Dear Reader,

Here’s me at a recent Perfectionists Anonymous meeting: Hi, I’m Dawn, and I’m a perfectionist….No, wait, that’s not quite it. I’m overly goal oriented…? No. Status quo challenged…? Nope. Capable of ironing my lingerie? Close…

You get the idea. Been there, done that yourself? I hope so. Like Claire, I’ve made a few wrong turns in my life (and that’s just finding the exit to my doctor’s office) and I’ve learned to shrug and move on—or out, as the case may be. (Did you know a gynecologist’s office can have seventeen different doors…some of which should definitely lock?)

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, perfection. I say, fugedaboutit. I just do the best I can to tell the stories of the characters who come to me in the night (many of them lost).

You know what helps a lot? Friends. My friends tell the best stories about me. Don’t even think about asking them to share. I give reeeally expensive presents, so they’d never squeal.

Enjoy Claire’s story and watch for my next book at www.dawnatkins.com!

Love and laughs forever,

Dawn Atkins

P.S. Please write to me—daphnedawn@cox.net!

“So, how about going out with me?”

Kyle was asking her out? Claire had definitely not seen this coming. He stood there looking uncertain what to say next.

He was kind of sweet. And, really, it was a good idea to get dating again. Maybe Kyle didn’t give her a zing, but then she’d just broken up with the ex, so her zinger was still numb, right? And the over-the-top Trip zing? Champagne-induced, of course.

“Sure. We could do something,” she said, rushing to ease his nervousness. “Anything you want. Whatever you enjoy.”

“Oh. Well, I, uh, do have season tickets to the symphony.”

“The symphony would be lovely.” The symphony? Hello? The symphony was for blue hairs who toddled over after the early-bird prime rib special at Beefeaters. It was mature, though. And adult. And didn’t she want a mature, adult life? This was exactly what she needed. The encounter with Trip had helped her move on. And now she could start a sensible relationship with Kyle. This could be perfect.

Too bad about the zing, though.

A Perfect Life?
Dawn Atkins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dawn Atkins wanted to be a writer the minute she put fat pencil to thick-lined school paper. After years of being known for her “offbeat humor” (read “she’s Looney Tunes”), becoming a published romantic comedy author made Dawn Atkins feel as if she’d come home…to the funny farm. (And she means that in a good way). After all, her likely response to her husband’s and son’s heartfelt “I love you,” is “I love…cake!” What’s love without laughter, she asks? And what if the Hokey-Pokey really is what it’s all about? Dawn has been a teacher, freelance feature writer and a public relations person. She lives in Arizona with her husband and son.

Books by Dawn Atkins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

871—THE COWBOY FLING

895—LIPSTICK ON HIS COLLAR

945—ROOM…BUT NOT BORED!

HARLEQUIN DUETS

77—ANCHOR THAT MAN!

91—WEDDING FOR ONE/

TATTOO FOR TWO

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

93—FRIENDLY PERSUASION

To my editor, Wanda Ottewell,

who believed in this story—and me—from the start.

Acknowledgments

I love Phoenix—especially downtown—but readers who know the area will realize that most of the locations in this book are imaginary, though they may be inspired by a real bar or building. I hope I’ve given you an authentic feel for the place. Ziggie’s, by the way, is real, and an absolutely terrific music store.

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

1

“SO, CLAIRE QUINN, it says on this card you’re in love. That right?”

“Huh?” Claire pressed the phone to her ear and squinted at her bedside clock, wondering who the hell was calling about her love life at 7:15 a.m. This early, she hardly knew her own name.

“Frank and Phil here, Radio K-BUZ, double-eleven on your dial,” the lush voice answered. “How are you this fine morning? On the one-week countdown to Valentine’s Day.”

“Asleep,” she mumbled. “And you?”

“Oh, we’re just fine. But not as fine as you’re going to be.”

“Why is that? And how did you get my name?” She never listened to K-BUZ, which was easy-listening elevator music for fortysomethings. She jerked to a sit. “Wait. Am I on the air?”

“You bet your sweet, um, heart you’re on the air. You’re on our Morning Madness Show, where you’ve been selected as today’s ‘Someone Loves Me’ winner.”

“I’ve been selected? I’m a winner?” She vaguely recalled her friend Kitty laughingly dropping Claire’s business card into a fishbowl plastered with radio call letters at Vito’s Bistro after lunch two weeks ago, when she’d first told her friend that she and Jared were in love.

Claire was not the radio contest type, but then she’d never been in love before, either, so Kitty’s gesture had seemed the perfect ending to their lunch, during which Claire had talked nonstop—from the focaccia bread through the blackened mahi-mahi salads to the decaf mocha lattes and fat-free flan—about how Jared was the perfect man for her about-to-be-perfect life. Maybe not perfect, but you had to set your sights high, right?

“So you’re in love?” Frank or Phil asked again.

“Uh, yes, I am,” she said. “You bet.” She was pretty sure. Who really knew about love? Everyone told a different story and none of it matched the movies.

Still, doubts and all, she’d just pronounced herself a woman in love to thousands of radio listeners. She wondered who had heard her happy news. Not Jared, who was back in Reno until Saturday, when he’d move into their perfect apartment in CityScapes, the brand-new building on Central Avenue, in which Claire had lived for five fabulous days.

At first it would only be part-time for Jared—he was only in Phoenix three days a week—but he’d look for a sales job here, she was sure, or transfer to the Phoenix office ASAP.

“Tell us what you love about this guy,” the disc jockey asked.

“What I love? Um, lots of things.” How romantic he was, how he focused on her—really focused—and made her feel vital to his well-being. That was powerful. “It’s personal.”

“Okay, if you’re not gonna give us the juicy stuff…” Frank/Phil gave a theatrical sigh. “I guess we’ll just have to tell you about your prize.”

Hadn’t she already won the best prize of all? True love? On the other hand, overkill in the prize department was okay by her. “What is it?”

“Claire Quinn, you have won a Valentine’s Day gift from the man you love, courtesy of K-BUZ Radio.”

“Really?”

“Truly. Tell us his name, this master of love.”

“Jared.”

“How do you know Jared loves you, Claire?”

“Well, he told me so.” And it had been perfect. He’d just blurted it out. And it had sounded so right that she’d said it back. And then there it was—floating in the air between them like a soap bubble. They were in love. And she’d been floating right along with the words ever since.

“He told you…sounds good. What other evidence do you have?” The DJ paused for her to say something clever or funny or romantic or profound. But all she could do was breathe into the phone. It was too early to even be conscious, let alone clever or funny or romantic or profound.

“Okay,” the DJ said, sounding exasperated at her lack of showmanship. “Just give us his number and we’ll tell him what he’s won for you.”

“You want to call him? But he’s in Nevada right now.”

“Not a prob. Give us the four-one-one. You just stay on the line and listen in. Don’t say anything and we’ll surprise him.”

The phone rang three times and Jared answered sleepily. So cute. She loved when he sounded sleepy.

“This Jared?” Frank or Phil asked.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Frank and Phil, K-BUZ Radio. You’re a ‘Someone Loves Me’ winner on our Morning Madness Show.”

“I’m a what…? On the where? A winner?”

“Yes, indeedy.”

“Is this for real? Am I on the air?”

“Yeppers. And you’ve just won a dozen roses to be delivered to the woman you love.”

“You’re kidding! Wow!” He sounded as excited as a kid. That was one thing about Jared that bothered Claire—his immaturity. He sulked when he didn’t get his way and ducked any serious topics. He was sweet, though. The huskiness in his voice reminded her how gentle he was in bed. Not the most suave or exciting, but that was beside the point. The point was that he didn’t sleep well when he wasn’t wrapped around her. She loved that. So romantic.

She held her breath so Jared wouldn’t know she was there. This was so great. If she’d had any doubts that she was doing the right thing, here was proof from the universe. Falling in love had earned her a prize. And just in time for Valentine’s Day—always a sucky holiday for her. Maybe her friend Zoe, who was into woo-woo, was right about karma. And Claire’s karma was suddenly coming up roses.

“So, Jared, who should we make the card out to?” Frank or Phil asked. “Who is the lady you love?”

Here it came. Jared would say her name to thousands of radio listeners.

“Make the card out to my wife Lindi. Lindi with an ‘i.’”

