Too Good to Be True (10 page)

CHAPTER NINE

O
N
S
ATURDAY MORNING
, Angus shocked me into consciousness with his maniacal barking, clawing at the door as if a steak was being stuffed underneath it.

“What? Who?” I blurted, barely conscious. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was only seven. “Angus! This house better be on fire, or you’re in big trouble.” Usually, my beloved pet was quite content to sleep squarely in the middle of my bed, somehow managing to take up two-thirds of it despite weighing a mere sixteen pounds.

An accidental look in the mirror showed me that my new hair tamer (which cost fifty bucks a bottle) clocked out after 1:00 a.m., which was when I went to bed the night before. So if in fact Angus
was
saving my life and our photo
did
appear on the front page of the paper, I’d better do something about that hair before rushing out into the flames. I grabbed an elastic, slapped my hair into a ponytail and felt the door. Cool. Opening it a crack, I smelled no smoke. Drat. There went my chance at meeting a hot fireman who would carry me out of the flames as if I were made of spun sugar. Still, I guessed it was a good thing that my house wasn’t going up in flames.

Angus flew down the stairs like a bullet, doing his trademark Dance of the Visitor at the front door, leaping straight up so that all four paws came off the floor. Oh, yes. Today was Bull Run, and Margaret was coming along. Apparently she felt the need to rise early, but I needed coffee before I could kill any Johnny Rebs. Or was I killing Bluebellies today?

Scooping up Angus, I opened the door. “Hi, Margaret,” I mumbled, squinting at the light.

Callahan O’ Shea stood on my porch. “Don’t hurt me,” he said.

The bruise around his eye had faded considerably, still there, but yellow and brown had replaced the livid purple. His eyes were blue, I noted, and the kind that turned down at the corners, making him look a little…sad. Soulful. Sexy. He wore a faded red T-shirt and jeans, and there it was again, that annoying twinge of attraction.

“So. Here to sue me?” I asked. Angus barked—
Yarp!
—from my arms.

He smiled, and the twinge became more of a wrench.

“No. I’m here to replace your windows. Nice pajamas, by the way.”

I glanced down. Crap. SpongeBob SquarePants, a Christmas present from Julian. We had a tradition of giving horrible gifts…I’d given him a Chia Head. Then his words hit home. “Excuse me? Did you say you’re replacing my windows?”

“Yup,” he said, poking his head in the doorway and glancing around the living room. “Your father hired me the other day. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No,” I answered. “When?”

“Thursday,” he said. “You were out. Nice place you’ve got here. Did Daddy buy it for you?”

My mouth opened. “Hey!”

“So. Are you going to move aside so I can come in?”

I clutched Angus a little tighter. “No. Listen, Mr. O’ Shea, I don’t really think—”

“What? You don’t want an ex-con working for you?”

My mouth snapped shut. “Well, actually…I…” It seemed so rude to say it out loud. “No, thank you.” I forced a smile, feeling about as sincere as a presidential candidate pledging finance reform. “I’d rather hire another guy…um, someone who worked for me in the past.”

“I’ve been hired. Your father already paid me half.” He narrowed his eyes at me, and my teeth gritted.

“Well, that’s inconvenient, but you’ll have to give it back.” Angus barked from my arms, backing me up. Good dog.

“No.”

My mouth dropped open. “Well, sorry, Mr. O’ Shea, but I don’t want you working here.”
Seeing me in my pajamas. Stirring things up. Possibly stealing my stuff.

He cocked his head and stared at me. “How cutting, Ms. Emerson, to think that you don’t like me, and also how ironic, given that if anyone has reason not to like someone else, I’d say the votes go to me.”

“You get no votes, pal! I didn’t ask you to—”

“But since I have better manners than you, I’ll reserve judgment and say only that I don’t like your propensity for violence. However, I already took your father’s money, and if you want these windows before hell freezes over, I have to put in an order from a specialty place in Kansas. And to be honest, I need the work. Okay? So let’s drop the feminine outrage, ignore the fact that I’ve seen you in your unmentionables—” his eyes traveled up and down my frame “—and get to work. I have to measure the windows. Want me to start upstairs or down?”

At this moment, Natalie’s BMW pulled into the driveway, causing Angus new seizures of outrage. I clutched him to me, his little form trembling, as he tried to heave himself out of my arms, his barks bouncing off the inside of my skull.

