaws but not seem made-up, looking herself over in the mirror, straining for the sound of his footsteps and his key…she’d been a wreck.

What if he stared at her, then laughed? What if he merely glanced her way and didn’t react at all? What if he figured out what she was up to and the last six months of her painstaking groundwork—and their friendship—bit the dust?

She needn’t have wasted all that energy worrying. The encounter had been perfect, down to the last detail. Maybe she should pinch herself to make sure she was awake this time. Last night, she’d dreamed the scene again—only it had turned into a nightmare with Ryan morphing into her geeky sixth grade science teacher and then into Fred the super, overweight, balding, blue-collar, the near perfect opposite of her dream man.

This hadn’t been a dream. Ryan had been exactly as she’d fantasized him so many times—friendly, at first, and then when what she was wearing hit him…more than friendly. His eyes had darkened, taken on an intensity that—

Well, her heart was still pogo-sticking in her chest. Lord have mercy, was he sexy. Tall, way-masculine and fabulously built—the kind of guy that felt like a fortress around you in bed. Dark hair he tried to keep in a corporate-conservative style, but which kept escaping into a casual tousled mess across his forehead. Blue eyes that delivered heat or cool, depending on what mood he was in.

Don’t even get her started on how he looked weekend mornings, rumpled and unshaven, sometimes bare-chested, body stunningly muscled, picking up the paper on his doorstep.

She could lock herself in her refrigerator for an hour and not cool down by so much as a degree.

As if that weren’t enough? Pardon her for putting it right out there, but…he wasn’t exactly hurting financially. She had a very good job here, yet she was barely meeting the rent in this building after paying less than half this for a tiny dump in Queens. She hadn’t been able to furnish this place worth a damn. But it was important to be close to him, especially since her firm was moving early next month so she’d no longer bump into him at the office. Everything and anything she’d had to finagle for the sake of landing Ryan Masterson was worth it.

So far her plan was going perfectly. If she didn’t screw it up, and the miracle she so desperately wanted really came to pass—mercy, she could barely think about it without getting dizzy—maybe soon she wouldn’t have to pay rent at all.

She laughed again and came away from the door, feeling as if she could float around her apartment. That miracle was so huge and so precious and so out-there, she didn’t like to dwell on it. No point setting herself up for devastating disappointment. She’d plan and celebrate one small step and one small victory at a time.

The phone rang, and she drifted dreamily toward it, imagining Ryan’s deep voice. I can’t wait until tomorrow, care to come over for a nightcap now? Don’t bother changing….

“Chris?”

Fred. Her fantasy burst and splatted on the lush grey carpet. He persisted in using the short form of her name even though she’d corrected him countless times. Thank goodness he hadn’t come up with “Teeny,” the nickname her family and friends used in Georgia.

“This is Christine.” She chilled her voice enough to freeze nitrogen.

“Got your new showerhead. Thought I’d come put it in now.”

“Now?” She gave the phone an incredulous look before she put it back to her ear. “It’s nearly nine-thirty. Don’t you ever take time off?”

“Aw, you’re sweet to worry.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I’m a hard-working man, you know that. Building full of tenants I gotta keep happy.”

“I’d rather you came during the day.” When I’m not home.

“Can’t do that. This is a special favor to you—on my own time.”

Her stomach lurched. She did not want to be indebted to Fred Farbington.

“Right now isn’t convenient, how about…” Inspiration. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night it is.”

“Excellent.” She felt like giggling. She’d be out with Ryan. With Ryan! “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Chris.”

Christine. She punched off the phone disgustedly. Maybe if she started calling him Frederick he’d get the message.

Eight steps to her dining room and the bottle of Early Times she kept on a rickety table found on the curb. She poured herself a shot and downed it as if she were trying to wash out the taste of Fred, then poured herself another and raised it in a toast to her success tonight—to her and Ryan—before downing that one, too.

Three more steps toward her living room, and she paused in front of a print of one of her favorite paintings, Lovers Over the City by Marc Chagall. The picture was cheerful, colorful. In the foreground a round table with a meal set on a red-checked tablecloth. In the background, a romantic hilltop city with distinctive tiled orange roofs. And in the upper left-hand corner the lovers, colored passionate red, facing each other improbably astride a huge bird.

The symbolism and the message were probably deeper than anything she could get. She just liked the picture. She liked to imagine the bird’s immense wings beating, carrying the lovers in effortless flight. She liked the woman’s hand on her lover’s chest, his suggestively touching her hips.

Was he flying her to the hilltop city, away from their meal? Or whisking her away from the city and to the private bliss of a lovers’ picnic? Or bringing her the world on some global journey, and this was just a snapshot of their travels? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know why the picture called to her so strongly.

She’d seen it the first time on a school trip to the library. Mrs. Chandler, who’d ended up as Christine’s mentor and had encouraged her in a way her parents wouldn’t have known how to do, had shown it to the class. The kids had laughed at the big bird and the red people. Christine had laughed, too, but that night she’d dreamed for the first time of flying away from the too-small, too-crowded house, out of Charsville and out of Georgia forever.

The print was the first thing she’d bought when she got her first paycheck in New York, even though she had no room for luxury purchases. But here she was, out of Charsville and out of Georgia, and if luck kept going her way and Ryan fell in love with her, the forever part would come true, too.

She touched the couple lovingly, imagining Ryan’s hands at her hips, hers at his magnificent chest. He was everything she’d ever wanted. If they worked out, she’d have security, respectability, a stable family life, children who’d have enough to eat every day of the year and double on holidays, who’d own whatever kind of sneakers and dresses and toys they wanted—within reasonable limits, of course. More than that, she’d have Ryan.

Christine had overcome a lot of challenges in her life. Been the first in her family to attend college and graduate, the first to leave Georgia, the first to tackle a big city. But now at twenty-seven, she’d be the last in the family to get married, the last to have those children her brothers and sisters had been popping out for years.

Ryan was among the toughest challenges she’d ever faced. But that was fine; she still had time to win him over. Anyone as amazing as Ryan Masterson was plenty worth waiting for.

And, unless Christine was letting her fantasy run too far away with her, if the look in Ryan’s eyes this evening had been anything to go by, she wouldn’t have to wait much longer.




2


“THE SINS OF WOMEN are many.” Jenny Hartmann raised her voice. “Repeat after me, ‘Jenny, I have sinned.’”

The ninety-nine percent female crowd at the Marcus Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Milwaukee boomed out a delighted response. “Jenny, I have sinned.”

“I have sinned the sin of making myself too available to men. I have kept weekend evenings open in case they want to see me, I have stayed off the phone in case it rings—” she waited a beat “—even if I have call-waiting.”

Laughter from the crowd.

“Yes, Jenny, I have!” shouted a voice.

“Confession. One of our sisters has made a confession here.” She raised her hand in the general direction of the voice. “Forgiveness is yours! Next time go out and have your own fun, girlfriend. Live your life as if it’s your only chance, because ‘men’ is not the answer to the question, ‘Who are we?’ ‘Men’ is not the answer to the question, ‘What do we need?’ and ‘men’ is not the answer to the question, ‘Who can we become?’”

The crowd cheered. Pumped to the max, Jenny strutted stage left in sky-high-heeled pink sandals, clutching the mike she’d yanked from its stand ten seconds after she started speaking.

It was glorious when her lectures went like this, when the crowd was with her, when her adrenaline was at its helpful best instead of its crippling worst.