Claire gasped. “Your wife?!” The floor seemed shift to the side and she felt dizzy.

“Who is that?” Jared asked.

“Your wife?!” Claire repeated, the words thundering through her. Jared was married? He had a wife? Probably right there in bed next to him. In something filmy and pink. But maybe her legs weren’t shaved.

“Uh-oh,” Jared said, his voice filled with dread. “Claire?”

“You’re damn right it’s Claire,” she yelled. “You’re married? How could you? You prick!”

Frank and Phil’s barely stifled laughter made her realize that they’d listened in on her betrayal, along with thousands of people out in radio land. Omigod!

Claire slammed the receiver on Jared’s plaintive, “Let me explain,” her face burning. She felt like one of those women on a TV special who was clueless that her husband was a bigamist. Her heart thudded so hard in her chest she thought her ribs might give way.

My wife Lindi. Lindi with an “i,” for God’s sake. She couldn’t believe it. What kind of woman had the name Lindi? Some perky housewife who ironed her husband’s boxers and made her own clothes.

A memory zipped through Claire’s mind—Jared telling her he loved her, his eyes full of adoration—and then sizzled in the bug zapper of his last sentence. Make it out to my wife Lindi. No hesitation, no question who would get his love roses. How had Claire been so stupid?

But she hadn’t been stupid. She’d read the Cosmo article, “Ten Signs Your Man is Married,” and Jared had come out clean. His ring finger was as tan as the other nine. Sure, he’d given her only a cell phone number, but as a salesman he was constantly on the road, so a cell phone made sense.

Mixed-up emotions—shock, grief, disbelief, outrage—churned inside her like surf. The phone rang and she jumped at the sound, then picked up the receiver, her hand trembling.

“Let me explain, Claire.” Jared.

For an instant, hope bloomed. Maybe it had been a mistake. April Fool’s in February? “Is it true?” she demanded. “Are you married?”

“Yes, but—”

Bam! She banged down the phone. And instantly wanted to snatch it back. No, she should be strong, stay mad. Her gaze fell on the brass puffin Jared had given her as a move-in gift. She picked it off the TV tray she used as a nightstand and reared back to fling it across the room. Just in time she realized it would leave a big hole in the Navajo white of her perfect new apartment wall, so she slammed it onto the patterned Berber carpet instead.

The phone rang again. She lifted the receiver and dropped it. She had to think this through before she talked to Jared. She hurt all over—like an all-body toothache and she needed some air.

Rushing to the double-paned arcadia door that had kept the city clamor to a whisper while she’d slept, Claire tugged it open and stepped onto her bookshelf-size terrace. Sucking in fresh oxygen, she let Central Avenue’s hum and growl fill her ears. For a second, she remembered how happy she was to be here—right in the middle of downtown, close to the city’s pulse, part of the action. From the fifth floor, she could easily see Camelback Mountain.

What about the apartment now? This was Claire’s first adult place and she was going to gradually buy real furniture, not the bricks-and-board shelves or bean bag chairs she’d had since college. Jared and she had been going to split the rent and on move-in day—Saturday—they were going to buy a couch together. Well, a futon, but close enough. Buying furniture was a committed couple thing to do. Except Jared was already committed to someone else.

That lovely bubble of love she’d been floating around in popped, splattering her with stinging flecks of soap, thanks to K-BUZ Radio’s Valentine’s Day extravaganza. Without Jared, she wouldn’t be able to keep this apartment. Not without a huge raise. She was only a mini account exec at Biggs & Vega Advertising, with tiny clients—car repair shops, a tire wholesaler and dry cleaners—and it would take her a while to build. She’d just begun her buckle-down campaign a week ago. She was twenty-five—a whole quarter of a century old—with a serious boyfriend, she’d reasoned, so it was time to get serious about her career. Just the day before she’d asked Ryan Ames, a senior account exec, to be her mentor.

Her mind flitted through odd thoughts—her futon-no-more, her now-too-expensive apartment, her new mentor Ryan and Mr. Tires, her biggest tiny account—anything but the nuclear blast that had just vaporized her heart.

Maybe she was still asleep and this was a nightmare. She pinched herself on the forearm—ouch—and then again just to be sure. Ouch again. She was awake, all right. And filled with the feeling she got when she’d done something dreadful—like spilled red punch on Mr. Biggs’s Italian loafers at the Christmas party or bit down on a walnut shell, cracking her tooth—situations where she’d give anything to do a quick rewind of the moment. Turn left instead of right. Spit instead of swallow.

She grabbed the railing and took in more air. Blindly, she watched traffic pass. How many people zipping down Central had just heard her on-air humiliation? Her gaze caught on a man heading toward her building. She recognized him as the musician who’d been playing on her corner for tips the last couple of mornings. She’d dubbed him Guitar Guy. She was certain that he hadn’t been listening to K-BUZ. He was about her age.

Claire stepped back into her bedroom, slid the door shut and thumped her head on the cool glass a couple of times before dropping to sit on the floor. Resting her chin on her knees, she let a couple of tears slip down her cheeks and onto her shins. But just two. That was all the leakage she’d allow for that rat. Jared, how could you be married?

And how had she picked him to fall in love with? She’d taken her time, looked around, chosen very carefully. Oh, yeah. She’d very carefully picked out a cheating bastard.

Well, she couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for herself. Heartache or no, she had a job to get to. And a career to boost. She’d feel better once she got moving. Shine it on, her friend Kitty would tell her. Climb back onto that little red tricycle and pedal on, sister.

Managing a smile at the thought, Claire tromped to the bathroom and turned the shower on ultra hot. She grabbed the loofah Kitty and her other two best friends had given her as part of their apartment-warming gift and dragged it across her back. Too scratchy. No pain, no gain, her friend Emily would say. She’d call the Jared disaster a learning experience. Zoe, who’d picked out the raspberry face soother, would tell her to be gentle with herself to get through the hurt.

Claire sighed. She needed to talk to her friends about this disaster. The four called themselves the Chickateers—all for one and one for all—sharing the good, the bad and the dreadful every Wednesday for Game Night. They gathered at Talkers, a bar not far from Claire’s apartment, to talk, drink wine and play a game they took turns choosing.

Thank God tonight was Game Night. She would share her tale of woe and the Chickateers would tell her what to do. And it would all be okay.

Scalded pink from the sizzling shower, Claire wrapped herself in a thick Egyptian-cotton towel—also from the Chickateers—and headed for her huge walk-in closet—another thing she loved about this apartment and did not want to lose.

What to wear? Now that she was getting serious about her career, clothes were an issue. In advertising, appearance was everything. She had to make the right statement. She pulled out a Lycra tank top and suede miniskirt. Too casual. How about this kicky gauze tie-dye number? Too femmie. She flipped more hangers. At the back, she found the suit her mother had given her when she first got hired at B&V. Navy blue, tailored lines. Very dress-for-success.

Perfect, because from now on, Claire would focus on success. Without Jared in her life, she could stay late at work, take work home. Not that her piddly-ass accounts required much extra effort. Penny-saver ads and newspaper flyers mostly. She sighed.

That’s what Ryan Ames would help her with. He was new to the firm, but a very hot exec who’d brought some top accounts with him, and she was pretty sure he liked her. When she’d proposed the mentor idea yesterday, she’d thought she detected a flicker of the man-woman thing on his face, but it faded so fast she figured she’d imagined it. She’d definitely talk to him today. Anything to distract her from the misery that kept rising in her throat like one too many Jell-O shooters.

Clothes on, Claire headed into her bright white, melamine-cupboarded kitchen for something to put in her stomach. There was nothing but Crystal Lite and celery in the fridge. Just as well. She felt like hurling.

For a minute she wanted to crawl back into bed, suit and all, throw the covers over her head and just cry.

No way.

She had to keep going—slog through the day until Game Night, when her friends would help her. She needed their guidance more than ever. Jared the Jerk was proof positive that her judgment was wonky. Where were her instincts anyway? In her butt? Somewhere the sun didn’t shine, that’s for sure. She was clueless about men. And lame about love. Rotten at romance? That had a ring to it. If she were writing a commercial about herself.

No matter what, she would not call Jared. Uh-uh. Regardless of how her fingers itched to hit speed-dial one. No way. She’d walk to work. Early. Better to keep moving and stay away from phones.