“Can’t you control the wee beastie?” Callahan O’ Shea asked.

“Quiet,” I muttered. “Not you, Angus, honey. Hi, Natalie!”

“Hi,” she said, gliding up the front steps. She paused, giving my neighbor a questioning look. “Hello. I’m Natalie Emerson, Grace’s sister.”

My neighbor took her hand, an appreciative grin tugging his mouth up on one side, making me dislike him all the more. “Callahan O’ Shea,” he murmured. “I’m Grace’s carpenter.”

“He’s not,” I insisted. “What brings you here, Nat?”

“I thought we could have a cup of coffee,” she said, smiling brightly. “I’ve been dying to hear about this guy you’re seeing. We haven’t had a chance to talk since Mom’s show.”

“A boyfriend?” Callahan said. “I take it he likes things rough.”

Natalie’s silken eyebrows popped up an inch and she grinned, her eyes studying his shiner. “Come on, Grace, how about some coffee? Callahan, is it? Would you like a cup?”

“I’d love one,” he answered, smiling at my beautiful and suddenly irritating sister.

Five minutes later, I was staring sullenly at the coffeepot as my sister and Callahan O’ Shea became best friends forever.

“So Grace actually hit you? With a field hockey stick? Oh, Grace!” She burst into laughter, that husky, seductive laugh that men loved.

“It was self-defense,” I said, grabbing a few cups from the cupboard.

“She was drunk,” Cal explained. “Well, the first time, she was drunk. The second time, with the rake, she was just flighty.”

“I was
not
flighty,” I objected, setting the coffeepot on the table and yanking open the fridge for the cream, which I set on the table with considerable force. “I have never been described as flighty.”

“I don’t know, Natalie,” Callahan said, tilting his head. “Don’t those pajamas say flighty to you?” His eyes traveled up and down my SpongeBobs once more.

“That’s it, Irish. You’re fired. Again. Still. Whatever.”

“Oh, come on, Grace,” Natalie said, laughing melodically. “He’s got a point. I hope Wyatt won’t see you in those.”

“Wyatt loves SpongeBob,” I retorted.

Nat poured Callahan a cup of coffee, missing the daggers shooting from my eyes. “Cal, have you met Grace’s new guy?” she asked.

“You know, I haven’t,” he answered, cocking his eyebrow at me. I tried to ignore him. Not easy. He looked so damn…wonderful…sitting there in my cheery kitchen, Angus chewing his bootlace, drinking coffee from my limited edition Fiestaware cornflower-blue mug. The sun shone on his tousled hair, revealing very appealing streaks of gold in that rich chestnut-brown. He just about glowed with masculinity, all broad shoulders and big muscles, about to fix stuff in my house…damn it. Who wouldn’t be turned on?

“So what’s he like?” Natalie asked. For a second I thought she was talking about Callahan O’ Shea.

“Huh? Oh, Wyatt? Well, he’s very…nice.”

“Nice is good. And how was your date the other night?” she continued, stirring sugar into her coffee to make herself even sweeter. Dang it. Nat had called the other night, and I could hear Andrew in the background, so I’d cut the conversation short by saying I had to meet Wyatt in Hartford. Oh, the tangled web…Callahan’s soulful blue eyes were looking at me. Mockingly.

“The date was good. Pleasant. Nice. We ate. Drank. Kissed. Stuff like that.”

So eloquent, Grace!
Again with Callahan’s eyebrow.

“Grace, come on!” my once-beloved sister said. “What’s he like? I mean, he’s a pediatric surgeon, so obviously he’s wonderful, but give me some specifics.”

“Lovely! His personality is lovely,” I said, my voice a little loud. “He’s very—” another glance at Cal “—respectful. Friendly. He’s incredibly kind. Gives money to the homeless…and um, rescues…cats.” My inner voice, disgusted at my poor lying abilities, sighed loudly.

“Sounds perfect,” Natalie said approvingly. “Good sense of humor?”

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “Very funny. But in a nice, non-mocking way. Not snarky, sarcastic or rude. In a gentle, loving way.”

“So this is a case of opposites attract?” Callahan asked.

“I thought I just fired you,” I said.

His eyes crinkled in a grin, and my knees went traitorously soft.

“I think he sounds amazing,” Natalie said with a beautiful smile.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling back. For a second, I was tempted to ask her about Andrew, but with the burly ex-con in the room, I decided against it.

