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Synopsis
HE'S THE MAN OF HER DREAMS . . . In a world full of frogs, Alison Carter is determined to find her prince. Maybe her dating past is more Titanic than Love Boat, but she's seen enough happy marriages to know that true love is possible. No matter what, she won't give up on happily-ever-after. If she can't find Mr. Right, she'll simply hire someone who can. SHE JUST DOESN'T KNOW IT YET When Brandon Scott inherits a successful matchmaking business, he thinks his prayers have been answered. Set up a few lonely ladies, collect the fee, how hard can it be? No one needs to know he's not really a professional matchmaker-especially not his first client, the beautiful, spirited Alison. Soon he's falling for her-and her dreams of kids and carpools. But Alison is getting close to figuring out his secret, and if she learns he's deceived her too, she'll walk right out the door, taking Brandon's heart with her.
Release date: October 1, 2011
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 449
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Heartstrings and Diamond Rings
Jane Graves
“Graves’s words flow on the page with ease and the pages turn effortlessly. Featuring characters that are unique yet very easy to relate to, Black Ties and Lullabies is simply a very well-written story.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Filled with humor, wit, and sizzle…This book starts out fast, the author’s descriptions draw you in completely…[keeps] you turning the page to see what will happen next!”
—GoodReads.com
“Jane Graves definitely tugs on the heartstrings with this book…a believable romance.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“I can’t recommend Tall Tales highly enough…funny and touching with wonderful characters and great love scenes.”
—LikesBooks.com
“Opposites do attract in this fast-paced, diverting romantic comedy with more than its share of lively fun.”
—Library Journal
“A fresh throwback contemporary romance between two likeable characters.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4½ Stars! A breath of pure romance, this book is a real charmer. You will laugh, cringe, and cheer…I sure did.”
—RT Book Reviews
“This romance novel is cute and fun. Tall Tales and Wedding Veils pulls the romantic’s heartstrings.”
—JandysBooks.com
“A blast right from the start. If you like your romances filled with humor, heart, and a healthy dose of sexual heat, don’t miss Tall Tales and Wedding Veils.”
—RomRevToday.com
“You can’t help but root for these two mismatched people and hope they discover what a great couple they could be.”
—FreshFiction.com
“A romantic comedy romp, this book has fun, endearing characters…Graves writes fun, sassy, and sharp characters that may be opposites, but definitely attract!”
—Parkersburg News and Sentinel
“A delightful, funny read with a unique twist as a former trophy wife discovers herself, and true love, in the most unexpected place. A total winner!”
—Susan Mallery, New York Times bestselling author
“Jane Graves is a pro at blending romance and comedy…Hot Wheels and High Heels is a delightful story packed with heated romantic tension, colorful characters, and a fast-paced story line that keeps the reader hooked.”
—RoundtableReviews.com
“Sassy and smart!”
—Susan Andersen, New York Times bestselling author
“Absolutely hilarious! Jane Graves has done an outstanding job with this book.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“An interesting and fun novel with plenty of fascinating characters, this story starts fast and doesn’t lose momentum.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hot Wheels and High Heels draws you in, then blasts off! Fasten your seat belt for a fun, rollicking ride!”
—Stephanie Bond, author of the Body Movers series
“[Jane] Graves writes with charming wit. Her characters make you smile and the situations her heroine, Darcy, faces will make you howl with laughter…an entertaining and delightful read.”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
“Funny as can be and I had a blast reading it…it’s on my short list of best romances for 2007…a delight in any season.”
—LikesBooks.com
“This book is…a woman’s self-discovery while she learns what’s really important in the world. The author does a fantastic job at her characterization of Darcy…hilarious…The last page of this book was turned with a true sense of contentment.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“Fans will enjoy the antics of the high-heeled Darcy as she sasses her way into the heart of stark loner John who, though he knows she is not his style, loves her spunk; so will readers.”
—Midwest Book Review
Chapter 1
Relationships, Alison Carter thought, are all about modest expectations. As she watched Randy inhale the last of his honey-glazed pork chops and drain his wineglass, then swivel his head to watch their waitress’s ass as she passed by, Alison added, And that soul mate thing is a crock.
The more she repeated those mantras to herself, the better she felt. After all, there was nothing really wrong with Randy. They’d met at a party where he’d gotten too drunk to drive and she’d taken him home, and then they’d started to date. A sales rep with a big paper company, he had a townhome in Plano, not large, but bordering a somewhat prestigious area only a block from a golf course. He wore suits you couldn’t tell from designer originals, and shoes that looked like real leather. He did drive an actual Mercedes, a few years old with a great big payment, but a Mercedes nonetheless.
“You look great tonight,” Randy said, now that the waitress with the perfect ass had disappeared into the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Alison said. “So do you.”
She wasn’t lying. He wore a pair of slacks, a sharply starched dress shirt, and a sports coat, looking as nice as she’d ever seen him, which really wasn’t bad at all. In the candlelit ambience of the restaurant, he actually looked handsome.
As for her looking great, she wasn’t so sure. Yesterday she’d spent ten minutes in front of an evil three-way mirror at Saks as Heather convinced her that the dress she wore really didn’t make her butt look big. Since junior high, Heather had always been one of those rare friends who never told her she looked good in something when she really didn’t. Sometimes the truth was hard to swallow, but in the end it meant there was at least one person on earth she could trust. And if Randy truly loved her for her, did the size of her butt really matter, anyway?
They’d been seeing each other for nearly eight months now, and it had been a decent eight months. No, she didn’t have hot flashes of pure sexual hunger whenever he kissed her. She didn’t sit around at work all day doodling his name on a sticky note pad. She didn’t always leap up to answer the phone when she knew it was probably him. But after she turned thirty, she decided there were trade-offs she was willing to accept. She could wait for burning sexual attraction to strike her out of nowhere, or she could knock off the lottery mentality and go for the sure thing if it meant she might actually get to have the home, husband, and family she’d always wanted. It might not be great, but if they worked at it, it could certainly be good.
Modest expectations.
