What Phoebe Wants. Cindi Myers
Darla shook her head. “Didn’t you say Steve never wanted children?”
There went my stomach again, acting as if I’d just plunged five stories in the front car of a roller coaster. “Yes. I mean, no, he never wanted children. He said they would make things too complicated.”
I put a hand over my belly, not even realizing until it was too late that I’d done so. In the early days, I’d thought I’d change Steve’s mind, that one day we’d have a family. Even as recently as last year, I’d been telling myself we had plenty of time. “What are you saying, Darla?”
“I’m saying Steve’s life is about to get pretty complicated. Just-a-waitress is four or five months gone.”
I counted back in my head. That meant it had happened after our divorce six months ago. We’d been separated six months before that. Plenty of time for me to get over the guy, right? Why should I care what he and his girlfriend were up to?
“You don’t look so good.” Darla leaned forward and studied my face,
“I’ll be okay in a minute,” I managed to squeak out.
“Okay is a relative term.” She frowned. “You want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. No, I wasn’t okay. And no, I didn’t want to talk about it.
The waitress brought our food and I focused on adding salsa to my chalupa, glad of an excuse not to say anything. Even if I’d wanted to spill my guts to Darla, I didn’t think I could have found the words to describe how I felt.
Something ugly and black had attached itself to my insides, some slimy emotional specter that was, in turns, angry and disgusted. I’d put off having children because Steve didn’t want them, yet our divorce papers were scarcely cold before he knocked up some other woman. Outside, I was mute, lips welded together by pride. But inside, I was screaming.
“So, what are you going to do now?” Darla scooped guacamole onto a chip and popped it into her mouth.
Last I heard, murder was still illegal. I sighed and laid aside my empty spoon. “What can I do? I have to get on with my life.”
She eyed me critically. “Starting when? It’s been six months since the divorce and almost a year since Steve walked out. Have you been on a single date?”
“Just what I need—another man in my life.” I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
“They aren’t all bad. You like Tony, don’t you?”
Tony was a truck driver Darla referred to as her rustproof lover—“heart of gold and buns of steel.” He was also a genuinely sweet guy. “You got the last good one,” I said.
“Oh, come on. You’re still young. Attractive. You could find someone nice.”
I shook my head. “Who would I date? In my job all the men I meet are either old, sick or married.” The image of a certain studly computer installer popped up to call me a liar. Okay, so Jeff Fischer was gorgeous and I hadn’t noticed a ring on his hand. He was also young and sarcastic and I hadn’t exactly wowed him with my charm. “I don’t need another man in my life,” I said, stabbing a fork into my chalupa for emphasis.
“Just think about it,” Darla said gently.
I nodded. “I’ll think about it.” But thinking and doing are two entirely different animals, aren’t they?
I RETURNED TO WORK AFTER LUNCH and discovered the cubbyhole had been ransacked. My computer processor sat in the hall, my transcription machine balanced atop it. My monitor occupied my chair and half a mile of cable coiled around the doorway like so many snakes prepared to wrap around my ankles.
I picked my way through this maze and stepped into the room, only to be confronted with one of the finest specimens of male gluteus maximus I’ve ever been privileged to see.
The butt in question wasn’t naked, more’s the pity, but the expertly tailored slacks molded around it did a nice job of showing it to advantage.
“What are you staring at?” The rest of the man in question emerged from beneath my desk.
“Jeff! Uh, hello.” I moved over and pretended to be interested in a stack of computer manuals. “Was I staring?”
He pointed a screwdriver at me. “You were staring. And smiling.”
“I’m just delighted at the prospect of finally getting the new transcription system installed.” I kept my eyes on the manual, pretending to be reading, but I was really trying to identify the cologne he was wearing. Something spicy, faintly exotic…
“I didn’t know you read Chinese.” He’d risen and was looking over my shoulder.
I glanced down at the booklet in my hand. Rows of Chinese characters danced across the page. I snapped the booklet shut. “I was studying the diagrams.” I pointed to the snarl of cables streaming out from under my desk. “Don’t you think you should do something about all that?”
“Your usual sunny self, I see.” He kneeled and began fiddling with something under my desk. “And here I thought we were going to be friends.”
I didn’t want to be friends with Jeff Fischer. He was too young, too good-looking, too full of himself, too male. Men were not at the top of my list these days. I kicked at the tangle of cables. “How am I supposed to get any work done with everything scattered all over the place like this?”
“I’ll have it all back together in no time.” His head disappeared beneath the desk once more.
“With this new system, you’ll be faster than ever.” He reached up and patted the desktop. “Have a seat and keep me company.”
I backed toward the door. “Maybe I’d better leave you alone to do your work.”
“I work better when I have a pretty woman to talk to.”
I resented the flutter that ran through my stomach. As if a compliment from a smart-ass like him meant anything. I told myself I was only staying because if I went back up front Joan would put me to work labeling urine samples, or filing test results or some equally odious chore.
So I took a seat on the desk, next to a canvas satchel that spilled tools across the desktop. It wasn’t the most comfortable position. My feet didn’t touch the ground, which left my legs swinging practically in Jeff’s face. Why had I decided this was a good day to wear my chartreuse-with-white-polka-dots slip dress?
“That’s better.” Jeff’s gaze traveled from my exposed knees to my ankles. “Very nice.”
He grinned in a way that might have been lecherous on someone who didn’t already look like an Eagle Scout. “How old are you?” I blurted.
He arched one eyebrow. “Old enough to know my way around.”
“No really. How old?”
“I’m twenty-six.” He said it as if he was announcing a winning Lotto number. “How old are you?”
“Too old for you.” I inched farther away from him.
“I prefer experienced women.” He went back to operating his screwdriver.
Experienced? Was that anything like a used car being “experienced”? Or did I look like a woman who’d been around the block a few times? “What makes you think I’m experienced?”
“Let’s just say you don’t strike me as a recent escapee from a convent.”
“Someone told you I was divorced. That Michelle—”
“No, I didn’t know that. I was thinking more about the hickey on your neck.”
I clapped my hand to my neck so hard the skin stung. Heat washed over me and I knew my face was bright red. “I do not have a hickey!” Where would I have gotten