“Are you going to the battle today, Grace?” my sister asked, taking a sip of her coffee. Honestly, everything she did looked as if it was being filmed…graceful and balanced and lovely.

“Battle?” Callahan asked.

“Don’t tell him,” I commanded. “And, yes, I am.”

“Well, sorry to say I have to head down to New Haven,” Natalie said regretfully, putting her cup aside. “It was nice to meet you, Callahan.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, standing up. Well, well, well. The ex-con had nice manners…when Natalie was around, at any rate.

I walked her to the door, gave her a hug. “Everything good with Andrew?” I asked, careful to keep my tone light.

It was like watching a beautiful sunrise, the way her face lit up. “Oh, Grace…yes.”

“Excellent,” I said, pushing back a lock of her cool, silky hair. “I’m glad for you, honey.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. “And I’m so glad for you, Grace! Wyatt sounds perfect!” She hugged me tight. “See you soon?”

“You bet.” I hugged her back, my heart squeezing with love, and watched her glide out to her sleek little car and back out of my driveway. She waved, then disappeared down the street. My smile faded. Margaret knew instantly that Wyatt Dunn was fictional, and Callahan O’ Shea, a virtual stranger, seemed to guess it, too. But not Natalie. Of course, she had a lot riding on me being with a great guy, didn’t she? Me being attached meant…well. I knew what it meant.

With a sigh, I returned to the kitchen.

“So.” Cal tipped back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Your boyfriend’s a cat rescuer.”

I smiled. “Yes, he is. There’s a problem with feral cats in his area. Very sad. He wrangles them. Herds them up into crates, gets them to foster homes. Would you like one?”

“A feral cat?”

“Mmm-hmm. They say your pet should match your personality.”

He laughed, a wicked, ashy sound, and suddenly, my knees were even weaker than the time I saw Bruce Springsteen in concert. “No, thank you, Grace.”

“So tell me, Mr. O’ Shea,” I said briskly. “How much did you embezzle, and from whom?”

His mouth got a little tight at the question. “One-point-six million dollars. From my esteemed employer.”

“One point…God’s nightgown!”

My checkbook, I suddenly noticed, was lying right over there, on the counter near the fridge. I should probably put that away, shouldn’t I? Not that I had a million dollars there or anything. Callahan followed my nervous gaze and raised his unbruised eyebrow once more.

“So tempting,” he said. “But I’ve turned over a new leaf. Although those are gonna be hard to resist.” He nodded at a shelf containing my collection of antique iron dogs. Then he stood up, filling my kitchen. “Can I go upstairs and measure the windows, Grace?”

I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it. It wasn’t worth it. How long would windows take? A couple of days?

“Um, sure. Hang on one sec, let me make sure it…um…”

“Why don’t you just come with me? That way, if I’m tempted to rifle through your jewelry box, you can stop me yourself.”

“I wanted to make sure the bed was made, that’s all,” I lied. “Right this way.”

For the next three minutes, I fought feelings of lust and irritation as Callahan O’ Shea measured my bedroom windows. Then he went into the guest room and did the same thing, his movements neat and efficient, zipping the measuring tape along the frames, jotting things down in his notebook. I leaned in the doorway, watching his back (ass, let’s be honest) as he opened a window and looked outside.

“I might need to replace some trim when I put these in,” he said, “but I won’t know till I take them out. These are pretty old.”

I dragged my eyes to his face. “Right. Sure. Sounds good.”

He came over to me, and my breath caught. God. Callahan O’ Shea was standing within an inch of me. The heat shimmered off his body, and my own body seemed to soften and sway in response. I could feel my heart squeezing and opening, squeezing and opening. His hand, still holding the tape measure, brushed the back of mine, and suddenly I had to breathe through my mouth.

“Grace?”

“Yes?” I whispered back. I could see the pulse in his neck. Wondered what it would be like to kiss that neck, to slide my fingers through his tousled hair, to—

“Can you move?” he asked.

My mouth closed with a snap. “Sure! Sure! Just…thinking.”

His eyes crinkled in an all-too-knowing smile.

We went back downstairs, and a disappointingly short time later, Callahan O’ Shea was done. “I’ll put in the order and let you know when they come in,” he said.

“Great,” I said.

“Bye. Good luck at the battle.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing for no apparent reason.

“Make sure you double lock the doors. I’ll be home all day.”

