Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 (39 page)
Amy leaned forward and hugged her sister, while her long ponytail smothered Colette’s face and made her smile.
“You’re rotten, you know that, don’t you?” Colette asked.
“Yep,” Amy agreed, moving back to her bag and holding up the new toy. Her mission had been accomplished, so naturally, she turned her focus back to her newest product.
“Tell your friend I’ll help her this one time, but I don’t plan to do it again. She really shouldn’t be lying to her uncle.”
“Got it,” Amy said, punching a finger in the air for emphasis, but her eyes never ventured from the vibrator. “Isn’t it amazing?” She switched her voice to produce infomercial appeal, flicked the switch and started the thing buzzing. “This exclusive curve allows the smooth, pulsing tip to hit the G-spot precisely. Every time. And if that doesn’t pique your interest, feast your eyes on this.” Sounding like a late-night home-shopping host, she pushed a small button on the handle with her index finger. “Ahhh, see? The end lights up like a rainbow.”
Holding the glowing contraption against her forearm, Amy let the pulsating head play against her skin while she giggled. “Cool, huh?”
Okay. Colette failed to see why illuminating like a multicolored strobe light would be of importance, particularly if you considered where those colors would be located
if
and
when
they hit the proverbial bull’s-eye. But she humored Amy, nonetheless. “Yeah, sis. Real cool. If you have a spot to find.”
Amy punched the switch and dropped Pinky to the couch, where it rolled like a deformed banana until lodging between the back of the sofa and the cushion. “No way. You haven’t found it?
Jeff
hasn’t found it? Geez, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
Colette merely smirked. From what she could tell, Jeff did good to find his own part, much less hers. But rather than elaborate on how extremely dull those six months had been, she dialed the number listed on the My Alibi fact sheet.
“Seriously? Did he, you know, even look for it?” Amy asked, obviously bewildered at this revelation.
Did he look for it?
Hmmm. Let’s think about it. Well, that’d be a definite
no. Matter of fact, all he looked for, as far as Colette could tell, was his own satisfaction. Which he obtained. Every time.
And pretty dang quick, at that.
Funny thing was, Jeff looked and acted every part the ladies’ man. Strutted around with his much-too-muscled chest puffed out, his politician’s smile plastered on tight and every wavy hair in place. Oh, and not a single tan line on his body, thank you very much. Or thank his home-tanning bed, coupled with his ritual to make certain he stayed on each side the same number of minutes.
Colette had mistakenly believed the attention he paid to his looks stemmed from his business, rather than his mega-ego. He’d used his primary asset, his body, to promote a growing chain of health-food stores; therefore, he had to look healthy, right?
Of course, the result was quite phenomenal. Folks saw him as their goal and bought his stuff aplenty. The fact he’d tacked on a couple of Atlanta’s Best Body titles didn’t hurt either. Yep, he was pretty to look at, all right.
But a dud in the sack.
Heck, Colette would’ve bet plenty of money on his ability to please.
She’d have lost that bet.
Shoot, she’d have put money on him staying true too.
Ditto for losing the wager.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Jeff and I have been over for two months. Matter of fact, I heard he put a ring on Emily Smith’s finger last weekend. Just as well, since he was banging her the whole time we were together. Hey, who knows? Maybe he found
her
G-spot. He sure never found mine.”
That sounded bitter. And she was
not
bitter. Relieved was more like it. She’d tried to make the whole commitment thing work, in spite of Jeff leaving much to be desired in the bedroom. In her bedroom, anyway. As she learned two months ago, he’d made his way through plenty of other beds during their time together.
“Maybe you should try this out. It’ll find the spot.” Amy picked up the translucent pink vibrator and held it to her cheek. “It’s waterproof too. And you don’t even need a man. Really, you should give it a trial run.”
Don’t need a man. Yep, that’ll fit the bill.
“Maybe I should.” Colette laughed. Heck, maybe a pink, rainbow, light-up G-spot finder was what she needed to get her out of this funk. Twenty-nine-and-knocking-on-thirty, she was still searching for a guy who could carry on an intelligent conversation, had at least some semblance of a career plan and—wonder of wonders—could make her toes curl as much as one of Amy’s toys. She was beginning to think she might have to let go of one of the three qualities. But if anything had to fly out the window, it would
not
be curling toes.
Amy lowered the vibrator and focused on the phone perched against her sister’s ear. “Hey, Colette, you dialed the number, didn’t you?”
Colette’s laughter lodged in her throat. She hadn’t heard the answering machine pick up. But there’d definitely been a ring on the other end.
Hadn’t there?
Yeah, she’d heard a ring. When had it stopped? More importantly, how much of their sisterly conversation had been recorded?
Dang.
