Mr Right There All Along

“Thank you!”

“I make no promises.”

“I know. I don’t expect promises.”

Which was exactly why Simon, to his everlasting regret, meant it when he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

CHAPTER TWO

Cramming for Finals

THE FIRST THING Chloe did when she woke the next morning—after trying to rub off the worst of the wine stains from her lips—was to boot up her computer and make a list of all the things she needed to do before the reunion.

Six weeks.

That’s all she had. It wasn’t a lot of time. and she had a lot to do. Well, no problem. She was the queen of self-improvement. She’d had enough practice at it—she had an entire library of books in her apartment on the subject. More might be in order, she decided, thinking of a show she’d seen earlier in the week.

She prioritized her needs as she created the list.

First and foremost, she would whip herself into the best physical shape possible. Since this had been a regular New Year’s resolution since her late teen years, she was familiar with the format. But rather than mere diet and exercise, the reunion timeframe called for a boot-camp mentality.

If she had to forgo ice cream, so be it. The same for her favorite bagels, pasta, comfort food and … food in general. She’d work out five—no, seven—days a week. And really work out. Not just don the outfits and sit in a smoothie bar, pretending to have just come from aerobics class. She’d even give in and accompany Simon on his morning runs in Central Park. He was always after her to join him.

Running. Hmm.

She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully as she gazed at the computer screen. In parentheses next to the bit on exercise, she wrote: Shape wear.

She wasn’t above a little cheating, as proved by the padded push-up bras she wore on a regular basis. As her mother was fond of saying, “What God has forgotten can be fixed up with cotton.” Or synthetic filling, as the case may be. So why not reduce the appearance of a muffin top and jiggly bottom with a discreet foundation garment?

After all, realistically speaking, there was only so much one could do in six weeks. Chloe leaned back in the chair and folded her arms over her middle. She could feel the subtle roll just above the elastic waistband of her pajama bottoms. She straightened.

Shape wear, definitely.

Besides, celebrities and beauty-pageant contestants did it all the time. Heck, they did more than that to acquire their perky breasts and sag-free butts, so that everyone sighed with envy as they watched them strut the stage in Atlantic City or glide up the red carpet on premier night.

Which reminded Chloe. She needed a killer outfit to show off the killer curves she was planning to acquire through either sweat or spandex.

She typed, Little black dress, emphasis on little.

Smiling, she pictured it. Something sleek and clinging … okay, and with subtle ruching around the waist to distract from any flaws that remained despite the shape wear. Her legs, from mid-thigh down, would be the star of the show, which made sense since they remained her best attribute. Even when she gained weight, the extra pounds tended to collect at her hips and middle rather than on her thighs. And she had nice calves. They were shapely without looking like they belonged on a bicycle messenger. Put her in a pair of high heels and she could be a pinup … well, from mid-thigh down.

Heels. Ooh. She would have to practice walking in them. She’d never been very steady on anything higher than a couple of inches.

Stilettos, she typed.

That was what she had in mind to go with the sexy, stingy bit of black fabric that was going to pass for her dress.

Was black the best color for her? She studied her arms. Her skin was pale. Like most redheads, she had a tendency to freckle, which was why she stayed out of the sun whenever possible. Black brought out her most, well, ghostly hue. But if not black, then what?

Given her hair color, she generally steered clear of reds and oranges. Pink was out, too. She didn’t care for purple. It reminded her too much of eggplant, and she hated that vegetable on principle. She’d barfed up an entire plate-worth of eggplant parmesan in the cafeteria her freshman year, earning her the unfortunate nickname Yack-Attack.

Green would do in a pinch, though paired with her hair it made her feel a little too much like a pumpkin. As for blue … uh-uh.

She hated blue.

Any and all shades, but especially baby blue for reasons far more emotional than aesthetic. She’d worn a formal dress that color to her senior prom. Her mother had talked her into it, claiming it flattered her figure, when in fact the full skirt made it appear she was trying to smuggle someone into the dance.

She could still recall how humiliated she’d felt when Natasha and company had cornered her on the dance floor and pulled up her skirt to see if she was alone.

She’d been alone and wearing a pair of briefs the likes of which would have been right at home on her Nana.

Chloe shuddered now. Black it was. With thong panties. Under shape wear.

She’d compensate for her pale complexion with a salon-bought tan. Not the sort that involved lying on a bed under UV rays. That would only bring out her freckles, and Chloe hated her freckles, even if Simon had once commented that he found them adorable. She didn’t believe him. After all, none of the women he’d ever dated had freckles. If he liked them as much as he claimed, the women in his life should have resembled leopards.

Chloe decided to go with a spray-on tan. Her sister had gotten such a treatment before her wedding the year before. Of course, Frannie was a brunette and her skin wasn’t nearly as pale as Chloe’s, but Frannie had come away with a nice, healthy glow. She was always after Chloe to try it.

The phone rang as she shot her sister an email asking for the name of her salon.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” Simon replied. “I’m going for coffee at the Filigree Café. Want to meet me there? I’ll spring for the bagels.”

