Dreaming in Black & White A Phoebe Grant Novel

Chapter One ;My thighs were at it again. ;They whispered behind my back with every pantyhose-clad step I took-a whoosh-whoosh rhythm that sounded remarkably like one of my Mom's old Engelbert Humperdinck records: "Please release me . . ." Note to self: Renew lapsed membership at gym to lose fifteen extra pounds in effort to keep thighs from getting so chummy. And buy more tan in a bottle so as not to have to ever wear nylons again. ;At least not in August. ;I juggled my no-carb lunch, laptop bag, morning paper, and designer knockoff handbag as I struggled to hit the unlock button on my key chain. Too late, I realized everything was starting to slide. Holding tight to my laptop, I leaped out of the way of my cascading tall, nonfat double mocha, no foam-but not before the coffee waterfall splattered my chunky heels and nylon-clad legs. ;It wasn't just my thighs that were grumbling. My wet ankles also joined in the clamoring chorus of dissent. ;No time to run back home and change. I was already ten minutes late-today of all days, when I was due to find out whether I'd gotten the promotion I longed for. So I gathered all my belongings, dumped the rest of my mocha into the street, and tossed the now-empty cardboard cup into the backseat of my last-year's model yellow Bug. ;Pulling out of Starbucks, I punched Lindsey's speed-dial number on my cell as I eased into traffic, scrabbling around in the glove box for a little chocolate relief. ;"Lindsey Rogers," my best friend chirped in her annoyingly cheerful human resources voice. ;"Hey there, Lins, it's me," I mumbled around the dented Snickers bar I'd just inhaled. "You won't believe what just happened." And I proceeded to regale her with my sad tale. "But never mind. Spilt milk, right? Or spilt mocha. So tell me again this guy's vitals and where we're meeting for dinner." ;"Pheebs, you're getting forgetful in your old age. You're going to Imperial Gardens, where they have that nice little dance floor at the back. And his name's Colin-as in Firth. As in Pride and Prejudice and Bridget Jones and Girl with a Pearl Earring. He's a tall, attractive, thirty-something salesman from Toledo who comes to town once a month." ;Swallowing the last bite of Snickers, I asked, "What's wrong with him?" ;"Nothing that I can see. Nice guy, great hair, and perfect teeth. Lots of expensive orthodontia there, I'm guessing . . ." ;I interrupted Lindsey, who, ever since she'd finally gotten braces on her thirtieth birthday, seemed to be obsessed with everyone else's pearly whites. "You're sure he doesn't have a wife stashed back home in Toledo?" ;"Nope, because I overheard him talking to my boss when he was drawing up his life insurance plan, and he got all wistful when Peterson showed him his silver-framed photos of the wife-and-kidlings unit." ;"Hmmm. Good looking, single, and likes kids? Sounds too good to be true." ;It was. ;That night, over the moo goo gai pan and prawns in garlic sauce, Colin-who, truth be told, was nothing at all like Colin Firth, though he did have some great Hugh Grant hair-drilled me on the importance of being earnest about life insurance even at my age. The evening started out well enough; he was rather good-looking, pleasant, and polite-didn't blow his nose in the linen napkin, like my last blind date had-which gave me hope. But by the time the fortune cookies arrived, I was afraid I'd do bodily harm to Colin with my chopsticks if I heard one more word about actuarial tables. ;In desperation, I asked him to dance, thanking my lucky stars and my mother thatWalker, Laura Jensen is the author of 'Dreaming in Black & White A Phoebe Grant Novel', published 2005 under ISBN 9780849945236 and ISBN 0849945232.