One day last week on her lunch hour, she’d seen Randy in a jewelry store at the mall. Then there was the phone conversation she’d overheard him having with somebody named Reverend McCormick. And then she’d spotted a Hawaii travel brochure on his desk at home. She brushed all those things aside, telling herself they didn’t mean ring‑wedding-honeymoon, only to have Randy tell her he had something very important to talk to her about and make dinner reservations at Five Sixty, the hottest new restaurant in the Dallas metroplex. Oddly, the only emotion she seemed to be able to summon was relief. But that was okay. Relief beat the hell out of desperation.
The waiter poured them more wine, then took their plates. Alison cuddled up next to Randy and stared out the window. Five Sixty sat at the top of Reunion Tower, fifty stories in the sky, offering sweeping views of the Dallas metroplex. Dusk was becoming night, and with every second that passed, the city lights grew brighter and more mesmerizing. In that moment, Alison truly believed there wasn’t a more romantic place on earth. When Randy turned and kissed her, she was surprised to feel a little of that first-date flutter she thought was long gone.
“Alison,” he said finally, fixing his gaze on hers, “I think we’ve grown very close over the past few months.”
Her heart bumped against her chest. This was it. After all these years, after all the wrong men, after all the blind dates, after all her waiting and wishing and hoping, she was finally making the leap toward matrimony.
Thank God.
“Yes,” she said. “We have.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek and stared soulfully into her eyes. “And I wouldn’t even be asking you this if I didn’t think our relationship was very, very strong.”
Alison nodded. “Of course.”
“Like a rock.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“You’re so beautiful. Have I told you that lately?”
She gave him a smile that said, Yes, but don’t hesitate to tell me again.
“And you’re open-minded.” He pondered that a moment. “Very open‑minded, I’d say.”
Actually, she’d never thought of herself as particularly open‑minded. But it was okay if he thought so, because that was a good thing…right?
He shifted a little, suddenly looking uncomfortable, and Alison smiled to herself. It was so cutely traditional for him to have a hard time with this. In fact, she was sure she saw him blush.
“I think Bonnie is open‑minded, too,” Randy said.
Alison blinked. “Bonnie?”
“Yeah. And you seem to get along well with her.”
Bonnie was a friend of Alison’s, but Randy didn’t really know her all that well. Like all men, he was far more acquainted with Bonnie’s breasts than her face. God bless Bonnie—she could sprout two heads and the men of the world would never know it. But why was Randy bringing her up now?
“Uh…yeah,” Alison said. “I guess we get along okay.”
“I assume you think she’s, you know…attractive.”
Yes. Bonnie was attractive. In a wide-eyed, short-skirted, body-flaunting way. “I…suppose so.” What is he talking about?
“Anyway, I was wondering…” He inched closer and stared directly into her eyes, and her heart practically stopped. She stared up at him adoringly.
“Yes?”
“You. Me. Bonnie. What do you think?”
Alison just stared at him. “What do I think about what?”
He laughed a little. “You know. The three of us. Together.” He leaned in and kissed along her neck. “Seeing you with another woman would be such a turn-on.”
For the next several seconds, it was as if Alison’s entire circulatory system contracted, stopping the blood flow to her brain. Surely he must have said, Will you marry me? but somehow it had come out sounding like Wanna have perverted sex?
“What did you say?”
“A threesome. You, me, and Bonnie.
Don’t just repeat it, damn it! Change it!
“When we were at that party at John’s house last month,” Randy said, “Bonnie seemed to be as open-minded as you are.” Then his voice slipped from soothingly sexual to blatantly carnal. “I think she’d go for it, don’t you?”
Alison yanked herself away from him. “Are you completely out of your mind?”
He stared at her dumbly. “What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Alison sputtered aimlessly for a moment, words escaping her. Then she leaned in and spoke in an angry whisper. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”
He shrugged. “Well…yeah.”
“You brought me here to ask me that?”
He looked befuddled. “Well, it is kind of a big step, so I—”
“What were you doing in that jewelry store three days ago at lunch?”
“Jewelry store? How’d you know I was at a jewelry store?”
“Just answer me. What were you doing?”
“Getting a battery for my watch. Why?”
Alison felt a wave of nausea. “You had a Hawaii vacation brochure on your desk at home.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You did. Where did it come from?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It was probably junk mail.”
The nausea continued to roll in, like surf crashing over a rocky beach. “Okay, then. You haven’t been to church since you were twelve. So who the hell is Reverend McCormick?”
“Who?”
“Randy,” she snapped, “I overheard you talking to somebody named Reverend McCormick last week.”
Randy blinked. “Oh. I donated some of my old clothes to a church charity. Tax deduction. How did you—”
“Never mind.”
Alison dropped her head to her hands, feeling dumber and more deluded than she ever had in her life. How had this happened? What could she have seen in those bland brown eyes of Randy’s that made the concept of together forever seem like an actual possibility, particularly since he was still staring at her with a look that said, Now don’t be too hasty—have you ever actually considered the advantages of lesbian sex?
“Randy, listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”
He nodded, a hopeful look on his face. Hopeful. What did he think she was going to do? Suggest a plan to catch Bonnie off guard in the shower?
“My answer is no,” she told him, her voice quivering with anger. “Now, that’s not just any old no. It’s no, not in a million years, not if we’re the only three people left on earth and I’m the odd woman out and it’s the only chance I have to participate in sex again for the rest of eternity. It’s that kind of no. Are you getting my drift?”
His face fell into a disappointed frown, as if he were a spoiled six-year-old who couldn’t understand why a spotted pony with a silver-trimmed saddle or a month-long tour of Disney World was out of the question.
“Maybe you just need a chance to think about it,” he said.
“Randy,” she said with a growl in her voice, “you’re going to get up from this table right now. You’re going to leave. And if you so much as glance back over your shoulder, I’m shoving you through the window. It’s fifty stories to the ground, and I don’t give a damn. Do you hear me?”
Randy drew back with a startled expression. “But why? Just because I had one little idea to spice up our sex life you didn’t like?”
Alison’s mouth dropped open. “One little idea? One little—”
“So forget I mentioned it,” he said with an offhand shrug. “No big deal. We can still have regular sex. Just you and me—”
She grabbed him by his lapels and dragged him forward. “Get. The hell. Out.”
“Come on, Alison,” he said, a nervous laugh in his voice. “You really don’t want me to—”
She leaned away and whacked him on the arm with her doubled‑up fist. “I said out!”