‘“Jenny, I have sinned.’ Say it.” She waited until they were done, wiping sweat off her forehead with a pink and black sequin-bordered handkerchief that matched her cami lace top. “I have sinned the sin of changing my plans, changing my hair, changing my body, changing my life to suit my man or the man I want or the man I imagine I’ll meet someday. Say it with me, ladies, one more time, ‘I have sinned.’”

The crowd chanted enthusiastically, “I. Have. Sinned.”

“I have sinned the sin of putting up with questionable sexual technique and I have not said what I wanted instead. I have faked orgasms to avoid teaching my man about what my body needs.”

Nervous laughter and a shout, “You go, Jenny.”

“I have sinned that most vile and evil of all sins—basing my self-worth on whether I have a man to call boyfriend or lover or husband. I have sinned by feeling attractive only when a man finds me attractive, feeling witty and charming and sexual and worthwhile as a member of the female race only when a man finds me so.”

Roars from the crowd and applause. Jenny laughed, breathless, striking a strong-legged raised-arm pose, while tears came to her eyes. It was so good to reach out to women like this and have them reach right back. “Well, I’ll tell you, ladies. I will tell you…”

She waited. The crowd went quiet except for occasional shouts of encouragement.

“It’s time to ask yourself…. What…? What…?” She held the microphone up high and gestured to the crowd to continue.

“What have I done for me lately?” The words were a blast that rocked the huge auditorium.

“Oh yeah!” She applauded for them. “I hear you, you know it! What have you done for yourselves lately? When was the last time you arranged to learn about something new that interested you? When was the last time you traveled somewhere you’d always wanted to go even if he didn’t? Or stopped somewhere for dinner on the spur of the moment because you deserved not to cook that night? Bought something you didn’t need but always wanted? Told your man you were going to take a spa day every other weekend just because you felt like it? Add up those golf days and football days and see if you didn’t earn at least that much. More importantly, when was the last time you stood up for yourself when it was easier and more convenient to sacrifice your rights or needs or desires to someone else’s?

“It’s time to assign our self-worth back to ourselves, where it belongs. It’s time to get angry. Not at men. At ourselves. At the way we’ve allowed them to run our relationships and our lives. We have the strength. We have plenty of power. It’s time to use it.”

The end of her sentence was barely audible over the wave of exalted sound.

“Now, ladies, answer me this. Do we love men?”

“Yes,” the crowd boomed.

“Hell, yes. Do we need men?”

“No.”

“Hell, no—do we want men?”

“Yes!”

“Mmm, you bet we do.” She did a brief bump and grind that made hoots fill the theater. “God made those glorious naughty male parts for us and only us, and we are proud and happy to make use of them, aren’t we, girls?”

If she thought the roars had been overwhelming before, they were extraordinary now, revved up with laughter and fresh applause. “We do so for our own pleasure as well as theirs. We do so because we love the men attached to those naughty male parts, yes, but also because we love ourselves first and have decided they are worthy of us.”

“Amen, sister Jenny,” a voice shouted. “You the woman!”

“We are all the woman,” Jenny called back. The atmosphere in the auditorium was warm, hearty estrogen soup for the soul. “We are all the woman.”

While the laughter and clapping died down, she wiped her forehead again and smoothed her tight black skirt, gathering her thoughts for the final section of the lecture. “Women of Wisconsin, let me give you my confession here tonight. Before I wrote this book, I, too, was a sinner.”

Gasps from the crowd, many of whom must have read What Have I Done for Me Lately? so they already knew what she was going to say, but she loved them for playing along so enthusiastically. “I dressed the way my man wanted, spoke the way my man wanted, ate the things he thought I should eat. And when one day I came home and his bare ass was doing the shimmy over another woman’s body, did I realize what a fool I’d been and what a fool he was and toss the baggage out?”

“Yes!” From someone who obviously hadn’t read the book.

“No.” She shook her head forlornly. “No, I didn’t. I collapsed. I crumbled. My world caved. My life was over. This was my fault—my failing and my general repulsiveness as a human being.”

“Nooo! Booo!” The crowd went nuts. Jenny grinned and let them have fun for a while.

“And then one day I lifted my blotchy face from the pillow of misery and I said, ‘Wait a second. Just wait one second here. This is not my fault. My only failing was in choosing a guy who was not, as it turned out, Prince Charming, but a tyrant emperor who slaughtered my self-esteem in the name of love.’ That I let him do that was my gravest sin of all, the Original Sin of womanhood.

“But I did not fail in the end. I succeeded. In getting him out of my life and getting over him and in knowing that never again…” She held up a finger and waited until the auditorium went quiet so she could lower her voice. “Never again will a man dictate anything about me or about my life. I’ll make my choices and my mistakes and live my life for myself. And if I can’t find a man strong enough and deep enough and smart enough to take me as I am, then I’ll live it by myself, too.”

More cheers, interminable cheers, cheers that brought more tears to her eyes and a huskiness to her voice she had to clear before she could speak again.

“‘Men’ is not the answer to the questions, ‘Who are we? What do we need? Who can we become?’ Nor does ‘men’ ever answer the question, ‘What have I done for me lately?’” She backed up a few steps and lifted her face to the white, hot lights. “I wrote my book, then I started to live my book. Because it had been so long since I’d done anything that wasn’t engineered someway, somehow, to please my man, who was never, ever pleased. The more he wasn’t pleased, the harder I tried. Girlfriends, if you find yourself in that cycle, you have got to get yourselves out. Out! Or you’ll get so dizzy and sick chasing the version of you that he wants, you will never have the chance to catch up to your real self. Only by becoming whole vibrant exciting women for ourselves will we finally get the love we’re meant to have, the love we truly deserve.”

She waited a few beats, skipped downstage and gave a big cheerful wave. “Thank you very much, and a special thanks to the Women of Note lecture series for inviting me here. Good night, Milwaukee! I love you!”

She gave a quick bow, and strode off the stage, overwhelmed by the booming cheers and chants of, “Jen-ny, Jen-ny, Jen-ny.”

Four more bows later, blowing kisses, opening her arms wide, then putting her hands to her heart, the crowd finally quieted, and the sound of seats flapping up, rustling programs and normal-voiced conversations replaced the applause. Backstage, Jenny gulped a glass of water proffered by the stage manager, who refilled it so she could gulp it again. “Whoo! Thank you. Man, it was hot out there.”

“You were sensational!” Gwen, the sweet middle-aged president of Women of Note, gave her a long hug. “I haven’t heard the audience that excited for a long time. You really had them.”

“Hey, thanks.” Jenny mopped at her forehead again, and laughed, energy still rushing so strongly through her it had to come out somehow. “The crowd was the best. I had a blast.”

“It showed.” Gwen smiled, looking down at the hot pink sandals on Jenny’s feet. “By the way, I meant to tell you how much I love those shoes.”

“Designer knockoffs. I got them at a discount outlet for thirty-nine ninety-five. No lie. Get yourself a pair.”

“Oh, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Jenny looked at her, direct, challenging. “If you like them so much, why not?”

A flush of pink only slightly less loud than the sandals tinged Gwen’s generally pale face. “Oh, but, I don’t wear…shoes like that.”

“Then start.” Jenny grinned. “That’s how it was for me. I just started. Felt like a complete imposter for a few weeks, and ended up growing into them. Trust me, if you love them, then you have a hot-pink-sandal-wearing person caged inside you, too. All you have to do is let her out!”