“Very funny. Now get out,” I said. “I have Yankees to kill.”

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE CANNON ROARED IN MY EARS
, the smell of smoke sharp and invigorating. I watched as six Union soldiers fell. Behind the first line, the Bluebellies reloaded.

“This is so queer,” Margaret muttered, handing me the powder so I could reload my cannon.

“Oh, shut up,” I said fondly. “We’re honoring history. And quit complaining. You’ll be dead soon enough. A pox upon you, Mr. Lincoln!” I called, adding a silent apology to gentle Abe, the greatest president our nation ever saw. Surely he would forgive me, seeing as I had a miniature of the Lincoln Memorial in my bedroom and could (and often did) recite the Gettysburg Address by heart.

But Brother Against Brother took its battles very seriously. We had about two hundred volunteers, and each encounter was planned to be as historically accurate as possible. The Yankee soldiers fired, and Margaret dropped to the ground with a roll of her sea-green eyes. I took one in the shoulder, screamed and collapsed next to her. “It will take me hours to finally kick the bucket,” I told my sister. “Blood poisoning from the lead. No treatment options, really. Even if I was taken to a field hospital, I’d probably die. So either way, long and painful.”

“I repeat. This is so queer,” Margaret said, flipping open her cell phone to check messages.

“No farbies!” I barked.

“What?”

“The phone! You can’t have anything modern at a reenactment. And if this is so queer, why did you come?” I asked.

“Dad kept harassing Junie—” Margaret’s long-suffering legal secretary “—until she finally begged me to say yes just to get him to stop calling and dropping by. Besides, I wanted to get out of the house.”

“Well, you’re here, so quit whining.” I reached for her hand, imagining a Rebel soldier seeking comfort from his fallen brother. “We’re outside, it’s a beautiful day, we’re lying around in the sweet-smelling clover.” Margaret didn’t answer. I glanced over. She was studying her cell phone, scowling, which wasn’t an unusual expression for her, but her lips trembled in a suspicious manner. Like she was about to cry. I sat up abruptly. “Margs? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, things are peachy,” she answered.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” my father asked, striding toward us.

“Sorry, Dad. I mean, sorry, General Jackson,” I said, flopping obediently back in the grass.

“Margaret, please. Put that away. A lot of people have worked very hard to make this authentic.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Bull Run in Connecticut. So authentic.”

Dad grunted in disgust. A fellow officer rushed to his side. “What shall we do, sir?” he asked.

“Sir, we will give them the bayonet!” Dad barked. A little thrill shuddered through me at the historic words. What a war! The two officers conferred, then walked away to engage the gunmen on the hillside.

“I might need a break from Stuart,” Margaret said.

I sat bolt upright once again, tripping a fellow Confederate who was relocating my cannon. “Sorry,” I said to him. “Go get ’em.” He and another guy hefted the cannon and wheeled it off amid sporadic gunfire and the cries of the commanding officers. “Margaret, are you serious?”

“I need some distance,” she answered.

“What happened?”

She sighed. “Nothing. That’s the problem. We’ve been married for seven years, right? And nothing’s different. We do the same things day after day. Come home. Stare at each other over dinner. Lately, when he’s talking about work or something on the news, I look at him and just think, ‘Is this it?’”

An early butterfly landed on the brass button of my uniform, flexed its wings and fluttered off. A Confederate officer rushed by. “Are you girls dead?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, we are. Sorry.” I lay back down, pulling Margaret’s hand until she joined me. “Is there anything else, Margs?” I asked.

“No.” Her eyes flickered away from me, belying her words. But Margaret was not one to offer something before she was ready. “It’s just…I just wonder if he really loves me. If I really love him. If this is what marriage is or if we just picked the wrong person.”

We lay in the grass, saying nothing more. My throat felt tight. I loved Stuart, a quiet, gentle man. I had to admit, I didn’t know him terribly well. I saw him sporadically at work, usually from afar. The Manning students loved him, that was for sure. But family dinners tended to revolve around Mom and Dad bickering or Mémé’s soliloquies on what was wrong with the world today, and usually Stuart didn’t get a word in edgewise. But what I did know was that he was kind, smart and very considerate toward my sister. One might even say, if pressed, that he adored her a little too much, deferring to her on just about everything.

The sound of fleeing Union soldiers and the cries of triumphant Rebel soldiers filled the air.