When she reared back to smack him again, he threw up his arms to ward off the blow. He scooted out of the booth so quickly he banged the edge of the table with his hip, knocking over his glass of pinot noir. The wine spread like a gigantic Rorschach blob on the white linen tablecloth. He stared down at it dumbly.
“Out!” Alison shouted.
He took two shaky steps backward, his shocked expression shifting to a vindictive glare. “Yeah, well, you know what?”
“What?”
“That dress makes your butt look huge!”
A pure, unadulterated, I-hate-you kind of anger welled up inside Alison that she’d never felt before. As he spun around and stalked off, she closed her hands into fists and banged them on the table. The last wineglass standing shimmied a little, but she managed to grab it before it fell over. In three seconds she’d drained its contents and smacked the glass back down on the table, feeling the wine burn all the way down her throat. It hit her nauseated stomach like cold rainwater on hot lava, and she swore she could actually feel the sizzle.
She closed her eyes to try to gain back a modicum of control, and when she opened them again, she realized the restaurant had fallen silent, the waiters had frozen in place, and everybody was looking at her as if she were a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. She sat up straight and put her hands in her lap, trying to look calm, sane, and sensible. Judging from the fact that everyone was still staring, she wasn’t succeeding.
The waiter walked tentatively back to the table, staying slightly more than arm’s length away. “Uh…Madam? Will there be anything else?”
Yes. A gun so she could chase Randy down and blow him away. A big, fat box of Kleenex so she could cry her eyes out. A trench coat so everybody in this restaurant wouldn’t be looking at her ass as she walked out the door, wondering if Randy had been right.
“No. Nothing.”
In the time it took for her to decide that the wine-red Rorschach blob on the tablecloth looked like a pissed-off woman castrating a depraved man, the waiter returned with the check.
The check. Well, crap. Not only had this been one of the worst nights of her life, now she had to pay through the nose for the privilege of participating in it.
She winced, paid the check, and left the restaurant. And sure enough, she felt the collective gazes of every patron in the place focused squarely on her backside. The moment she got home, she was burning this dress.
She went into the elevator and leaned against the wall, feeling a little woozy as she shot down fifty stories. But it wasn’t until she stepped into the hotel lobby that it dawned on her that Randy had driven her there, and she had no way home.
No car, no fiancé, no hope, no nothing.
Alison trudged through the underground passage to Union Station, where she went to the surface again and sat down on a bench to wait for the northbound train. Anger had carried her this far, but now, in the silence of the aftermath of her future going right down the tubes, she couldn’t stop the tears from coming. God, she hated this. Sitting alone at a train station by an overflowing trash can beneath garish lights wearing a dress she now despised, crying her eyes out. Could it get any worse than that?
Then she felt something that made her realize that the answer was Yes, of course it can get worse. What were you thinking?
Rain.
First came a few drops. Then a few more. No, no, please, no…
All at once she heard a huge thunderclap and the heavens opened up. She hurried to one of the pitifully small overhanging shelters, but suddenly the wind was blowing in mighty gusts, swirling the rain and drenching her. She stood there in dumb disbelief as the rain trickled down her face and soaked through her dress, turning her into a soggy, pitiful mess.
Unbelievable.
She remembered movies where everything on earth went wrong for the heroine, and then to seal the experience, she’d get rained on. Overkill, Alison had always thought. That never really happens.
Yeah. Right.
When the train came several minutes later, she sniffed a little, dried her eyes with her fingertips, boarded a car, and plopped down on a seat. Evidently she looked really pitiful, because even the insane homeless people shied away from her.
Under normal circumstances, she’d walk home the few blocks from the 15th Street station, but she didn’t relish the thought of doing it in the rain. She grabbed her phone, called Heather, and asked her to pick her up. Since Alison wasn’t exactly radiating the excitement of a newly engaged woman, Heather started to worry, but Alison told her she’d fill her in when she got there. Just last week, Heather and her husband, Tony, had returned from celebrating their second anniversary in Las Vegas. Alison tried not to be pea green with envy about that, but it was a hard-won battle.
You got the last good one, Heather. Hang on to him.
Alison thunked her head against the window, her thoughts a jumbled mess. This couldn’t have happened. It just couldn’t have. How had all her marriage dreams morphed into a scenario only a pornographer could love?
Easy answer. Because she was a fool.
Randy had never given her any indication that he was Mr. Wonderful. She’d just chosen to hope that maybe he was. He was merely a clueless degenerate who’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into her life. She, on the other hand, should have pulled off those damned rose-colored glasses the moment she’d met him and smashed them into a million pieces.
As the train went underground and picked up speed, whizzing through the tunnel toward Cityplace, Alison thought about how other women were getting married and having families right and left. What was wrong with her?
Okay, so she hadn’t exactly been a genius when it came to picking the right men. First there had been Tim Chapman. A few months in, she’d woken up one night to find him licking her toes. That she might have been able to overlook, but when he wanted her to wear six-inch heels in the bedroom and carry a whip, she decided enough was enough. Then there were the two years she’d wasted on Richard Bodecker, who turned out to be gay. Alison might have realized it sooner, but since he owned a Harley dealership and spit a lot, she’d stayed in denial even longer than Richard himself.
And then there was Michael Pagliano, who scratched his balls in public. Just stood there in a movie line or wherever and scratched away, as if nobody were watching. But since Alison had been three months away from her thirtieth birthday and feeling a little desperate, she’d decided to overlook it. Then he took her to a five-star restaurant, which was good, and blew his nose on a cloth napkin, which wasn’t. It was then Alison decided she couldn’t close her eyes to his downside any longer.
Then came Randy.
So there they were. The men she’d been able to attract over the years. A clueless degenerate, a foot fetishist, a gay biker, and a ball-scratching nose blower. She wasn’t dumb enough to think all men were rotten, but she was beginning to believe she was a magnet for the ones who were.
Thirty minutes later at the 15th Street station, the pouring rain had lightened into a steady drizzle. Heather was there to meet her, umbrella in hand. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top, and the damp evening made her curly brown hair even curlier than usual.
“Uh-oh,” Heather said as Alison ducked under her umbrella with her. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“If eight months of my life going down the tubes is bad, then yes. It’s bad.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Let’s see. The Reader’s Digest version. Randy’s an asshole, and I’m an idiot.”
Heather winced. “Get in the car. Then I want to hear everything.”