“Oh, gosh.” Gwen’s blush deepened. “My husband would—”

She clapped her hand over her mouth. Jenny winked. “I heard nothing. Buy the shoes and enjoy them. Next time I’m in Milwaukee I’ll call you and we can go out on the town in them together. Okay?”

Gwen nodded doubtfully once, then more firmly. “Okay. Are you ready to eat? You must be hungry.”

“Famished. I think I sweated off twenty pounds. Let me shower and change and I’ll be right out.”

Dinner was the usual loud and fun affair after one of her lectures. Great food at a place called Eagans—she’d eaten in so many places in so many cities over the past six months she could hardly keep track—with women stopping by her table to tell their stories, confess their “sins” or ask her to sign their copies of What Have I Done for Me Lately?

She still couldn’t get over how this had all happened. One month she’d been a bank teller and Paul’s fiancée. The next, she was single, living with her friend and roommate in college, Jessica, writing the book in an angry rush on nights and weekends while Jessica cheered her on. Some of the anger was directed at Paul, who had treated her so badly and cheated on her, but most of the anger she aimed at herself. How had she not seen this train wreck coming? How had she allowed herself to became so passive that Paul had cheated on her just to ease his boredom? She couldn’t blame him completely. Partly, sure, she had no problem with partly. Or even mostly.

The sick irony of course was that he’d made her into that passive woman. Telling her what to wear, what to eat, what to say. Not outright, she wasn’t that weak. But subtly. “Wow, three of those cookies has twelve grams of fat,” as she was stuffing the fifth one into her mouth. “Sure, we can go to the movies tonight. Of course there’s an oldie on TV I was wanting to see.” “I like that dress. Or there’s that red one you look so much skinnier in.” Criticizing her conversation at parties, answering “no” automatically for both of them when waitstaff offered a predinner cocktail or dessert.

Through it all, she sat, bump on a log, smiling graciously, pathetically eager to please, insisting she was madly in love, letting him make her over into a spiritless, mindless Paul-reflection.

Not until she’d been without him a few weeks did it start to dawn on her how insidious their relationship had been, and how creepy that his control of her had felt so safe. And if this disaster had happened to her, a college-educated, upper middle-class woman from the liberal northeast, there must be others by the tens of thousands.

If her nearly seven-figure book sales were anything to go by, she’d vastly underestimated that number.

When the manuscript was finished, Jessica had shown it to a girlfriend who had a literary agent friend. Nothing would ever change Jenny’s life so radically, she was sure, as the day that agent called saying Xantham Press wanted to buy her book. Jenny had barely even comprehended what she was saying, let alone been able to foresee the changes in store for her life and for herself.

Having her book published, having her words mean so much to so many women…it validated her existence and her worth in a way Paul could never even have begun to understand. More amazingly, she hadn’t really understood how much she’d needed it, either. With that nurturing, freeing validation she had blossomed into the kind of person she’d always dreamed of being, wearing what she wanted, saying what she liked, doing what she pleased. Growing up shy and overlooked in a country club town of beautiful people, she never would have seen herself evolving this far in a hundred years.

Unfortunately, her publisher very understandably wanted a follow-up book, to keep her—and them—riding the wave. But writing a book that had poured out of her in an extended fit of passion and in a need to document her pain was very different from sitting down on purpose and conjuring something up. Her next book was tentatively titled Jenny’s Guide to Getting What You Want.

What Jenny wanted was to be able to write the book. Three chapters lay on her desk, as they’d lain for the better part of the last year, each page practically red from all the revisions and crossouts and edits….

In short, the book wasn’t happening. Her regular online advice column and the occasional pieces she wrote for women’s magazines presented no problem. They were satisfying and fun even if they were only rehashes of What Have I Done for Me Lately? So maybe this would be it for her, a one-shot wonder. Better to have shot once than never to have shot at all was how she’d decided to look at it, though she wasn’t sure her publisher agreed.

After dessert at Eagans—she always ordered dessert now, without Paul to give her The Disapproving Look—she thanked her hostesses warmly and, declining their offer of a ride, walked the few blocks down Water Street to the Wyndham Hotel, enjoying the chilly night breeze off Lake Michigan on her still-heated face.

Up in her room, she went into her antihyper routine, to calm herself down after the rush and excitement of a lecture/performance so she’d have some hope of falling asleep. First, the deep warm bath, then lavish amounts of perfumed powder and lotion so she smelled way too strong, then the bright coral silk teddy she adored, the kind Paul thought made her hips look big, and a long, leisurely emptying of a cup of herbal tea in bed reading the New York Times. Not that news was always restful, but fiction risked bringing on the can’t-put-it-down syndrome, and she’d never had a problem dropping the paper when sleep overwhelmed her.

Halfway through a front section so full of natural and political and man-made disasters she was starting to get depressed, she rolled her eyes and picked up the Sunday Styles section. Nothing could be more soporific than that. A few pages of wedding and engagement announcements and grinning rich people at fund-raisers should put her right off to dreamland.

Tomorrow she’d be on a plane back home to New York, arriving in time for a lunch date with her agent, then she and Jessica were going to the Metropolitan Art Museum to see—

Jenny gasped, sat bolt upright and held the paper closer. Oh. My. God. Oh my god. Omigod.

Ryan Masterson.

Ryan Masterson.

Only he didn’t look like Ryan Masterson. He looked like…she wrinkled her nose and peered at the awkwardly smiling tuxedoed image. Ryan Masterson’s boring twin brother.

Was this what Wild Boy Masterson had turned into? Geez o Pete, was nothing sacred? The sexiest rebel alive reduced to posing at some society event with Frumpy Dame So-and-so and Squeaky Debutante This-’n’-that?

Had hell, in fact, frozen over?

She couldn’t stand it. What a waste.

And yet…okay, he wasn’t twenty-one anymore. Being wild and angry was hot as hell in high school and college, but she supposed it wouldn’t help in the career department.

Imagine the résumé: Exceptionally skilled at sullen smoldering looks and general bad attitude. Expert in alcohol consumption and high-speed motorcycle operation. Some experience with mild street drug use. Unpredictable outbursts available upon request. Vast experience in seduction of women, including one shy straightlaced girl from Southport, Connecticut, who had never forgotten a second of their time together….

Jenny’s rapturous sigh trailed off. But of course he had probably forgotten, most of it anyway. Before that summer when they’d both been home from college—she from Tufts and he from UC Berkeley—he’d undoubtedly thought of her only as the daughter of his widowed mom’s friend from down the street. She’d thought he was way hot, like every other breathing female that saw him, and made herself sick with nerves every time their families got together—his family being a loud, out-of-control one with six kids and an always stunned-looking mother; hers consisting of her and her parents, jovial, but reservedly so, warm, loving…quiet. Jenny and Ryan had overlapped two years at Fairfield High, but they hadn’t acknowledged each other as more than familiar faces passing in the hall, though once in her sophomore year he’d made a point of complimenting her performance in Brigadoon and she’d nearly hyperventilated. That was it.

Why he’d turned to her of all people…Maybe at such a turbulent time he’d needed someone rock-solid predictable and not at all challenging.

Jenny lay back, holding up the picture of his staid, respectable face, bland smile in place for the camera. If his name hadn’t been under the photo, she wouldn’t have believed…

He was extraordinarily good-looking, no question. She’d bet heads still turned. But not like before. Not like when he strode around the village of Southport, Connecticut, looking like a savage bomb that could go off any second.