She jogged to the elevator, rushed across the lobby, pushed out the glass doors and rounded the corner, where she ran smack-dab into Guitar Guy.

“Oh,” she said, backing up a step. “Hi.”

She had to admit he was a hunk. About her age, she thought, and very tan. This close she could see he wasn’t a druggie. He had intense gray eyes that seemed smart, not frantic and not a bit bleary. Shaggy black hair—too long—hung over his forehead, and he wore comfortable-looking cords and a gray muscle shirt, worn, but clean. A stylized yin-yang tattoo ringed his left bicep, and he wore a stud in one ear. He smelled of soap—Irish Spring?—and patchouli.

Watching his fingers on the well-polished guitar, Claire felt a little vibration shimmy along her nerves. The music was old-fashioned and torchy. Something you’d drink brandy and sniffle to in some smoky bar. And he was good. Very good.

As she walked past, he spoke, the words so soft they were like a whisper in her head. “You’re trying too hard.”

She stopped dead and turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“That getup you’re wearing.” He gave her a slow head-to-toe perusal. There was a little bit of sex in it, but it was more like a friend determining whether something fifty-percent off was really you or not.

“You’re critiquing my outfit?” she asked.

He met her gaze steadily. “Just making an observation.”

“Well, I have one for you then. You need a haircut.”

He considered her words, then gave her a crooked smile.

What? Now she was trading grooming tips with a homeless guy? Why not? She turned and started down the street, feeling Guitar Guy’s eyes on her. Or maybe she was imagining that. Hoping for it? Nothing like breaking up with a guy to make you want proof you were still attractive.

Claire plowed doggedly onward, ignoring the way her pumps pinched her toes and rubbed her heels. Her suit was as airless as a plastic bag. By the time she reached B&V Advertising, she had blisters and felt woozy from being overheated. Oh, well. At least she had something besides her breakup to focus on—survival.

She paused at the door to the office to brace herself for the inevitable cracks from the Morning Madness fans at B&V who, she’d bet, included Georgia, the receptionist. Prepared, she took a deep breath and marched inside, head up, chest out, heels stinging, sweat dripping, but looking successful. Or at least dressed that way.

Luckily, Georgia wasn’t at the front desk. That wasn’t unusual, since she deserted her post whenever the spirit moved her. But at least Claire got through reception without a jab.

Needing coffee, she made a beeline for the tiny kitchen…where she hit a K-BUZ listener jackpot—Georgia and her friend Mimi, the bookkeeper. Claire attempted a backward slink, hoping to escape unnoticed, but Georgia spoke. “Moonlighting on the radio, are you now?” she asked in her smoke-roughened voice.

“You heard?” Blush washed over Claire.

“Was that staged?” Mimi asked. “The call and all?”

“No, it was real,” she said. Vividly, excruciatingly real.

Georgia looked her dead-on. “They bleeped out what you called him. Was it ‘prick’ or ‘dick’?”

“Prick.”

“Yeah, I’d say that’s the best word for him.”

“You look bad, girl,” Mimi said, looking her up and down. “Kinda like you dropped your vibrator in the bathtub—all shocked and jittery.”

Georgia cackled and snorted smoke. This was a no-smoking office, but Georgia didn’t let anyone push her around. “Good one,” she said, then narrowed her gaze at Claire. “How you doin’ with it?”

“Hide the razor blades,” Claire said with a lopsided smile.

“Don’t sell yourself short, honey. You deserve better than that putz.”

Georgia and Mimi were both forty, divorced and okay with being single. Claire envied them their self-sufficiency.

“At least you have a great story to tell,” Mimi said. “I learned my husband was cheating by finding Victoria’s Secret receipts in his suit coat. So cliché.”

“Good point,” Claire said, comforting herself with three sugars and real cream in her coffee. She turned to face the women, resting her backside against the counter.

“Those mechanicals are on your chair to copy,” Georgia said.

“Great. Just what I need—a visit with Leroy the Letch.” The man lurked in the copy room and lived for a pat, brush or slide against some female part.

Georgia cackled again. “If that man gropes me one more time, I think I’ll have to…I’ll have to…”

“What?” Mimi said. “Sleep with him?”

The three women burst into laughter. It felt good to Claire—kind of like a mini Game Night.

“Nah,” Georgia said. “I can’t sleep with him. Mouth breathers snore.”

They laughed again.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Claire said, raising her doctored brew in a toast to the two women. She turned to go.

“One more thing,” Georgia said.

“Yeah?” She turned, expecting something motherly.

“Lose the suit. You look like a stewardess.”

Just the image she was going for. “Honey-roasted nuts, anyone?” she said. Actually, she could think of a pair of nuts she’d love to roast. With no honey involved…unless the nuts were suspended over an ant-hill. Hmm…

“Don’t feel bad,” Mimi said, shrugging. “If you don’t try things on for size, you can’t learn what works.”

“Right,” she said. The advice was good for life, as well as clothes. Except everything Claire tried on was either too tight, too loose or made her butt look big. She set off for her office.

Low on the account exec totem pole, she’d been squeezed into the cubicle between the copy room and the mechanical room that used to be a janitor’s closet. Now and then, when the breeze was right, she caught a whiff of cleaning supplies. She’d grown to love the smell of Comet in the morning.

She picked up the ads from her chair and began her foray into Leroy the Letch Land. Moving quickly, she escaped with barely a breast brush.

The minute she sat at her desk, the phone rang. “Claire Quinn,” she said into it.

“Don’t hang up!” Jared.

She took in a quick breath, knowing she should do just that, but the phone felt Velcroed to her ear.

“I wanted to tell you a million times,” Jared said, “but I knew it would hurt you and I’d rather die than hurt you.”

She could hear tears in his voice. Tears. She couldn’t help but be touched. And a little weirded out. “How long have you been…?”

“Married?”

No, a cheating creep. “Yeah.”

“Three years. We just sort of ended up together.”

A thought chilled her. “Do you have kids?”

“No, no kids. And we’ve grown apart. I didn’t realize how much until I met you and fell in love.”

“Right.” She tried to sound sarcastic, but the word love softened her like a VCR case on a dashboard in summer.

“It’s a relief that you know the truth. You have no idea how this was haunting me.”

“You poor, poor dear.”

“I know, I know. Of course you’re hurting more than me right now. We can talk this all through on Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“When I move in.”

“You can’t move in. You keep forgetting—you’re married.”

“We need to be together, Claire. This thing between us is big. Just give me time to talk to Lindi.” His words were as sweet and soothing as warm honey on Claire’s sore throat.

“We’ll work it out,” he continued. “I know we will. And on Saturday we can buy that futon, and a lamp—even an area rug—just like we planned. Anything you want, baby.”

Anything she wanted. Baby. She loved it when he called her that. She fought down the throb of hope that tightened her throat. Hold it right there, you lying sack of pig parts. She decided on a more civilized approach.

“How can I trust you?” she said. “You lied to me. Our whole relationship is a lie.”

“No. My marriage is the lie. Our love is the one true thing I have. You have every reason to hate me, Claire, but please don’t stop loving me. Please.”

She was touched, of course, but she couldn’t help noticing he sounded like bad daytime TV. Plus, the picture of roasting his nuts kept floating in her head.

“I want to hold you,” he said. “I need you in my arms to feel okay in the world.”

Now that line was perfect and she felt herself melt right into her pumps, blisters and all. Maybe it would be okay. Men had to get shocked into change, didn’t they?

“I don’t know, Jared. I have to think.”

“Take a day or two, but never forget that I love you. We’ll find a way to make this work. We have to. What we have is real and true.” More bad dialogue. Stop that, she told herself. The man was professing his love and she was critiquing his performance? That was Claire, though. Always with the smart remarks, as her mother used to say. Sarcasm kept the pain at bay.

Claire glanced up to find Georgia wagging a finger at her through the glass door, like she was a puppy who’d widdled on the carpet. Bad girl.

On the other hand, a smack on the nose with a rolled-up paper was probably exactly what she needed. “I’ve got to go, Jared.” She ripped the phone from her ear and dropped it onto its cradle. The familiar wish to snatch it back washed over her. She had trouble making decisions. Yes, no. Stay, go. Sheesh.

Georgia smiled at her. She’d pleased Georgia, at least.

