the last time I stopped in to see you. Trevor something. I think you mentioned that he was a lawyer helping you with some of the details on your merger.”
Uh-uh. No way was Simon going to set her up with Trevor, or, as the ladies at his company had dubbed him, “Mr. Hottie.” He would be only too glad to have the merger behind him so he could cut the guy loose. Productivity among the women at Ford Technology Solutions came to a standstill whenever Trevor was around.
“No.”
“Please.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Pretty please?”
Her smile, purple-tinted or not, was nearly Simon’s undoing. God knew, as it was, he would do anything short of murder for the woman, and even that was negotiable. But, he managed to remain firm. “I’m sorry, Chloe, but no.”
“All right.” She nodded. “I understand. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done you a huge favor or anything.”
It was all he could do to suppress a groan, because the list was long and, no doubt, Chloe planned to launch into it at any moment. Simon sighed and capitulated with the grace of a man being pushed to his death.
“Fine. All right.”
“Thank you!”
“I make no promises.”
“I know. I don’t expect promises.”
Which was exactly why Simon, to his everlasting regret, meant it when he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER TWO
Cramming for Finals
THE FIRST THING Chloe did when she woke the next morning—after trying to rub off the worst of the wine stains from her lips—was to boot up her computer and make a list of all the things she needed to do before the reunion.
Six weeks.
That’s all she had. It wasn’t a lot of time. and she had a lot to do. Well, no problem. She was the queen of self-improvement. She’d had enough practice at it—she had an entire library of books in her apartment on the subject. More might be in order, she decided, thinking of a show she’d seen earlier in the week.
She prioritized her needs as she created the list.
First and foremost, she would whip herself into the best physical shape possible. Since this had been a regular New Year’s resolution since her late teen years, she was familiar with the format. But rather than mere diet and exercise, the reunion timeframe called for a boot-camp mentality.
If she had to forgo ice cream, so be it. The same for her favorite bagels, pasta, comfort food and … food in general. She’d work out five—no, seven—days a week. And really work out. Not just don the outfits and sit in a smoothie bar, pretending to have just come from aerobics class. She’d even give in and accompany Simon on his morning runs in Central Park. He was always after her to join him.
Running. Hmm.
She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully as she gazed at the computer screen. In parentheses next to the bit on exercise, she wrote: Shape wear.
She wasn’t above a little cheating, as proved by the padded push-up bras she wore on a regular basis. As her mother was fond of saying, “What God has forgotten can be fixed up with cotton.” Or synthetic filling, as the case may be. So why not reduce the appearance of a muffin top and jiggly bottom with a discreet foundation garment?
After all, realistically speaking, there was only so much one could do in six weeks. Chloe leaned back in the chair and folded her arms over her middle. She could feel the subtle roll just above the elastic waistband of her pajama bottoms. She straightened.
Shape wear, definitely.
Besides, celebrities and beauty-pageant contestants did it all the time. Heck, they did more than that to acquire their perky breasts and sag-free butts, so that everyone sighed with envy as they watched them strut the stage in Atlantic City or glide up the red carpet on premier night.
Which reminded Chloe. She needed a killer outfit to show off the killer curves she was planning to acquire through either sweat or spandex.
She typed, Little black dress, emphasis on little.
Smiling, she pictured it. Something sleek and clinging … okay, and with subtle ruching around the waist to distract from any flaws that remained despite the shape wear. Her legs, from mid-thigh down, would be the star of the show, which made sense since they remained her best attribute. Even when she gained weight, the extra pounds tended to collect at her hips and middle rather than on her thighs. And she had nice calves. They were shapely without looking like they belonged on a bicycle messenger. Put her in a pair of high heels and she could be a pinup … well, from mid-thigh down.
Heels. Ooh. She would have to practice walking in them. She’d never been very steady on anything higher than a couple of inches.
Stilettos, she typed.
That was what she had in mind to go with the sexy, stingy bit of black fabric that was going to pass for her dress.
Was black the best color for her? She studied her arms. Her skin was pale. Like most redheads, she had a tendency to freckle, which was why she stayed out of the sun whenever possible. Black brought out her most, well, ghostly hue. But if not black, then what?
Given her hair color, she generally steered clear of reds and oranges. Pink was out, too. She didn’t care for purple. It reminded her too much of eggplant, and she hated that vegetable on principle. She’d barfed up an entire plate-worth of eggplant parmesan in the cafeteria her freshman year, earning her the unfortunate nickname Yack-Attack.
Green would do in a pinch, though paired with her hair it made her feel a little too much like a pumpkin. As for blue … uh-uh.
She hated blue.
Any and all shades, but especially baby blue for reasons far more emotional than aesthetic. She’d worn a formal dress that color to her senior prom. Her mother had talked her into it, claiming it flattered her figure, when in fact the full skirt made it appear she was trying to smuggle someone into the dance.
She could still recall how humiliated she’d felt when Natasha and company had cornered her on the dance floor and pulled up her skirt to see if she was alone.
She’d been alone and wearing a pair of briefs the likes of which would have been right at home on her Nana.
Chloe shuddered now. Black it was. With thong panties. Under shape wear.
She’d compensate for her pale complexion with a salon-bought tan. Not the sort that involved lying on a bed under UV rays. That would only bring out her freckles, and Chloe hated her freckles, even if Simon had once commented that he found them adorable. She didn’t believe him. After all, none of the women he’d ever dated had freckles. If he liked them as much as he claimed, the women in his life should have resembled leopards.
Chloe decided to go with a spray-on tan. Her sister had gotten such a treatment before her wedding the year before. Of course, Frannie was a brunette and her skin wasn’t nearly as pale as Chloe’s, but Frannie had come away with a nice, healthy glow. She was always after Chloe to try it.
The phone rang as she shot her sister an email asking for the name of her salon.
“Hello?”
“Good morning,” Simon replied. “I’m going for coffee at the Filigree Café. Want to meet me there? I’ll spring for the bagels.”
The Filigree served some of the best coffee and homemade baked goods in Lower Manhattan. She and Simon met there on weekend mornings when neither of them had other plans. That was often the case for Chloe. Not so much lately for Simon, but then his dating status had changed.
Once again, she ignored jubilation, as well as the way her mouth watered at the mere thought of a toasted onion