Not like the night a month or so after the motorcycle accident that killed his best friend, when he came to her house while her parents were away, pale and haunted, soaked by the rainstorm he’d been walking through, dark hair hanging over his forehead, blue eyes glowing behind the clumped strands.

On her doorstep, he’d mumbled something she hadn’t heard. She’d let him in anyway, and he’d stopped next to her, fixed her with an angry pleading look she’d never forget, and to her total rapturous shock, he’d kissed her. Not a sweet peck, not a gentle “may I?” kiss, not the soulless kisses Paul had given her. But a hot, hard rush of a kiss. A kiss she measured all subsequent kisses against.

That night and many nights after, in the park by Southport harbor, in cars, on the country club golf course, on the beach by Long Island Sound, she’d let him use her body to rid himself of his rage and his guilt over his friend Mitch’s death. She’d never told anyone, not about the visits, not about the sex, not about the way he’d cried in her arms after.

She’d just wanted to heal him. And then, sweet, ignorant, impressionable girl that she’d been, she’d fallen in love.

Jenny tossed the paper aside. Right. Love. Who knew anything about love at age nineteen? It was a crush, that’s all, born of his appeal and the thrill of being the one he’d picked out in his time of grief, the last girl anyone would have expected, least of all her. Predictably, the night she’d finally given voice to her feelings, he’d run. Far, fast and into someone else’s arms. No big surprise, though it had hurt like hell anyway.

She picked up the paper again, as if he still had the ability to draw her, after all these years, even as an image on newsprint. What did Ryan Masterson now think of what he’d been?

And what would he think of what shy, sweet Jenny Hartmann had become?




3


“TELL ME ABOUT your childhood.”

“Oh.” Christine smiled at Ryan over the white-cloth-covered restaurant table and stalled with a sip of beer. She preferred white wine, but he’d made some comment about Thai food killing any chance a wine had, and she couldn’t very well order it after that. “Charsville, Georgia. Southwest corner of the state, not far from the Alabama border. I guess you knew that already.”

“I did, yes.”

He looked at her expectantly and she kept smiling, searching for what to say next. He’d told her about his childhood, mostly pleasant impersonal facts, though she got the feeling all had not been rosy, even in such privileged surroundings. Maybe he’d tell her the whole truth someday, as she would tell him hers. But not today. Charsville was an entirely different world from Southport, Connecticut. You could count the number of wealthy on no fingers. People didn’t live large there, they grew up, married, had kids, grew old and died. She didn’t want to give Ryan any chance to think she wasn’t good enough for him.

“It was a safe, quiet, wholesome place to grow up.” As long as you didn’t venture out when the Dargin brothers had been drinking. “People didn’t lock their doors, kids hung out at the Dip-Delite ice cream and candy store, and everyone knew everyone else’s business.”

She gave a laugh as if the last was a quaint and lovely trait, whereas she’d found it a suffocating junior high existence.

Ryan was listening politely, but watching her with a blue-eyed intensity that unnerved and excited her at the same time. What was he thinking?

If she had her way, he’d be thinking thoughts that had nothing to do with her childhood past and everything to do with her womanhood and her future. Especially because being across the table like this for so long, she’d barely been able to keep herself from imagining their first kiss, though she doubted it would happen tonight. But maybe soon? They’d had a nice time so far, talking easily, laughing together and sharing food.

Or was he wondering why he’d asked her out in the first place, this small-town girl from nowhere with nothing of real substance to say? Should she embellish her life? Beef up her education from a two-year degree earned in four years to a four-year degree earned in two? Casually drop some mention of her mom’s catering business and her dad’s club? Ryan would picture elegant cocktail parties, pools and golf courses—things he could relate to. He didn’t need to know Vera Bayer threw kids’ birthday parties, and that the pool at Dick Bayer’s men’s club involved cues and drunken betting.

No. She’d keep to the bare-minimum truth. Any false picture she painted would come crashing down when he met her parents.

“What kind of girl were you?”

“Shy. Lonely. A dreamer.” With iron determination driving her life. “But I knew what I wanted.”

“Which was?”

“To leave Charsville, live in New York and see the world someday.” And marry someone exactly like you.

“Why New York?”

“After small-town living?” She lifted her eyebrows, thinking no other answer was needed, but he still seemed to be waiting for an explanation. “The bigger the better as far as I was concerned. But L.A. has earthquakes, and Cairo and Tokyo were too far away and exotic for me.”

“Makes sense.” He nodded seriously where she expected him to laugh. Was it her imagination or did he look disappointed? What had she said? What was wrong with loving New York?

“So I came here.” She forced herself to calm down. Ryan could undoubtedly live anywhere in the world he wanted, so he must love the Big Apple, too.

“I’m getting tired of the city.” He picked up his beer and tipped it absently back and forth, staring at the shifting liquid. “I’ve been thinking it’s time to move on, maybe back to Connecticut. I’m thinking of looking at houses in Southport or Fairfield.”

Dang, darn, hell and damnation. How was she going to get herself out of this one? It would be so nice when her time with Ryan no longer felt like a job interview.

“Well.” She gave a laugh that, thank the lord, didn’t betray her dismay. “I was just going to say, now that I’ve lived here even this short while, I’ve been thinking I didn’t know myself all that well wanting to come here. But I thought I should give Manhattan a year at least, before I did anything I’d regret.”

“Very sensible.” He nodded slowly, eyeing her speculatively over his glass. “Would you like to go back to a smaller town someday, to settle permanently?”

“Oh, yes.” Sweet Jesus. Was she dreaming? “Definitely.”

“Back to Georgia?” He seemed anxious about her response.

“Oh, no. Not Georgia.” She beamed, her heart enjoying a Texas two-step. “I’d feel like I failed if I went back.”

“I understand.” The tension left his face; he lifted his beer across the table, eyes warm. “Here’s to a new future for both of us.”

“To a new future.” Together. She clinked her glass with his, wanting to shout a few rounds of her sister Iona’s favorite cheer: “Hey, go, go, go, hey, go. Charsville Chiefs…hey go!” Unless she was wrong, she, Teeny Bayer, was under consideration for the position of Mrs. Settle Down In Connecticut.

Please don’t let me blow it.

The waiter came to clear their plates and returned with the check, which he put on the table between them. Should Christine offer to pay? Some men were insulted—as if the woman thought he wasn’t capable of taking care of her. On the other hand, if she wanted to keep the “friends” pretense up, she should probably not assume Ryan had planned to take her out.

She reached for her purse at the same time he slapped a credit card on top of the bill and shook his head at her. “My treat tonight.”

Tonight? As if there would be others? She withdrew her hand from her purse and beamed at him. “Thank you, Ryan. The meal was delicious.”

“My pleasure.”

And there they were, smiling at each other across the table, and warm joy started flooding Christine’s body and her heart. His pleasure. Ohh, she’d love to show him pleasure of all kinds. Pleasure at the front door welcoming him home, pleasure in the kitchen eating the dinner she cooked and pleasure in the bedroom later that night.

One step at a time, Christine.

The waiter brought back Ryan’s receipt; Ryan thanked him and shoved it into his wallet. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She got to her feet, hoping her yellow linen sheath didn’t have too many horizontal wrinkles across her lap, and picked up her purse, even more pleased when he waited for her to precede him out of the restaurant. The last guy she dated had been in such a New York hurry all the time, he’d rush off without even glancing to see if she’d followed. The day she met Ryan, she’d ended that relationship, which was going nowhere in that same New York hurry.