Claire checked her watch. Seven hours and fifteen minutes until she could plop this burden into the soft and willing laps of the Chickateers. Thank God for Game Night.

2

AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, Claire stepped off the bus and entered the cool dimness and expectant air of Talkers for Game Night. She surveyed the happy-hour crowd of downtown singles, looking for who of the Chickateers was already here. Claire loved this place and this weekly event. Waning sunlight slanted onto the bar and washed over the toned, well-groomed professionals around the room who were flirting, commiserating and dipping wontons in peanut sauce.

She spotted Kitty Knight at the far end of the bar. Kitty being Kitty, she was with a man. She leaned toward him, swinging her wineglass lazily between two fingers, just this side of slutty. If only Claire had Kitty’s flair. Of course, Kitty also had a model’s face, a flamboyant personality and saline implants. Claire had neither of the first two and no interest in the third. But Kitty stirred up a room like no one else and Claire loved trailing in her wake.

Kitty would be philosophical about the Jared fiasco. Men troubles rolled off Kitty’s back like water over bath oil. She called it the Zen of men—Be the man and you’ll get the man.

As Claire got closer, she could see the guy was writing something in his Palm Pilot. Kitty’s number, no doubt. Just before he left, Kitty gave him that flattering once-over that Claire had actually practiced in the mirror once, feeling goofy.

Kitty spotted Claire and slid off her stool for a hug. She smelled of something new—probably a perfume sample from Vogue—she liked to test out the new stuff before she purchased it—and her hug was the usual well-meaning but painful grab.

“Who was that?” Claire asked, tilting her head toward Kitty’s exiting conquest.

“Investment banker with two first names,” Kitty said on a sigh. “Arnold Oliver. New in town. When Rex is over.” Rex was Kitty’s boyfriend du jour, a personal trainer at a health club. Kitty gave Claire an up-and-down. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Career Girl Barbie.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Not for a stripper pretending to be a librarian. Wanna see my Dewey Dec-i-mals?” Kitty said in Marilyn Monroe’s breathy voice.

Claire laughed. “Who died and made you fashion cop?” Guitar Guy, Georgia and now Kitty had taken potshots at her new look.

“What are friends for?” She grinned, which made Claire smile, too. Kitty’s zingers came laced with affection, so Claire never felt wounded. “Zoe’s here,” Kitty said, nodding past her.

Claire turned to watch Zoe Bellows head their way, her waterproof nylon pants hissing as she moved. Zoe zipped herself into the lives of her lovers like a second skin, taking on their hobbies and interests. Her current boyfriend was outdoorsy.

Zoe would be completely empathetic with Claire. She was into Tarot, numerology and breathing. Inhale health…exhale toxins. Unnaturally optimistic, too, but Claire craved her slow, full-body, patchouliscented hugs.

“Hey,” Zoe said to Kitty, hugging her as best she could, since Kitty didn’t have the patience for Zoe’s lengthy embraces. Then Zoe turned to Claire. Just as Claire had hoped, the hug was long and gentle with a deep inhale, slow exhale. Soothing as a hot bath. Tonight, Zoe smelled of mint and banana sunscreen, instead of the usual patchouli.

Of her three friends, Zoe was the most likely to pick up on Claire’s shocked-by-her-vibrator expression, so she ducked away before Zoe could get a good look at her face. Claire wanted the sympathy in one big wave, not three little ones.

“So, you’re still seeing Mountain Man?” Kitty asked Zoe.

“We’re training for a bike trip through Mexico.”

Kitty shuddered. “What a way to ruin a foreign country—crouched over a bicycle, pumping your ass off. Let’s get a booth and wait for Em.” She led them to their usual spot at the back near the small stage where musicians occasionally played. They preferred it because it was quieter here.

“Is it Emily’s game?” Claire asked, sliding onto the cool leather banquette. Zoe nodded. They took turns choosing, matching the game to the chooser’s mood. They’d started with the chess and backgammon in the café’s collection, and then moved to games they brought themselves.

Fifteen minutes later, the three watched Emily Decker push through the door in a chic pantsuit, trailed by her husband Barry, who held two shopping bags by their handles. Emily hustled to the booth, determinedly kissed each woman on the cheek, smelling of her personally blended perfume mixed with expensive car leather, then slid in beside Kitty.

Barry set the shopping bags at his wife’s feet. “I’ll pick you up in three hours,” he said, then gave the rest of the Chickateers a weak smile. He probably saw them as evil witches stirring up trouble over a bubbling brew. After one Game Night discussion, Emily had declared him a flop at oral sex; after another she’d convinced him to propose marriage.

“We were shopping for a valance for the guest bathroom,” Emily explained. “Later, I’ll show you some swatches.” Emily had quit her job at a bank and now devoted herself to fixing up the home in Scottsdale they’d recently bought. To Claire, she seemed bored. The Chickateers already had been forced to admire her choice in kitchen knobs and light-switch plates.

Barry was kind of a schlub, and yet Claire couldn’t help thinking how great it would be to have a man willing to shop for something as mundane as a valance. What heterosexual man even knew what one was? Or cared? Jared, she’d thought. But she’d been wrong about Jared. Completely wrong.

“So what’s the game?” Kitty asked Emily. She filled Emily’s wineglass with the “cunning” pinot noir she’d selected for their first bottle. Kitty always chose the wine.

Emily took an eager sip and held up her glass. The other three joined her in their traditional toast: “All for one and one for all…No sniveling!” Except that’s exactly what Claire would be doing tonight.

Emily reached into one of the shopping bags and lifted out a board game, which she set on the table. “Voilà!”

“‘Life’?” Kitty asked in amazement. “You brought ‘The Game of Life’?”

“Yeah. Isn’t it perfect? It was in a toy-store display window and I couldn’t resist. I loved playing this as a kid. Choosing my career, earning my paycheck, getting married, putting the little pink and blue kids in my car…” She opened the lid as she talked, laid out the board and began to separate the money denominations.

“The Game of Life.” How ironic, since Claire seemed to be losing her own private version. All messed up with love and uncertain at work, with an apartment she could no longer afford. So much for her perfect life. The bright, cheery game board blurred as her eyes filled. Enough with the self-pity, already. She ducked her nose into her wineglass to hide.

“Pick a car color. I’ll be yellow,” Emily said, shuffling the career and income cards.

Kitty grabbed the red car and Zoe said, “Green or blue, Claire?”

Claire couldn’t speak, and a single fat tear plopped onto the table.

“What’s wrong?” Zoe turned to look Claire full in the face.

Claire would be strong about this. She brushed the water from her cheeks and lifted her chin. “A demonstration,” she said. She picked up the green car and inserted a little pink person into it. “Here’s me, right?” Then she took a little blue person. “Jared goes here, right?” She started to put it beside the pink person, then stopped. “No, because he’s already here.” She stuck the blue token into Emily’s yellow car. “Jared’s married.”

“He’s what?” Zoe exclaimed, sucking in a breath.

“No!” Kitty and Emily said, jaws sagging like in a bad comedy sketch. The three friends looked from Claire to each other and back…twice. Their shock made her feel loads better.

“But, I thought Pinkie was moving in with you,” Kitty said. Over one too many Fuzzy Navels, Claire had once mentioned that Jared’s penis was a pinkish color and Kitty had seized on it as a nickname.

“How did you find out?” Emily asked.

“A radio call-in show.”

“No!” all three said at once.

“Oh, yes.” She told them the whole K-BUZ debacle, gratified by their horror and anger on her behalf. “So, Happy V Day to me.” She took a drink of wine.

“Screw Valentine’s Day,” Kitty said. “It’s just a plot by the jewelry industry to soak men for big bucks and make single women feel like roadkill.”

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Emily said. Emily’s advice would be practical and down-to-earth, which Claire valued, even if it came via bulldozer, aka, Emily’s way or the highway.

“I really thought he loved me,” Claire said.

“I’m sure he does love you.” Zoe pulled her into her banana-paba-smelling arms for a quick hug. “He’s just a little…well…mixed-up.”

“Well, duh,” Kitty said.

“Did he explain himself?” Zoe asked.

“His wife and he have grown apart. He didn’t realize it until he met me.”

“And started getting regular blow jobs,” Kitty added.

“Kitty!” Zoe said.

