Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake (9 page)

“It’s only been two days,” Jacki said. “And he doesn’t have your home number, does he?”

“I didn’t give it to him.” Not that he’d asked.

“See? If he’s going to call you, he’ll call you at work tomorrow. Or sometime this week.”

“Even if he did call, I’m allergic to the man, remember?”

Jacki pshawed. “That’s baloney.”

“I didn’t make up the hives,” I said. “Or the stuffy nose, or the sneezing.”

“You’re probably allergic to his cologne.”

“He wasn’t wearing any.”

“Well, maybe it was his body lotion. Or, he’s a veterinarian—maybe he had pet dander on his clothes.”

That I couldn’t argue with, but I had plenty of other ammunition. “Okay,
even if
he called, and
even if
my allergies magically disappeared, the man is a country doctor, and the last time I looked, I live in Manhattan.”

“It worked on ‘Green Acres,’” Cindy offered.

I ignored her. “Besides, Sam seemed very content being
single. And who knows, he might have a girlfriend in Mayberry that he forgot to mention.” Not that I’d asked.

Jacki lifted her hands. “Your point?”

I frowned. “My point is that I am no longer willing to invest in men who aren’t willing to invest in me.”

“That’s fair,” Jacki agreed.

“And you’re still convinced,” Denise said, “that this man allergy is a natural defense mechanism to keep you away from bad boys?”

“Yes,” I said primly. “My body will instinctively know a good fit when I find him.”

Jacki sent a strange little smile my way. “Maybe so. Just remember your heart is part of your body, too.”

* * *

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, I sat down at my desk and tried to stir up some enthusiasm for the day’s activities, which promised to be less than electrifying. The memory of Sam seemed to fill the cramped room—I tingled all over again when I remembered how he’d said he could get used to having me around. Of course I’d misunderstood what he’d meant.

On my Palm Pilot I called up my to-do list for the day and was faced with “Start looking for a nice guy.”

I had placed a number 1 next to the item, indicating highest priority. Now, how to go about it?

My phone interrupted my thoughts, ringing with the single bleep of an external phone call. I stared at the receiver, rebelling against the hope that it was Sam calling. Why would Sam be calling me? No reason whatsoever.

I picked up the receiver on the third ring, hating the rapid beat of my heart and the breathless way I said, “Kenzie Mansfield.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s my girl?”

I smiled into the phone. “Hi, Dad. I’m fine.”

“Good, good. I, uh, didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten
your birthday on Friday.” His laugh boomed over the phone.

I bit into my lip. “It was Thursday, Dad. But that’s okay.”

“Thursday, right. I was traveling on business, sweetheart, and I couldn’t break away to call you, but I was thinking about you.”

Translation: He got into the office this morning and his secretary reminded him he’d missed my birthday. “Thanks, Dad,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage.

“Why don’t I come up on the train and we’ll have lunch or dinner one day this week?”

I brightened. “How about Wednesday?”

“Hmm. I’ll have Vanessa check my schedule, and I’ll get back to you, okay?”

Same old, same old. “Fine, Dad. Just let me know when is good for you.”

“I will, sweetheart. And be looking for something from me to arrive. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, Dad. Talk to you soon.”

I hung up the phone, setting aside my own disappointment and thinking instead how disappointed Mom would be if she could see how my dad had disassociated himself from his only daughter. I couldn’t be angry with my dad, though, because I knew how much he missed my mother, and how much being around me reminded him that our family was incomplete. He’d moved to Boston to escape the memories. These days, Christmas Eve was our only planned time together. I always rode the train to Boston for Father’s Day unless he had other plans. And he usually managed to come up a couple of times during the year to have dinner or to see a show. Our arrangement wasn’t the stuff that greeting card commercials were made of, but it was pleasant, and it was what it was.

Besides, Dad probably had thought by now I’d be married and he’d be off the hook as the main man in my life.

Which led me back to the high priority item on my to-do list. I decided, however, that the quest for a nice guy could wait at least until after my second helping of coffee, and trudged toward the break room to refill the Starbucks cup I’d bought and drained on my morning commute.