Out on the sidewalk, they strolled along 14


Street. Christine forced her feet, which wanted to skip, to keep a slow, even pace. Strolling meant Ryan intended to prolong the evening. He hadn’t hustled her into a taxi, or fled down the sidewalk so she could barely keep up. Strolling was another good sign in an evening that had already been full of them.

They passed a street musician playing a saxophone, and stores with bins of perfect produce laid out on the sidewalk stands. She loved New York, especially at night. The energy, the lights, the natives out enjoying their city. She loved feeling part of something so huge and so important and so vital to the world. If she and Ryan worked out, she hoped Ryan would want to come into the city often after they left.

“I’m curious about something.”

“Mmm?” She imbued her voice with a touch of sensuality and was rewarded out of the corner of her eye with the sight of him turning to look at her. She made sure she appeared calm and peaceful.

“You grew up in Georgia. What happened to your accent?”

“I lost it on the way here.” She did turn then, to smile at him. “Somewhere over Virginia.”

Her accent had been disposed of deliberately, starting when she was a girl, imitating TV or movie personalities, practicing over and over in her favorite spot, a copse near a stream a short way from home. A place where she could escape two brothers and three sisters and two parents and the all-too-frequent visiting aunts, uncles and cousins, and have room and quiet to think her own thoughts and dream her own dreams. She’d even taught herself rudimentary French from books and tapes she’d gotten from the library, to be ready for the trip she’d someday take to Paris.

She always knew she’d come north to live—New York or Boston or Chicago—because she didn’t belong in a small Southern town and never would. And she’d wanted to fit in here from the start, not be pegged as an outsider the second she opened her mouth.

“Let me hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“Your accent.”

Christine rolled her eyes. “Why sugah, whatevah for?”

He laughed and swayed toward her so they bumped shoulders, which felt as intimate as a kiss on this crowded beautiful city street.

Way too soon they got back to Bank Street and inside their building, to the familiar smell of wood and carpet and a faint whiff of cleaner. Way too soon the elevator ride was over, their walk down the hall finished in front of their two doors.

“Good night, Ryan. Thank you for a really fun time.” Christine smiled warmly and took a step back toward her apartment so he wouldn’t think she was angling for a kiss, though frankly, she’d like nothing else right at that moment. His lips were as appealing and sexual as the rest of him. Sharply defined, slightly full, but not at all feminine. The kind of lips that would leave you no doubt whatsoever that you were being kissed.

She looked forward to experiencing that, and how. But while men might say they liked a woman who took charge of the physical pace of a relationship, and maybe they did for a time, those weren’t the women they took home to meet Mom. Those weren’t the women they settled with in Connecticut. Deep down in the cave-man depths of their DNA, men wanted power and control firmly on their side.

She could live with that. Even if it meant saying good-night tonight starved for more of him.

“I enjoyed it, too.” He put his hands on his hips and studied her, appearing taller and broader in the low-ceilinged narrow hallway. “Are you free Wednesday next week? My oldest sister lives in the city and can’t use a pair of ballet tickets. Would you like to go? It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“Next Wednesday…” She frowned, trying not to show her delight. As if she would possibly say no. She’d postpone emergency surgery to spend time with him. “I think that would be fine. I’ll run in and check and call you in a few minutes. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” He smiled and lifted a hand. “Talk to you soon.”

“Soon.” She let herself into her apartment and gave herself an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Perfect. Not only had he asked her out for a specific day instead of the dreaded, “Let’s do this again sometime” which meant never in this life, but she’d engineered it so they’d get to have a phone conversation tonight. She could speak to him in the seductive tones she’d wanted to use all evening, but where the relative anonymity and physical distance would make it safer—and more tantalizing. There was something so intimate about not being able to see—

She stopped abruptly, her dreamy mood shocked out of her.

Fred.

“Hey, Chris.” He rose from his chair—her chair—and his short stocky frame made the admittedly cheap wood creak. “How goes it?”

“What in heaven’s name are you doin’ here?” Her accent came out as it always did when she got upset, which made her even more upset.

“You told me to come tonight.”

“It’s ten o’clock!”

“Isn’t that right?” He stared at her, dark eyes curious under lashes most women would kill for. “You look beautiful in yellow. Good date, huh? You came in all misty-eyed.”

“I did not. And it’s none of your business how my date went.”

He shrugged balefully and mumbled something that sounded like, “I wish it was,” which she ignored.

“I fixed your shower. Thought you’d like to take a look at it while I was here, so if there was anything you didn’t like I could change it for you.”

“So you’ve been here in my apartment? Waiting for me?”

“Who else would I be waiting for?”

She sighed. All right, Christine. Fred had done her a nice favor on his own time. She’d been afraid to ask Ryan for too much help, in case he figured she was totally helpless or figured out why she was asking so often, but she’d been unable to get the old showerhead off so she could install the new one, a handheld model with a massager she’d gotten from the hardware store clearance bin. Fred, of course, had been more than happy to help. And while he was puppy-dog eager every time he was around her, he didn’t strike her as creepy or dangerous, so she’d do well to be kind to him, if for no other reason than that she might need another favor someday.

“Lead the way.” She followed him into her bathroom, where the gleaming new white-and-silver unit sat happily in its bracket. “It looks fine. Thank you.”

“Wait, check it out.” He pulled down the showerhead and turned on the water, demonstrating the five different settings.

Christine watched, barely curbing her impatience. This much she could have figured out on her own. She wanted to call Ryan. “That will be so nice. I can’t wait to use it.”

He turned off the water and threw her a look as if he were happily imagining that very thing. “He good to you?”

“What?”

“The guy you were with. He nice to you? Polite? Try anything you didn’t like?”

“No.” She shook her head rapidly. Was he going to talk all night? “Nothing like that.”

“Good. You ever have trouble with any guy, you call me, understand?”

She bristled. “I appreciate the offer, but I can take care of myself.”

“No.” He slid the showerhead back into its bracket. “Not you.”

“Pardon me?” She wished she had the showerhead back to brain him with.

“Not you.” He had the nerve to shake his head with utter certainty, feet planted, beefy arms folded across his broad chest. “There’s plenty of women in this city that can take care of themselves. You’re not one of ’em.”

“You…” She started breathing too fast. To hell with the showerhead, give her a crowbar. “I am not like that. How can you—”

“A woman like you…” He took a step toward her, his voice low and gravelly. She stood her ground, itching to move back. This close his eyes were level with hers and the intense way he was staring at her made her desperate to look away. “A woman like you needs a man.”

Not you. She lurched away from him and stumbled. He grabbed her arm with strength that astounded her and held tight to keep her from falling.

“I gotcha.”

“Let go.” He was holding her way too close. And she was registering with confusion that he smelled honest and soapy clean and comforting.

There was something obscene about this coarse man—barely taller than she was, half-bald and older by a decade at least—smelling so appealing.

Of course, Ryan wore the most amazingly sexy cologne she’d ever had the pleasure of coming into contact with. One of these days she’d still be able to smell it on her clothes and body after a date. One day soon.

“Look, Chris.” Fred’s voice gentled further from its usual rough heartiness. She tried to pull away, but she got the impression he wouldn’t let go until it was his idea to, and she didn’t have the strength to object. “I wasn’t trying to make a move on you or do anything you don’t want. I would never do that. You got nothing to be afraid of. You get me?”

She nodded, wanting him out of her apartment, and preferably out of her life as soon as possible.

“Okay.” He released her arm. “I’m real sorry I scared you.”