“It’s true. I bet Lindi-with-an-i hasn’t delivered since she got him to say ‘I do.’”

“It’s more than that,” Claire said, though Jared did seem stunned and grateful when she performed that particular act. “Anyway, he says we can work things out.”

“And of course you told him to go piss up a rope,” Emily said.

Claire didn’t answer.

Kitty shook her head and tsked. “I wish you’d help yourself the way you help us.”

Claire felt another tear escape and roll down her cheek.

Zoe hugged her again and they all remained supportively silent while Zoe frantically patted Claire’s back. And patted.

When she felt welts forming, Claire gently extracted herself. She blew her nose on the tissue Emily proffered, forced a watery smile and lifted her wineglass in a toast. “Come on. No sniveling!”

“You just snivel away,” Zoe said. “This is a special occasion. Right, girls?”

The four clinked glasses, then took a solemn drink in Claire’s honor.

“What do you want us to do to Pinkie?” Kitty demanded, her eyes gleaming in the golden light. “Blow his cover with Lindi-with-an-i? Slash his tires? Trash his apartment?”

“Kitty!” Zoe said. Zoe kept trying to tone Kitty down, but they all knew it was no use and loved her for trying anyway. And Kitty for refusing to change.

“It’s the company’s apartment,” Claire said gloomily. “He was going to move in with me on Saturday, remember?”

“So, we graffiti the walls. He’ll be responsible for the damages,” ever-practical Emily said.

“Yeah, baby. That’s the ticket!” Kitty said. “Nobody messes with our crew.” Kitty jutted her chin and thrust out her chest in a seated strut.

Claire felt a stab of satisfaction at the idea—and a rush of gratitude for her friends.

“That would be bad karma,” Zoe said. “Negative energy boomerangs. And besides, maybe he’ll leave his wife.”

“You think so?” Claire asked more hopefully than she felt.

“Forget it,” Kitty said. “Men who cheat want to have their cake and eat it, too.”

“But maybe Jared’s different,” Zoe said.

“They’re all different until they get what they want,” Kitty said to Zoe, then patted Claire’s hand. “Speaking of which, wasn’t Jared splitting the rent on your apartment?”

Claire nodded. “I can’t really afford it without him.”

“Not to worry,” Kitty said. “I’ll move in with you.”

Claire gulped. “But you just moved into that great duplex….”

“I’ve barely opened a few boxes. The landlord’s driving me nuts already—whining about my music and the water bill. Life’s not worth living without a daily parboil and loud tunes. Besides, that place isn’t really me.”

“What about your lease?”

“She’ll let me out of it. Trust me. Deposit and all.”

“But, you’re kind of a night owl, aren’t you?” Claire protested weakly.

“A night owl?” Kitty gave her a steady look, her mouth tight. “Don’t worry. If Thor and I are going to get out the whips and leather we’ll go to his place.”

“You’re seeing a guy named Thor?”

“She doesn’t mean literally, Zoe,” Claire said. “I’m sorry, Kitty.” She knew that under her friend’s hard-candy coating lay a marshmallow center. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“Eh, forget it. My moving in will be good for you. I’ll introduce you to some new men and you’ll forget all about Pinkie.”

“But I thought Pinkie—I mean, Jared—was the one.”

“There are lots of ones,” Kitty said. “It’s like a deli where the men take a number and every day we start over with number one. Rex knows some single guys. Don’t worry.”

Soon the four Chickateers were toasting the new roommates, and Claire began to woozily welcome the idea. Kitty would help her be strong. A tiger didn’t change his spots or a rat his whiskers. With Kitty as a reality check, she’d be less vulnerable to Jared’s soap-opera pleas.

When it was time to leave, Barry and Emily dropped Claire at CityScapes. The building that had seemed exciting and full of possibilities the day before now seemed hollow and lonely—and expensive. She trudged up the stairs, rode the elevator in sadness, plodded down her hall to her door…

And found an impossible surprise. Resting in front of her door were a dozen red roses, bright as blood. The typed card said, “To my dearest love. Jared.”

She picked up the roses and pressed her face into their velvety softness and dusky perfume. She was Jared’s dearest love. Her heart warmed…then turned to ice. She might be his dearest love, but she wasn’t his only love. Lindi-with-an-i was going to get her own dozen blood-red roses next week, courtesy of K-BUZ radio. Claire stomped through the apartment, opened the window and tossed the roses out.

An hour later she was plucking the bright blooms from where they’d scattered in the newly planted hedges of her building. They were roses, for God’s sake. Even when your boyfriend turned out to be a rat, you deserved a little beauty, didn’t you? Especially a week before Valentine’s Day. Hugging the flowers to her chest, Claire knew exactly how to think of them: a lovely parting gift.

TRIP OSBORN packed up his guitar, sorry that he’d missed the lively brunette who’d crashed into him yesterday. Her name was Claire, he thought—someone had called to her the first day he’d played on this corner.

She’d caught his eye from the first moment with her forward-leaning stance and bouncy walk. She looked his age, but seemed younger somehow. She was certainly more driven.

He wondered how she was doing today and what she was wearing. Yesterday, she’d marched down the sidewalk in a business suit and punishing shoes, upset as hell. Her brown eyes had been watery, her nose pink and she’d slumped instead of bounced. He’d had the urge to protect her—as if from oncoming traffic.

You’re critiquing my outfit? He smiled to himself, remembering the jab. She had an edge to her. And maybe she was right about the haircut.

He’d get a tip on a good barber from Erik Terrifik, the blues giant he was taking class with. He’d come to Phoenix because of Erik and the visiting philosophy professor whose class he was taking at ASU.

He was sorry he’d missed a morning exchange with Claire, but he’d better head to the neighborhood dive Erik owned. The place didn’t open until later, but he liked the old-smoke-and-stale-beer smell of it. Atmosphere meant a lot in music. And life.

Trip had spent most of the years since high school in the West. He liked the open feeling, the sense of limitless possibilities. Long straight stretches of highway, winding mountain roads. And all the climates he could want, from baking Sonoran desert to high, cool Rockies.

In the smoky dimness of Chez Oui, while he waited for Erik to finish up with the beer delivery guy, Trip found himself thinking about the woman again. Claire. She had pretty eyes. Mink dark with flecks of milk chocolate. Smart eyes. And an expression both vulnerable and sturdy.

That was a lot to notice in a few passing glances and one quick collision, but he was good at reading people. You learned that in foster homes. You quickly figured out what counted, because things always changed, got lost or showed up out of the blue. You learned what to hang on to, what to fight for and what to shrug off, and always to be ready to move on. Lessons he maybe got too young, but good ones all the same.

He didn’t blame his mom too much. Hadn’t really at the time. She’d done her best. She was just…limited. He visited her whenever he blew through Colorado. She always baked him something awful. And he always ate it like it was gourmet.

He picked up the bar phone to sign up with a palm-trimming crew to make enough money for the next couple of months’ rent at the guest house where he was staying. The work was dangerous—climbing hundreds of feet in the air to work with sharp blades—but that was why it paid so well.

Plus, he liked variety. He never stayed long in any place or at any job, choosing both for the opportunity to learn…about people, ideas, music and himself. He liked college towns, so he could take classes from people he admired. Gigs were easy to come by near universities. Gig money paid his tuition. But he was happy to work in restaurants or bars, on yard crews or as a handyman to make his daily wage.

Just as he hung up the phone, Erik slid onto the stool beside him, his guitar in hand. “’Sup?” he breathed in his rumbling bass.

“Not much.” Trip said, smiling at his teacher.

“You’re wearin’ that look.” Erik winked at him.

“Yeah?” Trip opened his guitar case and removed his baby.

“Yeah. The look of a cat after a big slurp of cream.”

Trip chuckled. Erik was smart and wily, and the best guitarist he’d had the privilege to know.

“It’s a girl, am I right?” Erik said, fingering his strings.

And he was intuitive. “Could be.” Trip plucked through a tune-up.

“So tell me about her.”

“She’s pretty. Nice eyes. Brown.” He sighed.

“Uh-huh.” Erik began to play Van Morrison’s classic “Brown-Eyed Girl.” “I ain’t heard ya talk about a woman since you been in town.”

Trip shrugged, then started up a harmony line to the tune. “I like spending time on my own.”