Once they were inside the car, Alison told Heather the whole story, and Heather’s eyes grew wide.
“He wanted a threesome? With Bonnie?” She paused. “Well, okay. If a guy’s a big enough jerk to want a threesome, of course it would be with Bonnie.”
Tears welled in Alison’s eyes, and she hated it. Randy was not worth it.
“Oh, hon,” Heather said. “I know you had such high hopes. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“No. Don’t be sorry. What he did tonight saved me from wasting even more time on him.”
“That’s true. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting.”
And of course that made Alison cry even more, and Heather gave her a hug. “Randy’s an idiot,” she murmured, patting Alison on the back. “He didn’t deserve you.”
Alison nodded, even though she really didn’t feel like such a great catch right about now.
“You want me to go beat him up for you?” Heather said. “He’s bigger than I am, but I’m way more pissed.”
“Would you? That would be wonderful.” Then she sighed. “Nice thought, but maybe you’d better not. This night is bad enough already. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.” She eased away from Heather and dropped her head back against the headrest, feeling miserable. “I’m a dating disaster. I’m done with men.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am. I’m going to become a nun.”
“You’re not Catholic.”
She rolled her head around to look at Heather. “I could adapt. I’m not too fond of kneeling, but I do like wine. Trade-offs, you know?”
“What about confession? That won’t exactly be a walk in the park for you.”
“Yeah, maybe the first one will be a little lengthy. But once I purge the past ten years or so, the next ones will be a breeze. I mean, come on. After I’m a nun, what could I possibly have to own up to?”
“Oh, right. Like the moment a cute priest walks by, you won’t be lusting in your heart?”
Alison sighed. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s Mr. Right or not. I’ll find a way to cram that square peg into that round hole or die trying. God, Heather. What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you. Randy’s the one with the problem.”
“But what if I end up with somebody even worse than Randy because I’m so desperate to get married that I’ll settle for anyone?”
“You would have figured Randy out sooner or later, even if he hadn’t…you know. Gone all pervert on you. Just be glad you’re rid of him.”
“And who am I supposed to put in his place?”
“Do you have to figure that out now?”
“Sometime before I’m eighty would be nice.”
“You have fifty years before you’re eighty.”
And Alison knew what those fifty years were going to be like. A few years would pass. Then a few decades. And before she knew it, she’d be staring at some hairy‑eared octogenarian over their morning oatmeal at the home and wondering how long it might take to get him to pop the question.
“It’s not like you’ve exhausted every possibility out there,” Heather said. “You just haven’t met the right guy yet. Give it some more time.”
“But I’ve already tried everything! Singles bars. Speed dating. Video dating. Match dot com. E-Harmony. I’ve even considered setting fire to my own condo to try to meet a cute firefighter.”
“Now there’s an approach I wouldn’t have thought of.”
“Yeah, but it’d be just my luck that he’d be a firefighter who wore women’s underwear or had a wife he wasn’t telling me about.” She sighed. “Do you understand how much I suck at picking out men?”
“Have you thought about letting somebody else pick one out for you?”
“No,” Alison said with a wave of her hand. “No way. I’ve had enough bad blind dates to last me a lifetime.”
“I’m not talking about letting your Aunt Brenda fix you up. That was a disaster.”
Alison cringed at the memory. She’d never met a man before who grew marijuana in the backseat of his car.
“I’m talking about a professional,” Heather said.
“Huh?”
“A matchmaker.”
“Matchmaker? You mean, like one person who decides who you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with?” Alison screwed up her face. “Sorry. That’s just weird.”
“No, really. I work with a woman who went to this matchmaker in downtown Plano, and she set her up with a really great guy. She was engaged four months later and married within the year.”
Just the words “engaged” and “married” in the same sentence made Alison’s heart go pitty-pat. But she knew the truth. Nothing was ever that simple.
“Pardon my skepticism, but what’s this friend of yours like? Tall? Skinny? Blonde? Ex‑cheerleader? Trust fund?”
“Short, a little overweight, brown hair, ex-debate team, good job.”
Now Alison was listening. Minus the debate team thing, Heather could be describing her.
Alison pulled out her phone. “What’s this matchmaker’s name?”
“Uh…I can’t remember. Rosie…Roxanne…something like that.”
Alison Googled “matchmaker” and “Plano.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you know there’s a matchmaking service dedicated to finding you somebody to cheat with?”
“You’re kidding.”
“I guess that one’s for later. Before I can cheat on a man, first I have to find a man.” She flipped to another site. “And here’s one called Sugar Daddies. They match rich old men with hot young women.”
“How young?”
“Judging from these photos, barely legal.” Alison poked the screen. “I’m still not seeing…wait. Rochelle Scott? Matchmaking by Rochelle?”
“Yeah. I think that’s it.”
“Hmm. Says she’s been in business for thirty-five years. Nobody stays in business that long if they’re not successful, right?”
“Oh, she’s successful, if you judge by what she charges.”
“How much are we talking?”
“That’s the downside. She charges fifteen hundred dollars for five introductions.”
Alison winced. Three hundred dollars per man?
Then she thought about the thousand dollars she’d once paid to spend a week at a singles resort in Florida. Instead of coming back with a man, she’d returned with a horrible sunburn and so many mosquito bites she looked like flesh-colored bubble wrap. She wasn’t one to throw money around indiscriminately, but if the woman could actually deliver, it might be worth it.
She looked back at her phone and clicked through the website. “Listen to this,” she said, reading from the woman’s bio. “Rochelle Scott has a degree in psychology. She’s been matchmaking for thirty-five years. Out of more than three hundred marriages, there have been only sixteen divorces.” She looked at Heather. “That blows the national average out of the water. I’m going over there Monday.”
Heather’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, wait a minute. I just threw that out there as something to think about. You need to let the sting of tonight wear off a little before you hop right back out there.”
“Nope. I’m thirty and alone, and it’s bad. I imagine forty and alone is even worse.”
“Doing anything on the rebound is usually a mistake. Forget about it for tonight. Come up to my place. Tony’s working late at the bar, so we can trash talk men all we want to.”
“Right. You have nothing to gripe about where Tony’s concerned.”