“It’s fine.” Her breath was dropping back to normal and she was starting to feel foolish. “I’m fine.”

“Good.” He indicated she should precede him out of the bathroom, but she would have had to snuggle her rear right by his groin in the narrow space, so she shook her head and gestured him out first. To her relief he went. Out of the bathroom, good. Through the living room, good. All good progress toward his exit.

Finally, she could call Ryan, who must be thinking she was—

“I brought you something.”

“What? You what?” She faced him irritably in her living room, wanting to be alone with her phone call, which she now wouldn’t be able to do as sexy-perfect as she wanted because this little man had gotten her all riled up.

“I brought you something.” He’d retrieved a package from somewhere—she hadn’t noticed it when she’d come in—crudely wrapped in a plastic shopping bag and tied with a crumpled red ribbon.

She had no clue what to say. He was bringing her gifts now? Where was this going to end? How many times could she clearly not be interested before he went away? If he was going to become a problem she might have to speak to Ryan.

Or, of course, she already had Fred’s offer to deal with any guy who was bothering her. Maybe he could beat himself up.

The idea made her smile just as Fred was handing her the gift. Of course he thought that smile meant she was thrilled he’d gotten her something, which was the last message she wanted to send.

She glanced at her watch and sighed. Ryan would think she wasn’t interested by now. She’d have to tell him she’d gotten another call, or—

“I know it’s late. You can open it tomorrow. No big deal.”

The look on his face said it was a huge deal, and Christine couldn’t bear to be that rude. She wearily began to pick at the knots in the ribbon.

“Here.” Fred’s big hands came into her range of vision, holding a knife that jerked up through the thin red line and snapped it in a way that made her have to work to control a shudder.

She slipped her hand into the bag, praying it was nothing that cost more than five dollars, and pulled the package out.

Mercy. It had cost a dollar fifty-nine when she was a girl with her own allowance, maybe double that by now. A tin of Grebner’s pecan praline cookies, made in Charsville, Georgia. She hadn’t had one in nearly nine years, not since she left without looking back.

Her mouth started watering and she jerked her head up to find Fred looking at her with the expression of a man terrified his beloved wouldn’t like the ring he’d picked out.

“Why did you buy me these?”

“Oh, I dunno. I think maybe you mentioned where you grew up. You’re pretty far from there.” He hitched at his jeans, then examined his fingernails, which she’d noticed in the bathroom were clean and neatly trimmed.

“Where did you get them?”

“Just came across ’em.” He rubbed his head, his scalp highly visible through the hair he kept nearly shaved. “Thought you’d like a taste of home.”

She stared down at the familiar pink-and-gold package in her lap. He sure as heck hadn’t gotten the cookies at any of the stores in this neighborhood. Grebner’s wasn’t exactly a household name, especially outside Georgia.

“Thank you.” She nearly choked on the words. She didn’t want to be touched by this man any more than she wanted to be reminded of where she came from. “This was…nice of you.”

“You’re welcome. I gotta go.” He tugged at his ear. “Sorry if I butted in tonight.”

“Oh. Well, it’s…thanks. For the shower and the cookies.” She got up and followed him to lock up. At the door he turned suddenly and she had to step back to keep from being too close.

He searched her face, then gave a quick shake of his head. “G’night, Chris.”

“Bye.” She shut and locked the door behind him, breathed a sigh of relief and rushed to the phone to dial Ryan’s number. He picked up on the third ring.

“Ryan, it’s Christine. I’m sorry to be calling late. I…” She was about to tell him about the fake phone call when it occurred to her if she planted the seeds of the Fred problem now, it might be easier to ask for Ryan’s help later. “Fred was here.”

“Tonight?” His voice sharpened and she couldn’t help a little thrill. Was he jealous?

“He decided this was the perfect time to put in a new showerhead.” She let her full measure of exasperation show.

Ryan chuckled. “Fred is a character. Great guy, but he plays by his own rules.”

“I guess you could say that.” She smiled, thinking if that definition fit anyone it was Ryan. Fred didn’t have power and limitless opportunities. His life was fixed, probably had been for years. He had to play by the rules of the building. No chance for big changes in his life plan. People would move in and move out, and Fred would still be here, year after year, fixing and patching and replacing. Not so different from the people in Charsville, which she’d left for a very good reason.

“I checked my calendar and that night is free, Ryan. I would love to go to the ballet with you.”

“Good.” He sounded genuinely pleased. “Dinner after?”

“I’d love it. Thank you.” She faked a swoon and had to wrench the phone away from her mouth in case the giggle bubbling up spilled over. “My treat this time?”

“We’ll see.”

She smiled. He’d pay. He played by his own rules.

“Have you been to Café des Artistes?”

“Not yet.” She bit her lip to stay cool. Café des Artistes was not the type of place you’d take someone you were only casually interested in.

“Good. We’ll go there.”

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“Same here. Good night, Christine.”

“Thanks again for dinner.” She hung up the phone and did three Charsville Chiefs cheers all around the apartment, cheers she’d learned by watching Iona practice, though she’d never had the slightest inclination to be on the squad herself.

She’d see Ryan again. For ballet. And dinner! If she’d stayed in Charsville, the most she could hope for on a date was chicken fried steak and a crude pass in the back of a pickup.

Things were looking really, really good for Christine “Teeny” Bayer.

She wandered around, window to window, too restless to settle into anything, until the clock reminded her she’d better get some sleeping done, if at all possible. Maybe a long shower and a few more rounds on the sweater—the one she was gambling wouldn’t be too personal to give Ryan for his birthday in September—would calm her enough so she could sleep. Maybe if she was really lucky she’d dream a few sweet dreams that would come true, about a certain tall handsome neighbor and a house in Connecticut, maybe a Parisian honeymoon.

She made her way to the bathroom to start her relaxation regimen. But not before she gave into temptation and stopped by the dining table to pry open the pink-and-gold tin and stuff a pecan praline cookie into her mouth.

Fred had been right. The cookies tasted like home.




4


To: Jenny Hartmann

From: Natalie Eggers

Re: My husband

Jenny, you rock. I finished your book and had to write! Your description of that guy you were seeing was so much like my husband it made me want to scream. He never wants me to go out at night. He never wants me spending any time with my friends. He hates when I buy myself new clothes. I think if he had his way I’d dress in his old T-shirts and sweats.

But your book gave me courage. I’m starting to stand up for myself more now. It’s feeling really good.

Thanks, Jenny! I love you!

Natalie

“THANK YOU.” Jenny smiled at Café des Artistes’ gorgeous young blond bartender, who had just delivered a bright orange passion fruit martini across the narrow shiny wood bar. “What is your name?”

“George.” He glanced at her, poured three types of booze into a shaker in quick succession, then glanced again.

“Well, may I say, George, purely for the joy of spreading good feeling, no strings attached, that you are one serious treat for the eyes.”

He looked taken aback, and the hawk-nosed bartender rinsing a glass next to him sniggered before moving down the bar to serve another customer.

“Uh…thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She lifted the drink to him and took a sip, then closed her eyes to let the sweet-sour fruity taste register. “And that is one hell of a martini. You’re an artist, too.”

“Yeah?” He put the lid on the shaker and shook, a smile trying to break through. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome again. I’m Jenny, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

She winked and he managed to look friendly that time, straining the drink into a waiting glass. His co-worker, who’d moved back into hearing range, raised his nearly joined eyebrows and mouthed “go for it” not very subtly.

“No, no, no.” Jenny waggled her finger at him. “I said no strings and I meant it.”