The Filigree served some of the best coffee and homemade baked goods in Lower Manhattan. She and Simon met there on weekend mornings when neither of them had other plans. That was often the case for Chloe. Not so much lately for Simon, but then his dating status had changed.

Once again, she ignored jubilation, as well as the way her mouth watered at the mere thought of a toasted onion bagel with herbed cream cheese.

“Sorry. No bagels for me. I’m on a diet,” she informed him.

“Since when?”

“Since when not?” she replied. “I’m always on a diet.” Which, sadly enough, was all too true.

A wise man, Simon didn’t point out that this had never stopped her from joining him for a bagel in the past. Instead, he asked, “Is this about the reunion?”

“No.”

They both knew she was lying.

“Come on, Chloe. Join me. What’s the fun in eating alone?”

“Simon …”

“We’ll go for a walk afterward,” he promised. “A long, brisk one. It’s a great morning for it. No humidity and the temperatures aren’t supposed to reach into the eighties until this afternoon.”

She pulled at her curly hair, and relented. “Okay. But I’m not having a bagel.”

“Agreed. And I won’t let you have so much as a bite of mine.”

“You’re humoring me,” she accused.

“I’m dead serious. Meet you there in half an hour?”

The old Chloe would have said yes. The brand-new and improved Chloe knew that half an hour would barely give her enough time to brush her teeth and hair and throw on whatever clean clothes she could find hiding amid the heaps of laundry on her bedroom floor.

“Make it an hour. I’m not even dressed or anything.”

“An hour?” Simon sounded surprised and no wonder given their long history as friends. “You really need an hour to get dressed?”

“I’m turning over a new leaf. I want to actually wear makeup and look presentable when I appear in public. Even if it’s just with you,” she replied drily.

“Okay, an hour.” Rather than sounding irritated, he almost sounded intrigued. “I’ll get our usual corner table. See you then.”

Simon was on his third cup of coffee when Chloe finally arrived at the cafe. It was hard to be angry with her given the way she looked. She didn’t primp often, but when she did … Wow! He sucked in a breath and reached for his cup, failing in his determination not to admire the way her jeans hugged her hips or the way the vee of her shirt offered the slightest hint of cleavage.

She thought she needed to lose weight. When she dressed like this, he thought he’d lose his mind.

She was wearing makeup, not a lot, but enough to enhance her long lashes and bring out the cool green in her eyes. And her hair. No quick and easy ponytail intended to disguise its lovely and natural waves. No. She’d left it down in a riot of curls that framed her face and fell past her shoulders.

It was wrong of him, Simon knew, but he almost wished she’d shown up in baggy sweats and a T-shirt, no makeup and that dreadful, all-purpose ponytail. Then, at least, he wouldn’t feel so damned interested and, well, needy.

He chanced a glance around and regretted it. Sure enough, several of the other male patrons were checking her out. He didn’t like their interested expressions. Not one damn bit. Before he could stop himself, he pushed to his feet. The legs of his chair scraped noisily over the tiled floor. They seemed to scream, “Back off! She’s mine.”

The attention was on him now. All of the attention, including Chloe’s. Her face lit up when she spied him and a pair of full lips pulled into a smile that was sexy without trying to be. How was it possible, he wondered for the millionth time, that a woman as naturally lovely as she was had self-esteem issues?

He shot a smug look at each of the guys who’d been ogling her, and took his time kissing her cheek when she reached the table.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she slid onto the chair opposite his.

Simon shrugged. “It was worth the wait. Look at you. The hair, the makeup, the cleav … clean clothes,” he amended hastily, forcing his gaze back up to her face.

She grinned. “So, you like?”

“Of course I do. So do half the guys in here, judging from the way they were watching you.”

“Yeah?” Her face brightened and she glanced around. “Which ones?”

He unclenched his teeth and forced out a laugh. “Forget it. I’m not going to stroke your ego any more than I already have.”

“Spoilsport,” she replied.

Her expression said she didn’t believe him. He considered relenting. He should throw her a bone—or a whole roomful of them. But their waitress arrived then. She was a heavyset woman named Helga with a thick accent of Eastern European origin. The woman had been waiting on them for half a decade. Even so, she eyed Chloe curiously before asking, “Your usual today?”

Chloe’s usual was a double mocha latte and toasted onion bagel slathered with enough melted butter and cream cheese that it should have come with an American Heart Association warning.

“Not today. I’ll have coffee, black. Make it decaf.”

“And to eat?”

“Nothing.”

Helga’s bushy eyebrows shot up at that.

“You no want something to eat?”

“No. Nothing.”

“You feel okay?”

“Fine. I’m on a diet,” she confessed.

“Chloe’s always on a diet,” Simon inserted.

Helga made a rude sound. “Girls nowadays, they all want to be so skinny. Too skinny, I think. A stiff breeze, they blow over.” She motioned with her notepad, before turning to Simon. “So, you think she need to lose weight?”

“No. Not a pound.” She was perfect in his book. Always had been.

“See.” Helga nodded vigorously. To Chloe, she said, “I bring you onion bagel just how you like.”