“My ass. You’re jus’ too lazy to call any of ’em.”

Trip shrugged again. There had been women who let him know they were interested, but none had caught his eye. Except this Claire. Maybe because she was different than the women he usually spent time with. Which made her off-limits completely, of course. He moved into the chords he’d been learning from Erik, who’d stopped playing to muse a while.

“Women love musicians,” he said. “I was always gettin’ busy in the old days. But once I moved out here, Sara got her hooks in me….You want to make that a minor seventh.”

“Right,” Trip said, adjusting his fingering.

“You probably think you’ll never want to stick to a place, but there’s a good side to it. A steadiness.”

“I like variety.”

“Watch that chord. Keep the arch and it’ll flow easier.”

“Yeah. Got it….”

“There’s a joy in learning all one woman’s tricks.”

Trip didn’t reply.

“I’ve got a gig on Tuesday if you want,” Erik said.

“Sounds good.” He reached for the new chord. And got it. He loved that feeling. Music was the best companion.

Erik gave him the details about where and when they’d be playing. “I could keep you busy if you’d stay around. You going after this brown-eyed girl?”

“Too much trouble.”

“But that’s the best kind of woman,” Erik said, cackling. “The ones that are trouble.”

“I don’t think so.” Trip didn’t like disappointing people. He’d stayed some months in Denver for a woman, but she started getting on him about the future and his plans, and he’d itched to be on the road. It was always easier to think, to learn, to be himself when he kept moving.

She’d reminded him of Nancy, the girl he’d been with during that mess with his final foster home. He’d fallen hard and when she broke it off, he’d been wrecked. But she’d pointed out what he needed to know about himself and he’d never forgotten.

“So you say,” Erik said, nodding and smiling his wise Buddha smile. He strummed something so complex that Trip had to work to follow it. Good. He’d rather focus on music than women any day.

“SO, I GUESS YOU GET the master bedroom,” Kitty said to Claire Friday afternoon as they stood in the narrow hall of Claire’s apartment. When she’d said Kitty could move in, it had never occurred to Claire that her own bedroom might be up for grabs.

They’d agreed today was a good day for the move, since Rex had the day off and could muscle her stuff upstairs.

Barely moved into the duplex, Kitty hadn’t had much to pack. She’d boxed up her kitchen and bedroom stuff, emptied her closets and rented a truck yesterday. Kitty moved fast when she wanted something. She and Rex had loaded the truck last night and now, Rex was dutifully trotting Kitty’s bed frame through the front door.

“I guess you could pay less rent for the smaller bedroom,” Claire offered.

“No, no,” Kitty said, tapping a French-cut fingernail on her lip, wearing her real-estate-deal look. “Having the bigger bedroom will be like a finder’s fee. You found the place, after all, and paid the deposits.”

She gave her an abrupt, bruising hug. “I’m sooo glad we’re doing this. We’ll have so much fun. We can do each other’s makeup, drink wine and dissect men all night.”

“Sure,” Claire said, trying to look on the bright side of the situation. Kitty wouldn’t let her mope about Jared, that was certain. Plus, a pint of ChocoCherry Rumba Swirl shared seemed way less sinful than one shoveled in alone.

“It’ll be just like college,” Kitty added.

“Uh, yeah.” God, she hoped not. Claire had spent many an evening studying in the library so she didn’t have to listen to Kitty’s headboard thump against the other side of the living room wall. At least the apartment walls here were thick.

“That room,” Kitty said to Rex the Robust, directing him to what they’d agreed would be her bedroom. The two women followed him inside to watch as he bolted the bed frame together. Just watching his muscles ripple from butt to ankle gave Claire thoughts.

“Gonna be tight,” Kitty said.

“Huh?” Claire startled from her fantasy.

“The bed,” Kitty added.

“Oh. Yeah. The bed.” The frame did nearly cover the floor.

“Big bed,” Rex said, rising to stand between them, his face red from exertion.

“All the better to amuse you with,” Kitty said to him, scraping a finger through the stubble on his jaw.

“Really?” Rex said, catching Kitty’s hint. “Great! I’ll get the mattress.” He barreled down the hall, like a kid who’d abruptly gotten permission to buy a video game.

“He’s completely tireless in bed,” Kitty said to Claire. “Like a machine. All muscle, all the time.”

“Sounds nice.” Simple and satisfying.

“Oh, it is. And don’t worry. He has a friend—Dave, from the gym—who will be perfect for you.”

“It’s too soon to date, Kitty. I’m not over Jared.”

“This isn’t a date, Claire. This is getting laid. Bodily function…healthy release.” Her words slowed at the end because Rex had come in with the mattress across his back, looking like Atlas holding the world. All muscle…all the time. Hmm.

“I’ve got to get ready for work,” Claire said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I think I’ve got everything I need right here,” Kitty said, not taking her eyes off Rex.

In the shower, Claire wondered why she couldn’t think of sex as easy breezy as Kitty did. Why did she have to pick at it like a scab? What does it mean? Where is it going? Will we get serious? Is he the one? Why did she have to want it to be perfect?

Because when it went bad, it went very, very bad. Her mother hadn’t been the same after Claire’s dad left her for his secretary when Claire was sixteen.

Maybe that was why it was so hard for her to decide about men—she didn’t want to make a mistake. She’d thought her parents were perfect and look what had happened. Plus, she could always see both sides of a situation. Each parent blamed the other for the break up—and the bad match they’d made in the first place—and wanted Claire to side with them. She’d somehow managed to keep them both happy.

Kitty was right about sex, though. Claire should think of it as a healthy release, like jogging or doing aerobics or taking a yoga class. Exercise was good for all your muscles, right? She would at least try Kitty’s idea. Maybe with this Dave guy.

The idea sounded empty now, but after a few days of celibacy, she was sure it would appeal. She should put in some time with the Thigh Buster, just in case. A weightlifter would be fussy about the legs he tangled with.

So, she was moving forward, making decisions, being clear. Good girl, she told herself, drying off. She’d forget about Jared, get casual about sex and serious about work.

In the closet, she faced another dressing quandary. That made her think of Guitar Guy calling her outfit a getup and she smiled. What should she wear? Forget the trying-too-hard suit. How about professional separates? A plaid skirt with a navy blazer. Conservative, but not so coffee-tea-or-me.

For shoes, she needed those damned navy heels again. She slapped a couple of adhesive patches over Wednesday’s still-angry blisters—she wouldn’t let a minor injury slow her down—and headed for the kitchen.

One good thing about having Kitty as a roommate was that she added cool stuff to the kitchen—a combo coffee-espresso maker, an industrial-grade blender and gourmet food. Claire scooped a spoonful of paté out of a plastic tub Kitty had plopped into the refrigerator and ate it. Mmm. Expensive protein. She’d read somewhere that protein eased depression. Or maybe that was only turkey, not duck liver. Duck liver probably depressed you because you realized you could never afford it on your salary…sigh.

On her way out the door, Claire paused to survey the living room. Even as her heart had emptied out, her apartment was filling up. Rex had placed Kitty’s zebra-striped sofa where Jared’s commitment futon had been slated to go. And beside it was a leopard-spotted chaise with pillows shaped like lips and a glass coffee table on a black lacquer base. Propped against the wall were a couple of paintings of abstract nudes from a former lover of Kitty’s. The place was beginning to look like a singles pad. Not exactly Claire’s style, but fun. Definitely fun.

She called a farewell to Kitty, who probably had her mouth too busy to reply, and hurried outside, pleased to see the bus hadn’t arrived. Standing beside the bus bench, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, blisters throbbing slightly through the bandages, looking down Central.

“You were right.”

The liquid voice came from behind her. She turned to see Guitar Guy, wearing jeans, a snug black T-shirt and his guitar. He looked better than the other day, and when he brushed back a strand of hair, she realized it was shorter.

“You got a haircut,” she said.

“Yeah. I took your advice.” He gave her a crooked smile, then tilted his head, indicating her body. “But you didn’t take mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“The nuns make you dress like that?”

She looked down at her skirt. God. He was right. The blazer and plaid skirt did seem like a Catholic school uniform. She shrugged. “All my idea, sorry to say. Maybe I should go change….”She bit her lip.

“Don’t ever change,” he said in mock seriousness.

She laughed. “You’re just full of advice, huh?”