He snorted and mumbled something undoubtedly snarky.

Jenny frowned. “What’s your name, bartender-who-is-not-George?”

“Chaz.”

“Pay attention, Chaz.” She gave him her most insincere smile. “When a guy tells a woman she’s beautiful, it means, ‘I want to sleep with you.’ Right?”

He shrugged sullenly. “Maybe.”

“Get this. When a woman tells a guy he’s attractive, she means, strangely enough—” she spread her hands “—that he’s attractive.”

Chaz shot her a dirty look and Jenny patted the bar sympathetically, unable to reach his arm. “Complicated, I know. You keep working at it, it’ll come to you.”

George chuckled outright. His co-worker rolled his eyes and moved to serve his next drink.

Jenny grinned and toasted George with her brilliant orange martini. Nothing in the world was more freeing and wonderful than not worrying what anyone thought, saying what you wanted to say, letting other people’s uptight judgment roll off you. Especially when you’d grown up so enslaved by those very things. George didn’t mind having an attractive woman tell him he was hot—why would he? His friend could go trash-diving in the East River.

Nothing could bother her tonight anyway. She was a woman on a mission—all dressed up with somewhere to go. Ryan Masterson’s oldest sister, Anne, happy to hear from Jenny, had been a rich and willing source of information on her younger brother, including that Ryan would be using her ballet tickets tonight, though he would only tell his sister he was taking “a friend,” which for a normal guy meant a woman he hadn’t been able to get into the sack yet. In Ryan’s case, however, it would mean a woman he wasn’t interested in getting into the sack, because there was no way any age-of-consent female could resist him.

In Jenny’s completely unbiased opinion.

Of course he could mean a male friend, but men taking men to the ballet involved a change in Ryan Masterson that would be so utterly tragic for womankind the globe over that Jenny wouldn’t even consider it.

Anne had managed to worm out of him that he and this “friend” were hitting Café des Artistes for a drink and maybe a bite after. So here sat Jenny, resplendent—if she did say so herself—in her sexiest black slit-up-to-there skirt and equally sexy “is-she-naked?” black lace top, lined with flesh-colored fabric that happened to be a nearly exact match of her skin tone.

Quite a coincidence she happened to be in the same bar tonight, wasn’t it? But who could resist the opportunity to peek? Of course she could have called him, or shown up at his apartment, but a supposedly chance encounter was so much more fun and risky and exciting, and it gave her the opportunity to spy on him in his natural habitat and see what vibe she got before she spoke to him, since she was positive he wouldn’t recognize her at first glance.

Anne seemed pretty sure he wasn’t dating anyone seriously or exclusively, so it wasn’t as if Jenny was out of line. She was an old friend! And if he seemed hot and heavy with his date tonight, she’d say “Ryan is that you?” and “Gee, how long has it been?” and “Great to see you!” and go home none the worse for wear.

Okay, perhaps a micro-bit disappointed. Be serious. This was Ryan Masterson.

And if his friend did turn out to be a friend—or a colleague—then maybe the door would be wide open. She was the kind of women who walked through wide-open doors now, instead of cowering at the threshold wondering if she should knock on the jamb.

She couldn’t wait to see how Ryan reacted to this new truer version of herself and she couldn’t wait to satisfy her curiosity as to how much he’d really changed. Possibly no one but Ryan had ever glimpsed this long-suppressed other side of her before the book and her metamorphosis. But in all their admittedly brief time together, she hadn’t sensed even the faintest hint of inner blandness in him.

She turned for the hundredth time to check the door, when a dark-suited tall man—guess who?—walked in.

Oh, my. Oh, my my my. Someone tell her heart to slow down or she’d lose at least a month off her life. He was still—He was soo—

“Need another drink?”

“No, George.” She didn’t take her eyes off Ryan, though she tried not to stare too openly in case he saw her before she was ready. “A drink is not what I need right at this moment.”

“Him?” He made a sound of amused disgust. “Women are so fickle.”

“Oh, yes.” She threw an apologetic glance over her shoulder. “We are, aren’t we. But he is…I mean he’s…well just look.”

“If you say so.”

Jenny fixed George with a stare. “You’re not gay, are you George.”

“Nope.”

“I thought not.” She turned back to drink in the sight of Ryan, who was pulling out a chair for his unfortunately stunning blond companion. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I guess not.”

Ryan smiled and leaned forward, listening to his date, apparently fascinated. But…politely fascinated. His features were alert, but his eyes were neutral. He wasn’t turning on…The Sex Look. Jenny had been on the receiving end of that look many times. It was unmistakable. And lethal. The places he’d gotten her to say “yes” with just that look…well it was a miracle they’d never been arrested.

“George, send Mr. Perfection a drink from me, would you?”

“While he’s with someone else?”

She smiled at the distaste in his voice. “Believe it or not he’s an old friend. Grew up down the street from me.”

“No kidding.”

“Edible, isn’t he.” She rested her chin on her hand and stared her fill. “The One That Got Away.”

“I have one of those.” George’s voice sounded nearly as wistful as hers. “I’d buy her a drink even if she showed up with Russell Crowe.”

“Ha!” Jenny turned to him. “She’d go for you way before that temperamental slab of beef.”

He grinned and Jenny returned to her high-level spying. Ryan was laughing at something Ms. Blond Perfection had just said. Hmm…

“George.”

“Yeah.”

“Make him…a seven and seven, please. Tell the waiter to say, ‘Seven and seven and seventh heaven.’” Jenny wrinkled her nose. “And whatever she orders I better pay for that, too.”

“I’m on it.”

She heard the drink being poured and caught peripheral flashes of George’s practiced white-sleeved arms working their magic.

Two minutes later, the waiter stopped at Ryan’s table and put the drink in front of him. Ryan frowned and looked questioningly at the server.

Jenny shook back her hair, about six inches longer than when he’d known her, arranged herself in a casually sexy pose and winked at George, who was smirking—not that she entirely blamed him.

“Wish me luck.”

“Okay.” He smirked harder. “Good luck.”

“Maybe you could seduce his date away from him?”

He rolled his eyes and moved away to fill another order.

The waiter finished his spiel. Ryan looked startled, then slowly turned toward the bar.

Here it came…

Kaboom. Houston, we have contact.

And with contact came extreme thrills chasing each other up and down Jenny’s seductively black-clad torso.

But wait, there was more. He was pushing back his chair, excusing himself and coming over to…well, a girl could always hope.

Oh, yes, indeed. Even with his savagery dumbed down to what would be tedious respectability on another man, even wearing a suit any businessman—who could afford it—would wear, his magnetism persisted, electrified him, singled him out as someone to watch, someone to follow, someone to be reckoned with…someone to beg into bed.

She’d expected to be attracted to him. What she hadn’t expected was the subsequent rush of nerves, the bizarre flash of panic, similar to how she’d felt around him growing up, before their summer as lovers, whenever he’d shown up at her house with the rest of his family, scowling, mutinous, barely civil, teasing her as often as he ignored her…the way a shy, romantic teenage girl felt around her look-don’t-touch dream boy.

She’d been as much of a wreck then as she was heading toward being now. A highly conditioned response: The Masterson Effect.

He was close, standing beside her so she had to tip her head up. “Well. Jenny Hartmann.”

Oh and the voice was even deeper with age, as deep as…a really deep thing. His eyes were so blue, she hadn’t forgotten, as blue as…something very blue, and oh God, her brain was gone.