“Yeah? That’s what you think. He still hasn’t grasped the concept that dirty underwear goes in the hamper and that onion rings aren’t health food. And don’t get me started on his collection of Sports Illustrated swimsuit editions. You’d think they were the Dead Sea Scrolls the way he—”
“Heather,” Alison said, “right about now, I’d kill for a messy guy eating onion rings while he’s staring at hot women in bikinis. Particularly if he looked like Tony.” Her eyes teared up again, and she
—RT Book Reviews
“Filled with humor, wit, and sizzle…This book starts out fast, the author’s descriptions draw you in completely…[keeps] you turning the page to see what will happen next!”
—GoodReads.com
“Jane Graves definitely tugs on the heartstrings with this book…a believable romance.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“I can’t recommend Tall Tales highly enough…funny and touching with wonderful characters and great love scenes.”
—LikesBooks.com
“Opposites do attract in this fast-paced, diverting romantic comedy with more than its share of lively fun.”
—Library Journal
“A fresh throwback contemporary romance between two likeable characters.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4½ Stars! A breath of pure romance, this book is a real charmer. You will laugh, cringe, and cheer…I sure did.”
—RT Book Reviews
“This romance novel is cute and fun. Tall Tales and Wedding Veils pulls the romantic’s heartstrings.”
—JandysBooks.com
“A blast right from the start. If you like your romances filled with humor, heart, and a healthy dose of sexual heat, don’t miss Tall Tales and Wedding Veils.”
—RomRevToday.com
“You can’t help but root for these two mismatched people and hope they discover what a great couple they could be.”
—FreshFiction.com
“A romantic comedy romp, this book has fun, endearing characters…Graves writes fun, sassy, and sharp characters that may be opposites, but definitely attract!”
—Parkersburg News and Sentinel
“A delightful, funny read with a unique twist as a former trophy wife discovers herself, and true love, in the most unexpected place. A total winner!”
—Susan Mallery, New York Times bestselling author
“Jane Graves is a pro at blending romance and comedy…Hot Wheels and High Heels is a delightful story packed with heated romantic tension, colorful characters, and a fast-paced story line that keeps the reader hooked.”
—RoundtableReviews.com
“Sassy and smart!”
—Susan Andersen, New York Times bestselling author
“Absolutely hilarious! Jane Graves has done an outstanding job with this book.”
—RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“An interesting and fun novel with plenty of fascinating characters, this story starts fast and doesn’t lose momentum.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Hot Wheels and High Heels draws you in, then blasts off! Fasten your seat belt for a fun, rollicking ride!”
—Stephanie Bond, author of the Body Movers series
“[Jane] Graves writes with charming wit. Her characters make you smile and the situations her heroine, Darcy, faces will make you howl with laughter…an entertaining and delightful read.”
—ArmchairInterviews.com
“Funny as can be and I had a blast reading it…it’s on my short list of best romances for 2007…a delight in any season.”
—LikesBooks.com
“This book is…a woman’s self-discovery while she learns what’s really important in the world. The author does a fantastic job at her characterization of Darcy…hilarious…The last page of this book was turned with a true sense of contentment.”
—ARomanceReview.com
“Fans will enjoy the antics of the high-heeled Darcy as she sasses her way into the heart of stark loner John who, though he knows she is not his style, loves her spunk; so will readers.”
—Midwest Book Review
Chapter 1
Relationships, Alison Carter thought, are all about modest expectations. As she watched Randy inhale the last of his honey-glazed pork chops and drain his wineglass, then swivel his head to watch their waitress’s ass as she passed by, Alison added, And that soul mate thing is a crock.
The more she repeated those mantras to herself, the better she felt. After all, there was nothing really wrong with Randy. They’d met at a party where he’d gotten too drunk to drive and she’d taken him home, and then they’d started to date. A sales rep with a big paper company, he had a townhome in Plano, not large, but bordering a somewhat prestigious area only a block from a golf course. He wore suits you couldn’t tell from designer originals, and shoes that looked like real leather. He did drive an actual Mercedes, a few years old with a great big payment, but a Mercedes nonetheless.
“You look great tonight,” Randy said, now that the waitress with the perfect ass had disappeared into the kitchen.
“Thank you,” Alison said. “So do you.”
She wasn’t lying. He wore a pair of slacks, a sharply starched dress shirt, and a sports coat, looking as nice as she’d ever seen him, which really wasn’t bad at all. In the candlelit ambience of the restaurant, he actually looked handsome.
As for her looking great, she wasn’t so sure. Yesterday she’d spent ten minutes in front of an evil three-way mirror at Saks as Heather convinced her that the dress she wore really didn’t make her butt look big. Since junior high, Heather had always been one of those rare friends who never told her she looked good in something when she really didn’t. Sometimes the truth was hard to swallow, but in the end it meant there was at least one person on earth she could trust. And if Randy truly loved her for her, did the size of her butt really matter, anyway?
They’d been seeing each other for nearly eight months now, and it had been a decent eight months. No, she didn’t have hot flashes of pure sexual hunger whenever he kissed her. She didn’t sit around at work all day doodling his name on a sticky note pad. She didn’t always leap up to answer the phone when she knew it was probably him. But after she turned thirty, she decided there were trade-offs she was willing to accept. She could wait for burning sexual attraction to strike her out of nowhere, or she could knock off the lottery mentality and go for the sure thing if it meant she might actually get to have the home, husband, and family she’d always wanted. It might not be great, but if they worked at it, it could certainly be good.
Modest expectations.
One day last week on her lunch hour, she’d seen Randy in a jewelry store at the mall. Then there was the phone conversation she’d overheard him having with somebody named Reverend McCormick. And then she’d spotted a Hawaii travel brochure on his desk at home. She brushed all those things aside, telling herself they didn’t mean ring‑wedding-honeymoon, only to have Randy tell her he had something very important to talk to her about and make dinner reservations at Five Sixty, the hottest new restaurant in the Dallas metroplex. Oddly, the only emotion she seemed to be able to summon was relief. But that was okay. Relief beat the hell out of desperation.
The waiter poured them more wine, then took their plates. Alison cuddled up next to Randy and stared out the window. Five Sixty sat at the top of Reunion Tower, fifty stories in the sky, offering sweeping views of the Dallas metroplex. Dusk was becoming night, and with every second that passed, the city lights grew brighter and more mesmerizing. In that moment, Alison truly believed there wasn’t a more romantic place on earth. When Randy turned and kissed her, she was surprised to feel a little of that first-date flutter she thought was long gone.