“That’s why I get the big bucks.”

“You’d probably make more money in Scottsdale. Lots of tourists.”

“Too snooty. I like downtown people.”

“Really?” Did he mean her?

As if in answer, he launched into the Billy Joel classic, “Just the Way You Are,” a song about not changing to please him.

He was flirting with her. She grinned. Except maybe he just wanted her to tip him. But if he was flirting, a tip might insult him. Her instincts said he liked her, but where had her instincts gotten her so far? In love with a married schmuck.

The bus arrived, saving her a decision, and she climbed the steps. While the driver looked at her pass, she glanced out the door. Guitar Guy saluted her as the bus doors shut. He liked her. And his voice stayed in her head all the way to the office.

Inside B&V, Georgia and Mimi stood at the receptionist desk. “So let him think you’re a lesbian,” Georgia was saying. “Men love lesbians. They want to convert you. Plus, they think they have to be re-e-ally good at oral sex.”

Mimi looked unconvinced. They both looked up at Claire.

“Well, lookie here,” Georgia said, leaning over the reception counter. “Muffy’s stopped in on the way to her tennis match.”

“Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Claire said. “I give up.” Catholic school or prep school—either way it was a bust. Despite what Guitar Guy had said, she should have changed clothes.

“Mr. Tires called again. He thinks the radial in the ad looks like a glazed doughnut.”

“Great.” The man spent no money on his tiny newspaper ads, but he wanted new creative every week. Small flippin’ potatoes. She saw that Mimi held a folder with Ryan Ames’s name on it.

“I’ll take that to him,” she said, tugging it from Mimi’s fingers. She needed to schedule their first mentor meeting anyway—her first step up the career ladder.

At Ryan’s office, she saw through his glass door he was reading the paper. She tapped. He frowned at the interruption, but when he saw it was her, smiled.

“Hi,” she said, entering. She handed him the folder.

“Thanks.” He smiled again. A big smile. A too-big smile. A definite man-woman smile. “So, how’s my mentee doing so far?”

“Just great.” Well, except for that broken heart, ruined life thing. “I was hoping we could get started on some strategy for me,” she said. “Maybe over lunch. I’ll buy.” Paying for lunch was a power move, she’d read.

“You’ll buy, huh?” Isn’t that cute? his smile said. “For now, why don’t you have a seat and we can get to know each other better.” He patted the chair kitty-corner to his desk, tugging it closer to him.

Oh, ish. Claire sat delicately on the edge of the chair, then pushed it back a couple feet.

“You settled?” he said, resting his hand on her arm as if to steady her. Gross. The man was hitting on her.

“I’m fine.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” Ryan said, leaning forward.

She pushed back a bit farther. “There’s not much to tell except I want to get ahead here.” She would make sure he knew she wasn’t interested in putting in any couch time to get there. “I want to prove myself through my work, of course. On my own merit. But I hope you can advise me where to concentrate my efforts. My work efforts.” That couldn’t be more clear.

“Sure, sure,” he said, smiling. “We can talk all about that over lunch. How do you stay in such good shape?”

“How do I…?” Blech, puke, retch. She had to nip this in the bud. “Tae Kwan Do,” she blurted. “Black belt, with a specialty in self-defense.”

“Oh, really?” Ryan’s brow lifted in surprise.

“Absolutely. I can make a guy walk lopsided for the rest of his life.”

“Well. That’s impressive. I guess I know who to take with me when I cross a dark parking lot at night.” He seemed to find her amusing, not life-threatening.

“So, how about we start with your top ten tips at lunch?” she said.

“Sure. Sounds good,” he said, smiling. “But I’ve got the first tip for you right now?”

“Really? What is it?” This was a good sign.

“Quit dressing weird. You look like a hooker dressed as a schoolgirl.”

“Check,” she said, pretending to make a mark on a pad. Yet another fashion expert had weighed in on her style statement. “So, I’ll meet you out front at noon for lunch and more tips?”

“Sounds good,” he said, his words tinged with man-woman energy, despite her hint that she could cripple him. Why did everything have to be more complicated than it seemed?

3

ON SATURDAY MORNING, Claire was in the kitchen eating granola and staring morosely at Jared’s false-promise roses, while Kitty and Rex did Tae-Bo in the living room, when Mitch the doorman called up to say she had a delivery downstairs.

She figured it must be an apartment-warming gift from her mother, but when she stepped out of the elevator, she stopped dead in pure shock.

There in the middle of the lobby sat Jared on a cream-canvas futon. “Ta-da!” he said, gesturing at its puffy expanse. “Perfect, huh?” He beamed at her with that sweet, boyish look he had—sometimes charming, sometimes annoying. Right now it was both. “Come try it out.” He held out his arms to her.

For just a second, she was tempted to comply, but this was one gift horse—rather, rat—she had to look straight in the mouth. She wasn’t about to hug him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Moving in, of course. Here’s the futon and here are my clothes,” he said, indicating two big roller suitcases, as if that proved his intentions were good.

“What about your wife? Did you talk to her about us?”

Jared’s eyes flicked away from her face for a second, telling her all she needed to know. “I told her I had concerns.”

“Concerns? Jared, I want a divorce is way more than concerns.”

“Important things take time, Claire. Everything’s not black-and-white like you always want. At least I’m here and I can move in.”

“No, you can’t. I already have a roommate.” A roommate who was probably doing the deed right now in what would have been Jared’s office.

“How did you get a roommate in three days?”

“Kitty’s got moving down to a science.”

“But what about me?” He seemed completely confused.

“You snooze, you lose. I can’t afford this place by myself. You were out, so Kitty was in.”

“I told you I wanted to work this out. How could you?” He let his head fall back against the futon, looking crushed. The weak part of her wanted to run upstairs and say, “Everybody out. Back to plan A.” But no way could she fold. Jared had a lot of promises to make and keep before she would take him back.

After a few seconds of sad sighs, Jared sat up. “You’re right. I deserve this. I have to prove myself to you. I’ll get another couple months at the company digs.” He smiled sadly, his eyes saying, Kiss me. I’ve earned it.

For a second, he morphed from cheating bastard to repentant boyfriend, but she fought the urge to fall into his arms and forgive him. “Just tell your wife, Jared. We can’t be together until you do.”

“Why do you have to be so extreme?” he said.

“Insisting my boyfriend is single is extreme?”

“You know what I mean,” he muttered. “What am I supposed to do about the futon?”

“I’ll help you load it into your truck.”

“We could put it in the apartment…kind of a down payment on our future,” he said hopefully. “What about that?”

She liked the futon so much better than Kitty’s seduction sofa…. “No good,” she said firmly, bending to heft one end. If she gave Jared an inch—or a futon—he’d take a mile. And her heart already wore his cross-trainer treads.

THREE DAYS LATER, Claire walked home from Game Night—they’d held it on Tuesday because Barry and Emily had a Valentine’s Day date on Wednesday. It was a perfect February night—not quite chilly. Central Avenue was subdued and the air was filled with the scent of early citrus blossoms—like lilac and gardenia combined—but Claire’s thoughts were far away….

…In Reno, where, at this moment, Jared was telling Lindi-with-an-i that he wanted a divorce. Supposedly. Then tomorrow, he would fly here and transform Valentine’s Day from her suckiest holiday to the most romantic one. In theory. Jared was turning around his entire life just to be with her.

Except he’d sounded kinda faint the last time they’d talked. The Chickateers hadn’t been hopeful, either. He’ll weasel out, Emily had said, but you stick to your guns. Kitty kept talking about Rex’s friend Dave—he’ll make you forget Jared…and your own name.

And Zoe advised her to listen to her heart, of course. Zoe’s boyfriend Brad was insisting she learn to rock climb, which she was scared to do. Kitty had decided to go with her to the class to make sure “Indiana Brad”—Kitty’s new nickname for the guy—didn’t push Zoe too far.

Now, as Claire approached her corner, her attention was drawn by the sound of bluesy chords on the breeze. She squinted and made out someone sitting on the wide stone banister on her building’s stairs. She got closer and saw that it was Guitar Guy. Her heart thudded in her chest. The streetlight spilled over him, dramatic and bold, sending a romantic shadow from his long body.

She realized she was walking faster.

Guitar Guy looked up, saw her and smiled. “You figure it out?” he asked, still playing.