“Well. Ryan Masterson.” Somehow, through force of habit maybe, her voice emerged when she needed it to. She tried also to appear in control of her mind and body, if not her hormones. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He narrowed his eyes and she had a feeling he already suspected the meeting wasn’t entirely by chance. “Mom told me a while back that you were in New York.”

“As are you.”

“Yes.” He seemed at a loss for what to say next, which made her own nerves easier to bear. Her brain cleared, and calm returned—relative calm, considering Ryan Masterson was standing next to her for the first time in thirteen years.

“Want me to keep up the small talk or can I ask what I really want to ask?” She shot him a provocative look. “Well one of the things I want to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s with the fancy suit? It doesn’t look like you.”

“Adult uniform. What’s with the…” He looked her up and down leisurely—the lace top that didn’t appear to cover much, the slit-to-there skirt that made no bones about not covering much. “It doesn’t look like you, either.”

“It’s me now.” She gave him a come-on-baby stare from under her lashes. “What do you think?”

His eyes returned to hers and she was suddenly back to that summer in college, to the night of the storm, when those intense blue eyes had stared at her exactly like this, as if he’d never seen her before and wanted to devour her whole, when he’d leaned in and kissed her as if there was simply nothing else he could do.

Unfortunately, history was not lucky enough to repeat itself so many years later. He glanced over his shoulder at his date and beckoned, then pointed to the empty seat next to Jenny. Blond Woman shook her head, coolly declining, and he gave a reassuring wave and turned back. “You’re looking well.”

Well? As in not sick? That was the best he could do? “I’m healthy as a horse, thank you so much for noticing.”

He blinked, and then his old mischievous grin snuck onto his mouth, the one that used to make her want to giggle before she even knew what was amusing him. Only it looked sort of wrong and unfamiliar over a starched shirt collar and perfectly shaven chin. “I heard about your book from Mom. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Have you read it?”

“No.” His expression said liberals would have to vote Republican first. “Are you writing another?”

Guilt. She kept her expression carefree. “Supposed to be.”

“Then what are you up to?”

“Either staying out of trouble or trying to get in.”

“You?” He shook his head in amusement. Or maybe amazement. “In trouble?”

She shrugged. “If the mood hits.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Hmm.” She tipped her head, un- and re-crossed her legs, watching him watch her. “Maybe I’ll get to show you sometime.”

“Are you coming on to me five minutes into a chance meeting?”

She tsk-tsked. “What is this world coming to?”

Those killer eyes narrowed again. “Anne told you I was going to be here.”

“Ooh, you’re good.” She sipped her drink, put it carefully back down and flashed him another me-woman-you-man glance. “But then from what I remember, you always were.”

He looked at her in quizzical amusement. “Is this the new you? Or a few extra martinis?”

“Ha! No. I behave when I’m drunk. I’m bad when I’m sober. George.” She lifted her arm and he came right over as if he’d been spying on them all along. “How many have I had? This gentleman would like to know.”

“Still on your first.” He gave a thumbs-up and went back to his duties.

“See?” She sent Ryan a sweet smile. “Why don’t you introduce me to your gorgeous date? I think she’s getting lonely. We could have a threesome.”

His eyes popped. “It’s Jenny Hartmann, right? Shy, sweet girl who lived down the street from me?”

“I meant a threesome for drinks. I haven’t changed that much.” She touched his sleeve and was rewarded with the feeling that for the instant her finger was in contact with his arm, he stopped breathing. “You still haven’t told me if you like me this way.”

“It doesn’t fit the girl I knew.”

Jenny raised her brows. “About as well as Armani fits the guy I knew.”

“Touché.”

“So what have you been up to, since we…knew each other?” She put a hand to the back of her neck, lifted her hair and let it cascade down. “Besides getting boring and making a lot more money than you used to doing yard work for the Baileys.”

“Boring?” He gave her the look she remembered too well, the half-angry, half-aroused look he used to give her when he’d be stripping her naked within seconds.

Oh, my my my goodness. “Did I say that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “After college, business school, Wall Street, now I’m partner in a venture capital firm.”

“Of course not boring.” She clucked her tongue. “S-s-s-izzling excitement.”

“Jenny…”

She smiled up at him. “Just having fun.”

“Apparently.”

“You don’t really mind, do you?”

He held her gaze and she pretended to be interested in his answer, when all she was interested in was asking George to turn out the lights and clear the bar area so they could become immediately and passionately reacquainted.

“No. I don’t mind.”

“Good. Now tell me.” She lifted her chin in the direction of Now Probably Impatient Blond Woman. “Are you serious about her?”

“What, Anne didn’t fill you in?”

She moved her eyes back to his, not that they needed any persuasion to go. “Let’s hear your version.”

“Okay.” His jaw tightened; she wondered if he was aware of it. “I’m planning on being serious about her, yes.”

“But you’re not yet?”

No answer. He just looked at her, and so help her, she felt positively dizzy with excitement. She moved her leg to touch the side of his thigh and this time she was pretty sure neither of them was breathing.

For a second he didn’t move and she thought he was going to stay and let her be that close to him, and that she’d be hearing from him as soon as he could get away from the blonde. Then he broke eye contact and took an abrupt step back. “I need to get back.”

“Of course.” Damn.

“Great to see you, Jenny. Stay well.”

Well? What was with this “well” stuff? “I never get sick. I told you. And it was great to see you, too, Ryan.”

She kept the smile on her face while she waved to his date, who had clearly spent the last five minutes imagining Jenny being trampled by elephants.

George leaned his forearms on the bar. “So what happened? You struck out?”

“Who, me?” She made a scornful noise and took a big swallow of her drink. “Never.”

“Then why is he over there and you’re here by yourself?”

“Maybe because he’s not enough of a pig to ditch her mid-date?”

George mumbled something, shamefaced. Honestly. Men.

And yet…

She frowned and fingered the napkin under her drink. “Something strange about him and her. I’m not sure I know exactly what.”

“But you’re going to find out?”

She drained her drink and set down the glass, turned again to look at Ryan, talking politely to his date, looking as detached and calm as he’d looked engaged and intense talking to her.

“Oh, yes, George. I’m going to find out.”



HOW SHE WAS CONTINUING to smile and talk normally to Ryan, she had no idea. Christine took another sip of her second Baileys, more than she usually drank but she was gripping herself so tightly emotionally that the alcohol wasn’t affecting her at all.

Up until an hour ago, her date with Ryan had been perfect. They’d met before the ballet near Lincoln Center for a soup-sandwich-salad kind of meal to tide them over through the performance. They’d chatted easily, and there had been moments when she’d felt their camaraderie was becoming more natural and relaxed. Or at least she hadn’t felt quite so on edge over every word.

Ryan had talked again of the town he’d grown up in, and mentioned a plan to drive up and look at houses. Then he’d paused, and she’d had an eerie premonition—or maybe just another fantasy—that he was about to ask her to come with him, when the waiter interrupted with food, and the moment was lost in a change of subject. She really, really hoped the topic would come up again, but so far she hadn’t managed to work it back into the conversation.

The ballet had been wonderful, even if most of its true brilliance was probably lost on her. She still couldn’t get over how the dancers could make every gesture, even a simple wave of a hand, so very beautiful and graceful, how they could jump so high, and land so elegantly.

Sitting rapt in the audience, she’d managed to touch her shoulder to Ryan’s now and then without making it seem on purpose, and he hadn’t moved away. She had felt so happy, so secure, so sure they were heading forward together on their destined path….




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