Chloe’s expression turned panicked, but before she could refuse, Simon said casually, “You don’t have to eat all of it. Or any of it, Chloe. Consider it a test of your willpower.”

“Fine.” She straightened in her seat and squared her shoulders, making the display of her cleavage even harder for Simon to ignore. It was like a magnet, drawing his gaze.

“What will you have?” Helga asked.

Because he knew what he really wanted was off-limits, he wrapped both hands around his cup of coffee and forced his gaze to the stocky waitress. “Two slices of whole wheat toast and a fruit cup.”

Helga pursed her lips in distaste as she jotted down his order. “Fruit cup,” she muttered as she walked away. “Is whole world on diet?”

“I think we’ve ruined her day,” Chloe said.

“We’ll leave a big tip,” Simon replied.

They always did, regardless of the amount they spent. The way Simon saw it, she deserved the tip. He and Chloe took up one of Helga’s prime tables for at least a couple of hours on a Saturday without running up a sizable tab.

Chloe fussed with her hair, pulling it back behind her head. No doubt if she had a rubber band at her disposal, it would wind up in a ponytail.

“I like your hair down,” he said.

On a sigh, she let it drop. “It’s not even humid out and my hair is already going nuts. You wouldn’t know I’d used this expensive new antifrizz stuff. I want my money back.”

“I don’t know. I think it looks nice. I like it when you leave it curly.”

“I don’t mind curly, but it’s heading toward steel wool. For the reunion, I’m thinking of having it professionally straightened.”

Don’t! He wanted to shout. But he doubted she would follow his advice. So, instead he lifted his shoulders. “Whatever you think best.”

Helga was back with Chloe’s coffee and refilled Simon’s cup.

“I’m considering dying it a different color, too.” She smiled at their waitress. “What do you think? Should I attempt blond?”

Helga issued that rude sound again. Before stalking away, she said, “Keep what God gave you.”

To Simon, Chloe said, “I think God could have been a little more generous in certain areas and, well, spread the wealth in others, if you know what I mean.”

“You wouldn’t look good as a blonde.”

She frowned. “I thought you liked blondes? The last three women you dated all looked like they just stepped out of the California sun.”

True enough, he realized, although it hadn’t been intentional. They’d been available and interested and, well, since he’d been available … He didn’t like how that made it seem, though he’d never pretended to have deep feelings for any of them. Nor had he made any promises.

He wasn’t his father … a man who made promises, vows even, with the ease of a politician, only to break them, as wives one through five could attest.

“Simon?” Chloe was staring at him.

He pulled himself back to the present. “Your coloring is all wrong for blond hair. You’re too fair.”

“That can be changed, too.”

He didn’t like the glint in her eye. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about tanning again. Remember what happened before senior pictures.”

She shuddered, making him sorry to have brought it up. She’d gotten the bright idea to lie under the heat lamp her grandmother kept to warm new litters of Persian kittens, and had wound up burned to the point of blistering on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“Not tanning per se,” she murmured, but before he could question her further, she asked, “Will you be going for your usual run tomorrow morning?”

He frowned at the change in subject. “Why?”

“I was thinking of joining you.”

He couldn’t help it. His brows shot up. “Are you going to run?”

She wrinkled her nose, a sign she was insulted. “You don’t need to look so shocked. Haven’t you pestered me since Nana’s heart attack to do more cardio conditioning?”

He had indeed, worried that Chloe’s addiction to comfort food might take her down the same hardened-arteries path as her seventy-four-year-old grandmother. But he knew Chloe’s sudden decision to listen had less to do with his persuasive abilities than their upcoming class reunion. He almost called her on it. But the truth was, he liked the idea of having company during the runs he took four mornings a week.

“We can meet in the park at eight,” he said after a moment.

“Great.”

Her smile lasted until Helga arrived with their food. The cream-cheese-laden bagel beckoned. The way she swallowed before sucking in her bottom lip told him as much. Whoever had been manning the knife in the kitchen had been generous with the topping.

“Anything else?” Helga asked, her meaty hands resting on a pair of what Simon remembered a great-aunt referring to as good child-bearing hips.

No way he was going to point out that his so-called fresh fruit cup looked suspiciously like the syrup-drenched cocktail variety that came in a can.

“No. We’re good.”

More than half of the bagel remained when Helga brought the check. Chloe considered that a victory of the highest order. She’d actually sat on her hands to keep from finishing it off. Whatever it took, she was willing to do it. She had her eye on the prize.

“You promised me a walk,” she reminded Simon.

“So I did. And I never renege on my promises,” he replied. He always looked surprisingly serious when he made comments such as that, and now was no exception. “Do you have a destination in mind?”

“How about that little bookstore just off Fifth? We haven’t been there in a while.”

It was one of the few independent shops of its kind left in the city. And while Chloe had nothing against the big stores that held every title and obscure periodical under the sun and housed trendy cafes where patrons could get a good, if pricey, cup of coffee and read their purchases, she was especially fond of this place. It was the clear underdog. Chloe knew how that felt.

“Sure.”

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