A path of heat blazed from her throat to her face. She’d have to do major damage control at the office tomorrow for this faux pas. How do you explain leaving a message about sex toys on a customer’s voice mail?
But she couldn’t hang up. She’d used the cellular provided by My Alibi, and the fictitious name Amy’s friend had chosen for her company would be displayed on the caller ID.
She gathered her wits. So this wouldn’t be her best performance as a My Alibi representative; it’d be okay. She’d simply apologize and begin her regular spiel.
Taking a deep breath, she prepared to start the process of prevarication via the uncle’s answering machine.
Then she heard a responding exhalation on the other end.
No. Way. There was
not
a living, breathing person listening to her now. Hearing her discuss G-spots, no less, when she supposedly represented a computer-graphics training company. Certainly Erika’s uncle hadn’t answered the phone, heard her talking and eavesdropped on that steamy little conversation with Amy. Had he?
Only one way to find out. Tossing a wary glance to her sister, she mustered up her courage. “Hello?”
“Well, hello.”
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desks of Diana Holquist and Kelley St. John
Dear Readers,
Pirates and gypsies, swords and prophecies, ruffled shirts and peasant skirts—all in present-day America! It is so cool that we get to write this letter about two books with so much in common. So gather up your eye patch, your crystal ball, and your handsome hero and settle in to learn what happens when two authors discuss their unique book pairing in this author-to-author interview.
Diana:
So, Kelley, some scenes from your book
Real Women Don’t Wear Size 2
(on sale now) take place at Gasparilla. What the heck is that? And what do your characters do there?
Kelley:
You don’t know what Gasparilla is? Where are you from?
Diana:
I’m a northener. Hey, you thought my book took place in Boston. It’s Baltimore.
Kelley:
B-cities. Whatever. They’re
all
cold. But to answer your question, Gasparilla is a festival that takes place every year in Tampa, where prominent businessmen dress up as pirates, board the Jose Gasparilla ship, and storm Tampa (even requiring the mayor to surrender the city each year). My heroine, Clarise, is a curvy lady who has no trouble helping other ladies embrace their voluptuous figures, but has never completely ventured out of her own shell. She heads to Gasparilla to find her wild side amid the adventurous pirates.
Diana:
I love pirates! I mean, I love my husband, but I love
reading
about pirates. My book is full of gypsies.
Kelley:
Gypsies and pirates are always getting mixed up. (Sort of like, you know, Boston and Baltimore . . . )
Diana:
Exactly. Put on an eyepatch and a ruffled shirt, and what’s the difference? (Oooh, my heroine would be mad if she heard me say that!) But the point is, pirates and gypsies can really set a modern woman free.
Kelley:
Mmmmm . . . I certainly like a ruffled shirt. Though Seinfeld’s puffy shirt didn’t do a thing for me. Does your hero wear one? (A ruffled shirt, that is, not a puffy one.)
Diana:
My hero is a carpenter, so he’s a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of guy. But Cecelia, my heroine, is on the cover of
Make Me a Match
(on sale now) in full gypsy regalia. Although she could be a pirate, if you squinted.
Kelley:
Love that cover! And your gypsy can tell the name of a person’s One True Love?
Diana:
Exactly. Imagine what would happen if you really did have One True Love on this earth—and a gypsy psychic could tell you his name. Of course, he might be your worst nightmare. Or maybe, like Cecelia in my book, you’re already engaged to someone else and you don’t want anything to do with your One True Love—or your gypsy heritage.
Kelley:
Or what if you weren’t sure your One True Love would appreciate your abundance of, er, curves. My heroine, Clarise, is finally going to let her curves shine for her friend/boss/fantasy, Ethan Eubanks, at Gasparilla. Did I mention Gasparilla is like Mardi Gras, but with pirates and swords? Clarise wants to set her inhibitions, and her Robinson Treasures, free. (I’ll let you guess about those Robinson Treasures.) So tell me, can your gypsy
really
know Cecelia’s One True Love? Or is that something I get to learn when I read your fabulous book?
Diana:
What? Sorry, I was busy wondering about those Treasures . . . You know, I think I’ve had enough of this chatting. I’ve got to get reading.
Kelley:
Sounds like a great idea. Judging from your feisty cover, I can tell that Cecelia is ready to have a whole lot of fun and find a whole lot of love. Her One True Love, right?
Diana:
Exactly. Well, maybe. Sometimes, you know, gypsies lie.
So readers, we’re giving you a taste of pirates and gypsies, shapely women and psychics, and that ideal (and sometimes, not so ideal) situation when you meet that One True Love. Read them and let us know what you think! We’d love to hear from you!
Sincerely,
Diana Holquist
MAKE ME A MATCH
Kelley St. John
REAL WOMEN DON’T WEAR SIZE 2