“Alison,” he said finally, fixing his gaze on hers, “I think we’ve grown very close over the past few months.”
Her heart bumped against her chest. This was it. After all these years, after all the wrong men, after all the blind dates, after all her waiting and wishing and hoping, she was finally making the leap toward matrimony.
Thank God.
“Yes,” she said. “We have.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek and stared soulfully into her eyes. “And I wouldn’t even be asking you this if I didn’t think our relationship was very, very strong.”
Alison nodded. “Of course.”
“Like a rock.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“You’re so beautiful. Have I told you that lately?”
She gave him a smile that said, Yes, but don’t hesitate to tell me again.
“And you’re open-minded.” He pondered that a moment. “Very open‑minded, I’d say.”
Actually, she’d never thought of herself as particularly open‑minded. But it was okay if he thought so, because that was a good thing…right?
He shifted a little, suddenly looking uncomfortable, and Alison smiled to herself. It was so cutely traditional for him to have a hard time with this. In fact, she was sure she saw him blush.
“I think Bonnie is open‑minded, too,” Randy said.
Alison blinked. “Bonnie?”
“Yeah. And you seem to get along well with her.”
Bonnie was a friend of Alison’s, but Randy didn’t really know her all that well. Like all men, he was far more acquainted with Bonnie’s breasts than her face. God bless Bonnie—she could sprout two heads and the men of the world would never know it. But why was Randy bringing her up now?
“Uh…yeah,” Alison said. “I guess we get along okay.”
“I assume you think she’s, you know…attractive.”
Yes. Bonnie was attractive. In a wide-eyed, short-skirted, body-flaunting way. “I…suppose so.” What is he talking about?
“Anyway, I was wondering…” He inched closer and stared directly into her eyes, and her heart practically stopped. She stared up at him adoringly.
“Yes?”
“You. Me. Bonnie. What do you think?”
Alison just stared at him. “What do I think about what?”
He laughed a little. “You know. The three of us. Together.” He leaned in and kissed along her neck. “Seeing you with another woman would be such a turn-on.”
For the next several seconds, it was as if Alison’s entire circulatory system contracted, stopping the blood flow to her brain. Surely he must have said, Will you marry me? but somehow it had come out sounding like Wanna have perverted sex?
“What did you say?”
“A threesome. You, me, and Bonnie.
Don’t just repeat it, damn it! Change it!
“When we were at that party at John’s house last month,” Randy said, “Bonnie seemed to be as open-minded as you are.” Then his voice slipped from soothingly sexual to blatantly carnal. “I think she’d go for it, don’t you?”
Alison yanked herself away from him. “Are you completely out of your mind?”
He stared at her dumbly. “What’s the matter?”
“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” Alison sputtered aimlessly for a moment, words escaping her. Then she leaned in and spoke in an angry whisper. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”
He shrugged. “Well…yeah.”
“You brought me here to ask me that?”
He looked befuddled. “Well, it is kind of a big step, so I—”
“What were you doing in that jewelry store three days ago at lunch?”
“Jewelry store? How’d you know I was at a jewelry store?”
“Just answer me. What were you doing?”
“Getting a battery for my watch. Why?”
Alison felt a wave of nausea. “You had a Hawaii vacation brochure on your desk at home.”
“I did?”
“Yes. You did. Where did it come from?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It was probably junk mail.”
The nausea continued to roll in, like surf crashing over a rocky beach. “Okay, then. You haven’t been to church since you were twelve. So who the hell is Reverend McCormick?”
“Who?”
“Randy,” she snapped, “I overheard you talking to somebody named Reverend McCormick last week.”
Randy blinked. “Oh. I donated some of my old clothes to a church charity. Tax deduction. How did you—”
“Never mind.”
Alison dropped her head to her hands, feeling dumber and more deluded than she ever had in her life. How had this happened? What could she have seen in those bland brown eyes of Randy’s that made the concept of together forever seem like an actual possibility, particularly since he was still staring at her with a look that said, Now don’t be too hasty—have you ever actually considered the advantages of lesbian sex?
“Randy, listen to me carefully. Are you listening?”
He nodded, a hopeful look on his face. Hopeful. What did he think she was going to do? Suggest a plan to catch Bonnie off guard in the shower?
“My answer is no,” she told him, her voice quivering with anger. “Now, that’s not just any old no. It’s no, not in a million years, not if we’re the only three people left on earth and I’m the odd woman out and it’s the only chance I have to participate in sex again for the rest of eternity. It’s that kind of no. Are you getting my drift?”
His face fell into a disappointed frown, as if he were a spoiled six-year-old who couldn’t understand why a spotted pony with a silver-trimmed saddle or a month-long tour of Disney World was out of the question.
“Maybe you just need a chance to think about it,” he said.
“Randy,” she said with a growl in her voice, “you’re going to get up from this table right now. You’re going to leave. And if you so much as glance back over your shoulder, I’m shoving you through the window. It’s fifty stories to the ground, and I don’t give a damn. Do you hear me?”
Randy drew back with a startled expression. “But why? Just because I had one little idea to spice up our sex life you didn’t like?”
Alison’s mouth dropped open. “One little idea? One little—”
“So forget I mentioned it,” he said with an offhand shrug. “No big deal. We can still have regular sex. Just you and me—”
She grabbed him by his lapels and dragged him forward. “Get. The hell. Out.”
“Come on, Alison,” he said, a nervous laugh in his voice. “You really don’t want me to—”
She leaned away and whacked him on the arm with her doubled‑up fist. “I said out!”
When she reared back to smack him again, he threw up his arms to ward off the blow. He scooted out of the booth so quickly he banged the edge of the table with his hip, knocking over his glass of pinot noir. The wine spread like a gigantic Rorschach blob on the white linen tablecloth. He stared down at it dumbly.
“Out!” Alison shouted.
He took two shaky steps backward, his shocked expression shifting to a vindictive glare. “Yeah, well, you know what?”
“What?”
“That dress makes your butt look huge!”
