first time in my life raised three fingers in the Girl Scout sign, even though the closest I’ve ever gotten to the world of Scouting is scarfing down an entire box of Samoas at one sitting.
Somehow I knew he would like the three-finger salute, though, and sure enough, he gave me a big thumbs-up. I made a show of leaning back and reaching for that luscious cheese Danish, the one that had been sitting on the plate all that time, calling my name. I did it just to show Ted how relaxed and worry free I was (even if mildly carbohydrate addicted and maybe even insulin resistant).
I watched Ted hurry over to the front desk and allowed myself a sad little sigh at the way his brown hair looped sex ily over one eye and his broad, muscular shoulders filled out his blazer. There he was: smart, handsome, successful, kind-hearted, and single. Cypress Grove’s most eligible bachelor, everything you could want in a man.
And he wanted—me!
There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me. This is the guy who surprised me by ordering a special “Beefy Liver doggy birthday cake” for Pugsley from the Sweet Cakes bakery over on Main Street. He sent over the hotel gardener with a bouquet of yellow roses last week, and hand delivered a pot of chicken soup last month when Lark had the flu. He even power washed my deck when I said it was looking a little grungy.
Hell, he’d probably paint my bathroom if I asked him to. So what’s the problem? Okay, maybe I’m crazy. But here’s the hitch.
Call me shallow, but can you imagine having hot monkey sex with a guy who says things like “skedaddle”?
I rest my case.
Chapter 7
I waited until Ted disappeared into his office behind the front desk and watched while he shut the door behind him. There was one person who might hold the key to the puzzle.
Miriam Dobosh, right hand to the guru himself.
After taking another quick peek to make sure Ted’s office door was still firmly shut, I bounced to my feet and trotted along the back hallway to the stairs to the second floor and the Magnolia Ballroom. The double brass doors were closed, but I could hear the soft murmur of voices inside, along with some ethereal music. At least I think it was supposed to be ethereal. It sounded like whale sounds, a mournful elegy punctuated by a series of squeaks that reminded me of Pugsley’s squeeze toy.
Cautiously, I opened the door a crack, only to find myself face-to-face with yet another of the Sopranos -type body-guards. He was a Goliath. I’m five-ten, and I had to crane my neck to look up at him.
“This is a closed workshop,” he rasped, all set to slam the door in my face like I was the Avon lady offering him a free lip gloss.
“But I’ve been invited!” I protested.
“Yeah?” His eyes slid over my short-sleeved salmon-colored Tommy Bahama blouse and tan pencil skirt. “If you’re a registered conference guest, go down to the front desk and pick up your name tag.” His tone was brusque and his black eyes glittered as cold and hard as river rocks.
“I’ve got a press pass,” I said quickly. I reached for my pass and found to my horror it was missing. Hoping for the best, I pulled out my laminated Cypress Grove Public Library card and waved it at him. A beat of tense silence fell between us.
He ignored the card, so I shoved it back in my bag. Either he doesn’t read a lot or he was on to me.
“Look, I’m with WYME, and I interviewed Guru Sanjay on my radio show yesterday. We were going to continue our conversation last night and I was shocked to learn he had died.”
This earned me an even icier glare. Oop s ! Nix the word “die.” I’d forgotten that death doesn’t exist in the world of Sanjay Gingii. Time for damage control.
“I mean before he . . . um . . . transitioned to another dimension. He asked me to attend the conference today as his special guest.”
“I don’t know nothing about that.” He had a rough New York accent (maybe Bed-Stuy?) and looked like his nose had
Somehow I knew he would like the three-finger salute, though, and sure enough, he gave me a big thumbs-up. I made a show of leaning back and reaching for that luscious cheese Danish, the one that had been sitting on the plate all that time, calling my name. I did it just to show Ted how relaxed and worry free I was (even if mildly carbohydrate addicted and maybe even insulin resistant).
I watched Ted hurry over to the front desk and allowed myself a sad little sigh at the way his brown hair looped sex ily over one eye and his broad, muscular shoulders filled out his blazer. There he was: smart, handsome, successful, kind-hearted, and single. Cypress Grove’s most eligible bachelor, everything you could want in a man.
And he wanted—me!
There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me. This is the guy who surprised me by ordering a special “Beefy Liver doggy birthday cake” for Pugsley from the Sweet Cakes bakery over on Main Street. He sent over the hotel gardener with a bouquet of yellow roses last week, and hand delivered a pot of chicken soup last month when Lark had the flu. He even power washed my deck when I said it was looking a little grungy.
Hell, he’d probably paint my bathroom if I asked him to. So what’s the problem? Okay, maybe I’m crazy. But here’s the hitch.
Call me shallow, but can you imagine having hot monkey sex with a guy who says things like “skedaddle”?
I rest my case.
Chapter 7
I waited until Ted disappeared into his office behind the front desk and watched while he shut the door behind him. There was one person who might hold the key to the puzzle.
Miriam Dobosh, right hand to the guru himself.
After taking another quick peek to make sure Ted’s office door was still firmly shut, I bounced to my feet and trotted along the back hallway to the stairs to the second floor and the Magnolia Ballroom. The double brass doors were closed, but I could hear the soft murmur of voices inside, along with some ethereal music. At least I think it was supposed to be ethereal. It sounded like whale sounds, a mournful elegy punctuated by a series of squeaks that reminded me of Pugsley’s squeeze toy.
Cautiously, I opened the door a crack, only to find myself face-to-face with yet another of the Sopranos -type body-guards. He was a Goliath. I’m five-ten, and I had to crane my neck to look up at him.
“This is a closed workshop,” he rasped, all set to slam the door in my face like I was the Avon lady offering him a free lip gloss.
“But I’ve been invited!” I protested.
“Yeah?” His eyes slid over my short-sleeved salmon-colored Tommy Bahama blouse and tan pencil skirt. “If you’re a registered conference guest, go down to the front desk and pick up your name tag.” His tone was brusque and his black eyes glittered as cold and hard as river rocks.
“I’ve got a press pass,” I said quickly. I reached for my pass and found to my horror it was missing. Hoping for the best, I pulled out my laminated Cypress Grove Public Library card and waved it at him. A beat of tense silence fell between us.
He ignored the card, so I shoved it back in my bag. Either he doesn’t read a lot or he was on to me.
“Look, I’m with WYME, and I interviewed Guru Sanjay on my radio show yesterday. We were going to continue our conversation last night and I was shocked to learn he had died.”
This earned me an even icier glare. Oop s ! Nix the word “die.” I’d forgotten that death doesn’t exist in the world of Sanjay Gingii. Time for damage control.
“I mean before he . . . um . . . transitioned to another dimension. He asked me to attend the conference today as his special guest.”
“I don’t know nothing about that.” He had a rough New York accent (maybe Bed-Stuy?) and looked like his nose had
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