“What? My wardrobe?” She wore a tailored white blouse with a black denim skirt. Until she could afford serious career clothes, she was at least sticking with conservative colors.

He shook his head, holding her gaze. “Whatever’s been bothering you.” His guitar work became a sound-track, making it feel natural to chitchat with a stranger in the night.

“More or less.” Of course not. She had no idea what to do about Jared. But she wasn’t about to let on to Guitar Guy…who was very cute, especially with his hair cut. Kind of a young George Clooney. Dark and brooding with the kind of secret half smile that made you want to be the only one who could coax it into a full one. The streetlight gave his skin a coppery glow and his teeth seemed very white.

She wondered if he talked to all the people who came out of the building or if it was just women…or just her. “I’m Claire,” she said finally.

“Nice to meet you.”

“And you are…?”Don’t make me work so hard.

“Trip.”

“Excuse me?” She’d had a little wine, but she wasn’t unsteady, for God’s sake.

“That’s my name. Trip.”

“Oh,” she laughed. “That’s unusual. Because you like to travel?” She hoped it wasn’t because of some drug thing.

“In a way.”

Evasive. Maybe it was a drug thing. “You play very well.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you live around here?”

“For now. In a guest house a couple miles away.”

He wasn’t homeless, at least. “Guest houses are nice—cozy and efficient, with everything you need in a small space and at a small price.” Stop babbling, you dolt. But she couldn’t. Conversational gaps were like a broken filling to her. She couldn’t leave them alone. “That is one great haircut,” she said to keep things moving.

His gaze locked on, silver and strong, looking right into her. “And you look nice without your uniform.”

“Thanks.” A blush washed over her. His words and the warmth in his expression had pulled a blanket of intimacy around them on this very public corner on this major city street.

“My pleasure.”

His pleasure. A blade of desire cut through her like a Ginsu knife. Wow. She was flirting with a street musician. And it was good.

Real good.

“Well, nice talking to you,” he said, gently telling her goodbye. But they’d barely started.

“Yeah. You, too,” she said, unable to move her feet for a few long seconds. But that was uncool, so she forced herself up the wide stairs.

“You already know the answer.”

She wasn’t quite sure the voice hadn’t been inside her head, so she turned and looked down at Trip. The light made him seem ghostly as a dream. “The answer?”

“To the question you’re asking yourself.”

It was just a throwaway line, but it shot through her like a flare, illuminating her fuzzy thinking, and she felt…better. Calm and almost confident about the Jared situation. Or maybe about something else entirely…. “I hope you’re right,” she said, and headed upstairs, his music wrapping around her like a caress.

From her apartment, Claire looked out her window for Trip, but he was gone. Completely. No tall shape strolling away or in the distance. Nothing. Not even a shadow. It was as if she’d just imagined him. Her confident feeling wisped away like smoke on a breeze.

THE NEXT DAY, Claire used her lunch hour to spend too much money on a black-lace teddy, a red silk sheath and a bottle of champagne. She was thinking positive about tonight with Jared, though doubts stabbed her.

Her shopping trip meant she hadn’t been able to join Mimi and Georgia for lunch with Kyle Carson, an accountant who worked on the books of a company on the same floor as B&V. He was also one of Mimi’s neighbors, and whenever he was in the office he would drive the three of them someplace for a nice lunch.

Kyle was good-looking and friendly and kind, and Mimi and Georgia liked to shock him with outrageous tales of their nightlife. Kyle had a live-in girlfriend, though he rarely talked about her. He’d seemed quite disappointed when Claire had said she was busy.

At the end of the day, she grabbed her shopping bag of sex appeal, removed the champagne from the B&V fridge and took the bus home.

Inside her apartment, she was startled to find Rex, Kitty’s bodybuilder beau, stretched out on the sofa in black bikini underwear, looking like a model for a Campus Hotties calendar, with one of Jared’s wilted roses between his teeth.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said around the rose stem, then took it out. Shriveled petals fell to the floor. “I thought you were Kitty.”

“Sorry. Just me,” she said.

“No prob.” He didn’t move, except to twirl the rose stem between his thumb and forefinger. More petals dropped. She slid her gaze away from the bulge in his undies and noticed her Waterford candy dish in pieces on the cocktail table.

“Had a little collision with that bowl,” Rex said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said on a sigh. She’d known having Kitty as a roommate wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but she hadn’t expected to suffer glassware losses or be favored by male centerfold shots.

She headed to her room to shower and change into her teddy and red dress, and by the time she emerged, Kitty and Rex had taken off. Claire checked her watch. Jared would be landing at Sky Harbor right about now. She turned on some mood music, lit candles and sat down to wait.

And wait.

When he was an hour late, she called his cell number. Voice mail. “Just me, Jared. Was your flight delayed?”

She turned on an old I Love Lucy episode and heated up some of Kitty’s chicken almandine leftovers. After a second madcap episode, she cracked the champagne and called again. “Where the hell are you?”

Two glasses of champagne and one blotch of paté on the carpet later, she said, “You bastard. You’re not fit to…wash my windows.” That was lame, but she couldn’t think of the right insult—nothing too vulgar or emotionally revealing.

At ten o’clock, the phone rang. The person on the line struggled for breath. Perfect. An obscene phone call. She was about to hang up, when the voice whispered, “I couldn’t do it, Claire. I’m so sorry.” Jared.

“What happened?” she asked, knowing she’d hate the answer.

“Lindi’s pregnant.”

“She’s what?” That was the last thing she’d expected.

“And she’s so excited that I couldn’t wreck it.”

“Oh.” Claire squeezed her eyes shut. She felt angry and bereft and…skeptical. Was Lindi-with-an-i faking? If she was wily enough to pretend to be pregnant, Claire didn’t even want to mess with that. That was Days of Our Lives material for sure. And if Jared’s wife had gotten pregnant exactly when Jared had fallen in love with Claire, she didn’t need Zoe to point out the cosmic coincidence of it all.

“Well, congratulations,” she said. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t rush out to buy you a cigar.”

“But it’s you I love, Claire. Remember that.”

Yeah, right. A single tear went splat in the middle of her lap—a Rorschach blot that seemed to resemble her heart. But she wouldn’t waste one more tear stain on her silk dress over this.

“And I want you,” he said more urgently. “Can’t we work something out?”

Here it came. This doesn’t have to change anything. I’ll tell her. I promise. After the baby’s born. Or when he’s two. Make that five. Or in college.

Immediately, the Chickateers came into her mind. She imagined them sitting on the arm of the couch, legs dangling—Kitty fierce, Emily stern, Zoe worried—and they gave her the courage to say what she knew she had to.

“No way, Jared,” she said, the words ringing clear as a bell. “We are so over. Don’t call me again.” Picturing the Chickateers high-fiving her, she dropped the phone into its cradle.

Then her heart began to ache. And throb. And burn. She had to do something to feel better. Her first thought was ice cream. If ever Claire had earned the right to eat ChocoCherry Rumba Swirl after ten, this was it. She deserved something rich and luscious and comforting. Especially because the champagne seemed to have turned her into the Leaning Tower of Claire.

In the kitchen, she spotted the champagne bottle she’d nearly emptied resting beside Jared’s stupid-ass roses, droopy, dark and shriveled after a week of careful watering. She dumped the bubbly in the sink and, oblivious to the bite of thorns, tossed the roses into the trash. Valentine’s Day was so over.

She threw open the freezer. The pint of ChocoCherry she’d bought two days ago felt suspiciously light. Inside, a frosty spoon rested on just a scrape of pink and chocolate at the bottom. Damn it, Kitty. Tell me these things.

If she expected to get her fat-and-sugar fix tonight, she’d have to go to the all-night grocery, where a pack of gum cost as much as the GNP of a small nation. But this was an emergency. She grabbed her purse and managed a slightly wobbly march to the elevator and then outside. She thought about what she was wearing—the sexy “getup” she’d splurged on—and her spirits sagged.

Jared’s loss, she told herself, throwing back her shoulders and wavering fiercely onward in her spike heels. She deserved better than that putz, just like Georgia had said.

The evening, as lovely as the previous one, was a depressing contrast to her mood. Conversation and music leaked from the restaurants and bars she passed. At least somebody was enjoying Valentine’s Day.