A pure, unadulterated, I-hate-you kind of anger welled up inside Alison that she’d never felt before. As he spun around and stalked off, she closed her hands into fists and banged them on the table. The last wineglass standing shimmied a little, but she managed to grab it before it fell over. In three seconds she’d drained its contents and smacked the glass back down on the table, feeling the wine burn all the way down her throat. It hit her nauseated stomach like cold rainwater on hot lava, and she swore she could actually feel the sizzle.
She closed her eyes to try to gain back a modicum of control, and when she opened them again, she realized the restaurant had fallen silent, the waiters had frozen in place, and everybody was looking at her as if she were a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. She sat up straight and put her hands in her lap, trying to look calm, sane, and sensible. Judging from the fact that everyone was still staring, she wasn’t succeeding.
The waiter walked tentatively back to the table, staying slightly more than arm’s length away. “Uh…Madam? Will there be anything else?”
Yes. A gun so she could chase Randy down and blow him away. A big, fat box of Kleenex so she could cry her eyes out. A trench coat so everybody in this restaurant wouldn’t be looking at her ass as she walked out the door, wondering if Randy had been right.
“No. Nothing.”
In the time it took for her to decide that the wine-red Rorschach blob on the tablecloth looked like a pissed-off woman castrating a depraved man, the waiter returned with the check.
The check. Well, crap. Not only had this been one of the worst nights of her life, now she had to pay through the nose for the privilege of participating in it.
She winced, paid the check, and left the restaurant. And sure enough, she felt the collective gazes of every patron in the place focused squarely on her backside. The moment she got home, she was burning this dress.
She went into the elevator and leaned against the wall, feeling a little woozy as she shot down fifty stories. But it wasn’t until she stepped into the hotel lobby that it dawned on her that Randy had driven her there, and she had no way home.
No car, no fiancé, no hope, no nothing.
Alison trudged through the underground passage to Union Station, where she went to the surface again and sat down on a bench to wait for the northbound train. Anger had carried her this far, but now, in the silence of the aftermath of her future going right down the tubes, she couldn’t stop the tears from coming. God, she hated this. Sitting alone at a train station by an overflowing trash can beneath garish lights wearing a dress she now despised, crying her eyes out. Could it get any worse than that?
Then she felt something that made her realize that the answer was Yes, of course it can get worse. What were you thinking?
Rain.
First came a few drops. Then a few more. No, no, please, no…
All at once she heard a huge thunderclap and the heavens opened up. She hurried to one of the pitifully small overhanging shelters, but suddenly the wind was blowing in mighty gusts, swirling the rain and drenching her. She stood there in dumb disbelief as the rain trickled down her face and soaked through her dress, turning her into a soggy, pitiful mess.
Unbelievable.
She remembered movies where everything on earth went wrong for the heroine, and then to seal the experience, she’d get rained on. Overkill, Alison had always thought. That never really happens.
Yeah. Right.
When the train came several minutes later, she sniffed a little, dried her eyes with her fingertips, boarded a car, and plopped down on a seat. Evidently she looked really pitiful, because even the insane homeless people shied away from her.
Under normal circumstances, she’d walk home the few blocks from the 15th Street station, but she didn’t relish the thought of doing it in the rain. She grabbed her phone, called Heather, and asked her to pick her up. Since Alison wasn’t exactly radiating the excitement of a newly engaged woman, Heather started to worry, but Alison told her she’d fill her in when she got there. Just last week, Heather and her husband, Tony, had returned from celebrating their second anniversary in Las Vegas. Alison tried not to be pea green with envy about that, but it was a hard-won battle.
You got the last good one, Heather. Hang on to him.
Alison thunked her head against the window, her thoughts a jumbled mess. This couldn’t have happened. It just couldn’t have. How had all her marriage dreams morphed into a scenario only a pornographer could love?
Easy answer. Because she was a fool.
Randy had never given her any indication that he was Mr. Wonderful. She’d just chosen to hope that maybe he was. He was merely a clueless degenerate who’d taken a wrong turn and wandered into her life. She, on the other hand, should have pulled off those damned rose-colored glasses the moment she’d met him and smashed them into a million pieces.
As the train went underground and picked up speed, whizzing through the tunnel toward Cityplace, Alison thought about how other women were getting married and having families right and left. What was wrong with her?
Okay, so she hadn’t exactly been a genius when it came to picking the right men. First there had been Tim Chapman. A few months in, she’d woken up one night to find him licking her toes. That she might have been able to overlook, but when he wanted her to wear six-inch heels in the bedroom and carry a whip, she decided enough was enough. Then there were the two years she’d wasted on Richard Bodecker, who turned out to be gay. Alison might have realized it sooner, but since he owned a Harley dealership and spit a lot, she’d stayed in denial even longer than Richard himself.
And then there was Michael Pagliano, who scratched his balls in public. Just stood there in a movie line or wherever and scratched away, as if nobody were watching. But since Alison had been three months away from her thirtieth birthday and feeling a little desperate, she’d decided to overlook it. Then he took her to a five-star restaurant, which was good, and blew his nose on a cloth napkin, which wasn’t. It was then Alison decided she couldn’t close her eyes to his downside any longer.
Then came Randy.
So there they were. The men she’d been able to attract over the years. A clueless degenerate, a foot fetishist, a gay biker, and a ball-scratching nose blower. She wasn’t dumb enough to think all men were rotten, but she was beginning to believe she was a magnet for the ones who were.
Thirty minutes later at the 15th Street station, the pouring rain had lightened into a steady drizzle. Heather was there to meet her, umbrella in hand. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a white tank top, and the damp evening made her curly brown hair even curlier than usual.
“Uh-oh,” Heather said as Alison ducked under her umbrella with her. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“If eight months of my life going down the tubes is bad, then yes. It’s bad.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Let’s see. The Reader’s Digest version. Randy’s an asshole, and I’m an idiot.”
Heather winced. “Get in the car. Then I want to hear everything.”
Once they were inside the car, Alison told Heather the whole story, and Heather’s eyes grew wide.
“He wanted a threesome? With Bonnie?” She paused. “Well, okay. If a guy’s a big enough jerk to want a threesome, of course it would be with Bonnie.”
Tears welled in Alison’s eyes, and she hated it. Randy was not worth it.
“Oh, hon,” Heather said. “I know you had such high hopes. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“No. Don’t be sorry. What he did tonight saved me from wasting even more time on him.”