“Can we go now?” Margaret asked.

“No. Dad’s just now assembling the thirteen guns. Wait for it…wait for it…” I raised myself up on my elbows so I could see, grinning in anticipation.

“There stands Jackson, a veritable stone wall!” came the cry of Rick Jones, who was playing Colonel Bee.

“Huzzah! Huzzah!” Though supposedly dead, I couldn’t help joining in the cry. Margaret shook her head, but she was grinning.

“Grace, you really need to get a life,” she said, standing up.

“So what does Stuart think?” I asked, taking her proffered hand.

“He says to do whatever I need to sort things out in my head.” Margaret shook her head, whether in admiration or disgust. Knowing Margaret, it was probably disgust. “So, Grace, listen. Do you think I could stay with you for a week or two? Maybe a little longer?”

“Sure,” I said. “As long as you need.”

“Oh, and hey, listen to this. I’m fixing you up with this guy. Lester. I met him at Mom’s show last week. He’s a metalsmith or some such shit.”

“A metalsmith? Named Lester?” I asked. “Oh, Margaret, come on.” Then I paused. Surely he couldn’t be worse than my veteran friend. “Is he cute?”

“Well, I don’t know. Not cute, exactly, but attractive in his own way.”

“Lester the metalsmith, attractive in his own way. That does not sound promising.”

“So? Beggars can’t be choosy. And you said you wanted to meet someone, so you’re meeting someone. Okay? Okay. I’ll tell him to call.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Hey, Margs, did you run down that name I gave you?”

“What name?”

“The ex-con? Callahan O’ Shea, who lives next door to me? He embezzled over a million dollars.”

“No, I didn’t get around to it. Sorry. I’ll try to this week. Embezzlement. That’s not so bad, is it?”

“Well, it’s not good, Margs. And it was over a million dollars.”

“Still better than rape and murder,” Margs said cheerfully. “Look, there’s donuts. Thank God, I’m starving.”

And with that, we tramped off the field where the rest of the troops already stood, drinking Starbucks and eating Krispy Kreme donuts. Granted, it wasn’t historically accurate, but it sure beat mule meat and hoecake.

HAT NIGHT
, I
SPENT AN HOUR
taming my thorny locks and donning a new outfit. I had two back-to-back dates via eCommitment…well, not dates exactly, but meetings to see if there was a reason to try a date. The first was with Jeff, who sounded very promising indeed. He owned his own business in the entertainment industry, and his picture was very pleasing. Like me, he enjoyed hiking, gardening and historical movies. Alas, his favorite was
300,
so what did that say? But I decided to overlook it for the moment. Just what his business was, I wasn’t sure. Entertainment industry…hmm. Maybe he was an agent or something. Or owned a record label or a club. It sounded kind of glamorous, really.

Jeff and I were meeting for a drink in Farmington, and then I was moving onto appetizers with Leon. Leon was a science teacher, so I already knew we’d have lots to talk about…in fact, our three e-mails thus far had been about teaching, the joys and the potholes, and I was looking forward to hearing more about his personal life.

I drove to the appointed place, one of those chain places near a mall that have a lot of faux Tiffany and sports memorabilia. I recognized Jeff from his picture—he was short and kind of cute, brown hair, brown eyes, an appealing dimple in his left cheek. We gave each other that awkward lean-in hug where we weren’t sure how far to go and ended up touching cheeks like society matrons. But Jeff acknowledged the awkwardness with a little smile, which made me like him. We followed the maitre d’ to a little table, ordered a glass of wine and started in on the small talk, and it was then that things started to go south.

“So, Jeff, I’ve been wondering about your job. What exactly do you do?” I asked, sipping my wine.

“I own my own business,” he said.

“Right. What kind?” I asked.

“Entertainment.” He smiled furtively and straightened the salt and pepper shakers.

I paused. “Ah. And how exactly do you entertain?”

He grinned. “Like
this!
” he said, leaning back. Then, with a flourish and a sudden, sharp flick of his hands, he set the table on fire.

Later, after the firefighters had put out the flames and deemed it safe to return to the restaurant, a large portion of which was covered in the foamy fire retardant that had doused the “entertainment,” Jeff turned beseechingly to me. “Doesn’t anyone love magic anymore?” he asked, looking at me, as confused as a kicked puppy.

“You have the right to remain silent,” a police officer duly recited.