Surprised that Helena hadn’t yet called me for our regular morning brief, I stopped by her office to see if I could bring her a cup of coffee. Her door was open, but she was on the phone, sitting behind her desk with her back turned. I frowned because I knew Helena better than anyone, and her body language was all wrong—closed, agitated. I hoped it wasn’t bad news, and went on my way.

I pushed open the door to the break room to see April arched in a full-body yawn like a cat in heat. She gave me a fake smile as she lowered her arms. “Good morning, Kenzie.”

“Good morning, April. How are you?”

“I’m fabulous,” she said, then leaned her liberal hips against the counter and blew on the top of her coffee. “Sam called me.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“
Sam
called me. You, know—Dr. Long.”

The word
flummoxed
wasn’t alien to me, but I had to admit that I’d never fully appreciated the emotion until that moment. I was flummoxed, but good. “
Sam
called you?” I repeated liked an idiot.

She smiled into her cup. “Uh-huh. Just a few minutes ago, in fact.”

I knew I’d hate myself for asking, but I had to. “What did he want?”

She lifted her lovely shoulders in a shrug. “I couldn’t say for sure, but he did mention what a nice time he’d had
on Friday.” She walked toward the door, her mug smug. “Have a nice day.”

I watched her sashay away, then poured my coffee with a less-than-steady hand, furious at myself for letting anything that Sam Long did get to me. I’d gotten what I wanted out of the one-night stand, and so had he. End of story.

So why was I near tears? Because I’d projected a fantasy onto him to justify jumping into bed with a stranger? Because my dad had forgotten my birthday? Because the milk carton in the mini-fridge was empty—again?

I sipped from my coffee cup and scalded my tongue, bringing the tears to the surface. I was contemplating crawling into one of the cabinets for a good therapeutic cry when the door to the break room swung open. I turned to see Helena standing there, her face drawn. “Kenzie—I need the directors in meeting room A in ten minutes.” She hesitated, then added, “And you too.”

Helena pivoted and strode away before I could ask any questions, but dread settled in my stomach. My boss had never called an impromptu meeting to deliver
good
news.

As I hurried from office to office delivering the edict, my mind raced, mentally rechecking the previous week’s to-do list. Had an important deadline been missed? A fact gone unverified? A dirty place-holding word inadvertently been left in an ad? (It happens.) Nothing sprang to mind, which worried me even more. Helena depended on me to anticipate problems, and obviously I’d mis-anticipated something.

I grabbed paper and pen and, sloshing coffee, I slipped into the meeting room, packed with nervous-looking colleagues. All seats were taken except for Helena’s at the head of the table, which sat empty. Since chivalry had died in Manhattan in the forties, I leaned against the wall. A few
seconds later a man I’d never seen before walked in and joined me on the wall.

“Daniel Cruz,” he said, sticking out his hand. “I’m the new director of sales.”

Early forties, nice face and voice. I introduced myself and shook his right hand while checking the other hand for a ring. Nada. I tensed for an allergic reaction, but my body seemed unaffected. He didn’t strike me as being gay, but who knew these days. It could be that I was loaded with so much antihistamine that his pheromones had been rendered powerless.

“I hope we’re not all going to be fired,” he whispered, chuckling.

That paralyzing thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but when Helena marched into the room with that wrinkle between her eyebrows, fear blipped in my chest that chuckling Daniel Cruz could be right. My search for a nice guy instantly became a lesser priority as I tried to recall if I’d seen a Help Wanted sign at Starbucks this morning.

Helena sought me out for a special look. Guilt? Remorse? I busied myself readying my paper and pen for note-taking, but my hands were sweaty. Helena took her place at the head of the table and everyone quieted.

“I’m going to cut to the chase,” Helena said, then paused, as if she were struggling with what she had to say.

I’d never seen my boss at a loss for words, so my anxiety ratcheted up a notch while my imagination ran wild.
Our financing has dried up. Our number-one advertiser has pulled their business. We’ve been slapped with a lawsuit that involves every employee and not only are we all fired but our personal assets will be seized
. I held my breath, steeling myself for the worst.

“It appears,” Helena finally said, “that our magazine has fallen under a cover curse.”

And just like that, my life moved from unreal to swrreal.

7

A
S THE SILENCE
in the boardroom dragged on, I hoped I had misunderstood what my boss had just announced.
A cover curse?