“That’s true. But it doesn’t stop it from hurting.”
And of course that made Alison cry even more, and Heather gave her a hug. “Randy’s an idiot,” she murmured, patting Alison on the back. “He didn’t deserve you.”
Alison nodded, even though she really didn’t feel like such a great catch right about now.
“You want me to go beat him up for you?” Heather said. “He’s bigger than I am, but I’m way more pissed.”
“Would you? That would be wonderful.” Then she sighed. “Nice thought, but maybe you’d better not. This night is bad enough already. I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.” She eased away from Heather and dropped her head back against the headrest, feeling miserable. “I’m a dating disaster. I’m done with men.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am. I’m going to become a nun.”
“You’re not Catholic.”
She rolled her head around to look at Heather. “I could adapt. I’m not too fond of kneeling, but I do like wine. Trade-offs, you know?”
“What about confession? That won’t exactly be a walk in the park for you.”
“Yeah, maybe the first one will be a little lengthy. But once I purge the past ten years or so, the next ones will be a breeze. I mean, come on. After I’m a nun, what could I possibly have to own up to?”
“Oh, right. Like the moment a cute priest walks by, you won’t be lusting in your heart?”
Alison sighed. “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s Mr. Right or not. I’ll find a way to cram that square peg into that round hole or die trying. God, Heather. What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing’s wrong with you. Randy’s the one with the problem.”
“But what if I end up with somebody even worse than Randy because I’m so desperate to get married that I’ll settle for anyone?”
“You would have figured Randy out sooner or later, even if he hadn’t…you know. Gone all pervert on you. Just be glad you’re rid of him.”
“And who am I supposed to put in his place?”
“Do you have to figure that out now?”
“Sometime before I’m eighty would be nice.”
“You have fifty years before you’re eighty.”
And Alison knew what those fifty years were going to be like. A few years would pass. Then a few decades. And before she knew it, she’d be staring at some hairy‑eared octogenarian over their morning oatmeal at the home and wondering how long it might take to get him to pop the question.
“It’s not like you’ve exhausted every possibility out there,” Heather said. “You just haven’t met the right guy yet. Give it some more time.”
“But I’ve already tried everything! Singles bars. Speed dating. Video dating. Match dot com. E-Harmony. I’ve even considered setting fire to my own condo to try to meet a cute firefighter.”
“Now there’s an approach I wouldn’t have thought of.”
“Yeah, but it’d be just my luck that he’d be a firefighter who wore women’s underwear or had a wife he wasn’t telling me about.” She sighed. “Do you understand how much I suck at picking out men?”
“Have you thought about letting somebody else pick one out for you?”
“No,” Alison said with a wave of her hand. “No way. I’ve had enough bad blind dates to last me a lifetime.”
“I’m not talking about letting your Aunt Brenda fix you up. That was a disaster.”
Alison cringed at the memory. She’d never met a man before who grew marijuana in the backseat of his car.
“I’m talking about a professional,” Heather said.
“Huh?”
“A matchmaker.”
“Matchmaker? You mean, like one person who decides who you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life with?” Alison screwed up her face. “Sorry. That’s just weird.”
“No, really. I work with a woman who went to this matchmaker in downtown Plano, and she set her up with a really great guy. She was engaged four months later and married within the year.”
Just the words “engaged” and “married” in the same sentence made Alison’s heart go pitty-pat. But she knew the truth. Nothing was ever that simple.
“Pardon my skepticism, but what’s this friend of yours like? Tall? Skinny? Blonde? Ex‑cheerleader? Trust fund?”
“Short, a little overweight, brown hair, ex-debate team, good job.”
Now Alison was listening. Minus the debate team thing, Heather could be describing her.
Alison pulled out her phone. “What’s this matchmaker’s name?”
“Uh…I can’t remember. Rosie…Roxanne…something like that.”
Alison Googled “matchmaker” and “Plano.”
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you know there’s a matchmaking service dedicated to finding you somebody to cheat with?”
“You’re kidding.”
“I guess that one’s for later. Before I can cheat on a man, first I have to find a man.” She flipped to another site. “And here’s one called Sugar Daddies. They match rich old men with hot young women.”
“How young?”
“Judging from these photos, barely legal.” Alison poked the screen. “I’m still not seeing…wait. Rochelle Scott? Matchmaking by Rochelle?”
“Yeah. I think that’s it.”
“Hmm. Says she’s been in business for thirty-five years. Nobody stays in business that long if they’re not successful, right?”
“Oh, she’s successful, if you judge by what she charges.”
“How much are we talking?”
“That’s the downside. She charges fifteen hundred dollars for five introductions.”
Alison winced. Three hundred dollars per man?
Then she thought about the thousand dollars she’d once paid to spend a week at a singles resort in Florida. Instead of coming back with a man, she’d returned with a horrible sunburn and so many mosquito bites she looked like flesh-colored bubble wrap. She wasn’t one to throw money around indiscriminately, but if the woman could actually deliver, it might be worth it.
She looked back at her phone and clicked through the website. “Listen to this,” she said, reading from the woman’s bio. “Rochelle Scott has a degree in psychology. She’s been matchmaking for thirty-five years. Out of more than three hundred marriages, there have been only sixteen divorces.” She looked at Heather. “That blows the national average out of the water. I’m going over there Monday.”
Heather’s eyebrows shot up. “Now, wait a minute. I just threw that out there as something to think about. You need to let the sting of tonight wear off a little before you hop right back out there.”
“Nope. I’m thirty and alone, and it’s bad. I imagine forty and alone is even worse.”
“Doing anything on the rebound is usually a mistake. Forget about it for tonight. Come up to my place. Tony’s working late at the bar, so we can trash talk men all we want to.”
“Right. You have nothing to gripe about where Tony’s concerned.”
“Yeah? That’s what you think. He still hasn’t grasped the concept that dirty underwear goes in the hamper and that onion rings aren’t health food. And don’t get me started on his collection of Sports Illustrated swimsuit editions. You’d think they were the Dead Sea Scrolls the way he—”
“Heather,” Alison said, “right about now, I’d kill for a messy guy eating onion rings while he’s staring at hot women in bikinis. Particularly if he looked like Tony.” Her eyes teared up again, and she
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Heartstrings and Diamond Rings
Jane Graves
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