“I didn’t mean the fire to be so big,” Jeff informed the cop, who didn’t seem to care much.

“So you’re a magician?” I asked, fiddling with the burnt end of a lock of my hair, which had been slightly singed.

“It’s my dream,” he said as the officer cuffed him. “Magic is my life.”

“Ah,” I said. “Best of luck with that.”

Was it me, or did a lot of men leave in handcuffs when I was around? First Callahan O’ Shea, now Jeff. I had to hand it to Callahan—he looked a lot better in restraints than poor Jeff, who resembled a crated ferret. Yes, when it came to handcuffs, Callahan O’ Shea was—I stopped that train of thought. I had another date. Leon the teacher was next in line, so on I went, glad that the firefighters of Farmington were so efficient that I wasn’t even late.

Leon was much more promising. Balding in that attractive Ed Harris way, wonderful sparkling blue eyes and a boyish laugh, he seemed delighted in me, which of course I found very appealing. We talked for a half hour or so, filling each other in on our teaching jobs, bemoaning helicopter parents and extolling the bright minds of children.

“So, Grace, let me ask you something,” he said, pushing our potato skins aside to touch my hand, making me glad I’d splurged on a manicure/pedicure this week. His face grew serious. “What would you say is the most important thing in your life?”

“My family,” I answered. “We’re very close. I have two sisters, one older, one—”

“I see. What else, Grace? What would come next?”

“Um, well…my students, I guess. I really love them, and I want so much for them to be excited about history. They—”

“Uh-huh. Anything else, Grace?”

“Well,” I said, a bit miffed at being cut off twice now, “sure. I mean, I volunteer with a senior citizen group, we do ballroom dancing with my friend Julian, who’s a dance teacher. Sometimes I read to some of them, the ones who can’t read for themselves.”

“Are you religious?” Leon asked.

I paused. I was definitely one of those who’d classify herself as
spiritual
rather than
religious.
“Sort of. Yes, I mean. I go to church, oh, maybe once a month or so, and I—”

“I’m wondering what your feelings are on God.”

I blinked. “God?” Leon nodded. “Um, well God is…well, He’s great.” I imagined God rolling His eyes at me.
Come on, Grace. I said, “Let there be light,” and bada-bing! There was light! Can’t you do better than “He’s great,” for God’s sake? Get it? For God’s sake?
(I always imagined God had a great sense of humor. He’d have to, right?)

Leon’s bright (fanatical?) blue eyes narrowed. “Yes, He is great. Are you a Christian? Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

“Well…sure.” Granted, I couldn’t ever remember anyone in my family (Mayflower descendants, remember?) ever using the term
personal savior
…We were Congregationalists, and things tended to stay a little more philosophical. “Jesus is also so…good.” And now I had Jesus, raising His head as He hung on the Cross.
Wow. Thanks, Grace. This is what I get for dying up here?

“Jesus is my wingman,” Leon said proudly. “Grace, I’d like to take you to my church so you can experience the true meaning of holiness.”

Check, please!
“Actually, Leon, I have a church,” I said. “It’s very nice. I can’t say I’m interested in going anywhere else.”

The fanatical blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t get the impression you’ve truly embraced God, Grace.” He frowned.

Okay. Enough was enough. “Well, Leon, let’s be honest. You’ve known me forty-two minutes. How the hell would you know?”

At the
H-E
-double hockey sticks word, Leon reared back. “Blasphemer!” he hissed. “I’m sorry, Grace! We do not have a future together! You’re going straight to you-know-where.” He stood up abruptly.

“Judge not,” I reminded him. “Nice meeting you, and good luck with finding someone,” I said. I was pretty sure God would be proud. Not just a quote from the Good Book, but turning the other cheek and everything.

Safely in my car, I saw with dismay that it was only eight o’clock. Only eight, and already I’d been in a fire and condemned to hell…and still no boyfriend. I sighed.

Well. I knew a good cure for loneliness, and its name was Golden Meadows. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in Room 403.

“Her white satin chemise slid to the floor in a seductive whisper.”
I paused, glanced at my one-person audience, then continued.
“His eyes grew cobalt with desire, his loins burning at the sight of her creamy décolletage. ‘I am yours, my lord,’ she said, her lips ripe with sultry promise. Reaching for her breast, his mind raced…
Okay, that’s a dangling participle if I ever heard one. His mind did not, I assure you, reach for her breast.”