Helena’s strength as editor-in-chief rested in her unorthodox thinking, but recently she had become involved in all kinds of metaphysical mumbo jumbo in an attempt to ward off menopause. I’d grown accustomed to her spontaneous crystal rubbing, cross-legged meditation breaks, and occasional tribal screams. In fact, I suspected it was my pragmatic take on things that Helena most depended upon to maintain her balance. But I had a sudden fear that while I’d been immersed in my little personal drama the past few days, Helena had gone off the deep end of the New Age pool.

“A cover curse?” Daniel Cruz muttered. Tittering sounded, but Helena’s stare restored quiet.

I wish I could say her stare also restored confidence, but I could tell my boss was coming unwound—her T-zone was shiny.

Helena wet her lips. “I should have said
there is a rumor
that the magazine has fallen under a cover curse.” A shaky laugh escaped her. “Of course we’re not under an actual curse—that would be absurd.” She laughed again, the sound just as unconvincing as the first, and when it petered out, she looked lost.

Loyalty ballooned in my chest, and I felt compelled to
save her. “Helena, why would someone start such a ridiculous rumor?”

She gave me a grateful look, and seemed to reorient herself. She opened a folder and fanned three issues of
Personality
on the table. “The people on the covers of the last three issues have all been involved in freak accidents that occurred while their respective issue was on the stands.”

Helena held up the issue featuring a supermodel-turned-humanitarian. “Some kind of space debris fell through the roof of Mia Compton’s house and hit her.” Next she held up the issue featuring a famous chef who had just launched his own line of gourmet foods. “Keith Kellor slipped on an orange juice spill in a grocery and is in traction.” The third issue—last week’s—featured a popular network news anchor. “And finally, Tara Duncan was electrically shocked by a faulty microphone.”

Helena looked all around. “The injuries haven’t been serious, thank goodness. Apparently Ms. Duncan had heard about Mr. Kellor’s accident the previous week, and when the paramedics arrived, she made a crack that our magazine must have a cover curse.”

“Seems harmless enough,” Daniel Cruz offered from the wall.

Helena turned our way, glanced back and forth between the two of us as if we were in cahoots, then pursed her mouth. “For now, maybe. But I’m sure you can appreciate the fact that this isn’t the kind of thing I want the magazine to be known for.”

Daniel Cruz nodded, but he seemed to be fighting a smile. “So how is the person on this week’s cover faring?”

Helena’s mouth tightened at his flip tone and I inched away lest I be lumped in with the troublemaker. “I phoned Jane Suttles this morning,” my boss said, “under the guise of another request, and she seems to be fine.”

“She’s the lady who sells cars and wears the jacket made of dollar bills?”

Helena nodded. “The top car salesperson in the country.”

Daniel gave a dismissive wave. “Don’t worry—you couldn’t kill a car salesman if you tried.”

Everyone laughed except Helena. And me, chicken that I was.

Daniel straightened in an apparent attempt to redeem himself. “If Jane Suttles is okay, then what’s the problem?”

Helena frowned outright. “The
problem
, Mr. Cruz, is that today is only Monday. The Suttles issue will be on the stands until Sunday, when it will be replaced by the hometown hero issue.”

Sam’s issue—my heart blipped.

“Mind you,” Helena said to everyone, “I don’t expect anything to happen to Jane Suttles between now and Sunday.” She reached up to massage her temple. “And even if something did happen, God forbid, it certainly wouldn’t be because of this so-called curse.” Her voice was starting to sound a little desperate. “But…I wanted to brief you in case
Variety
or a tabloid rag contacts you, or in case a subordinate asks questions. I want this rumor nipped in the bud, is that clear?”

Everyone nodded like the servants we were.

“Meanwhile,” she said, her laser eyes slicing across the room, “not a
word
of what I said leaves this room.”

More nodding ensued. I was glad I hadn’t taken any notes else I might’ve had to eat them.

“That’s all,” Helena said, dismissing us.

I turned to leave.

“Kenzie, a moment please?”

I stopped and turned back. “Of course, Helena.”

The furrow in Helena’s brow concerned me. She waited
until everyone had left the room before she spoke. “Kenzie, is there anything you’d like to talk to me about?”