waiting room with a counter and receptionist’s desk, and comfortable looking leather chairs. The place looked like a law firm, corporate office, or any other white-collar business. Not a dating service. Georgia wondered if her client had it wrong.
An attractive young woman behind the receptionist’s desk was reading Cosmopolitan , but when Georgia opened the door, she slipped it in a drawer. The woman was perfectly made up and coiffed, but her outfit, a dark green suit with no blouse, exposed a little too much cleavage for the office.
“Can I help you?” She asked sweetly.
Georgia rethought her strategy. She’d been planning to pretend she was a teacher who was looking for love in all the wrong places, but given the upscale atmosphere, she’d probably need a more lucrative “career.” She cleared her throat, glad she was wearing a nice dress. “I’d—I’d like to see someone about your service.”
The receptionist looked her up and down. “Do you have an appointment?”
Georgia felt a tic of irritation. The receptionist was screening her. “I don’t.”
The woman hesitated, then flashed Georgia a bright smile. “That’s okay. I think we can squeeze you in.” What did it? Georgia wondered. Her hair? Clothes? Her sad dog expression? She didn’t know, but she was pleased she’d passed muster. The receptionist opened another drawer and pulled out a form. “You’ll have to fill this out.”
“No problem.” Georgia took it and sat in one of the chairs. Four pages long, the form asked for her education level, work history, income, significant relationships, hobbies, and about a hundred other things. As she filled out the “relationship” box, a fleeting memory of Matt surfaced. They’d lived together for a year. No. She wouldn’t include him. Too close to the truth.
As for a career, she decided she would be a graphic artist. Her friend, Samantha Mosele, was one, and she was raking in a bunch of money developing and maintaining websites. Georgia wrote down her true name and address, but everything else—the degree from Northwestern, graduate work at Loyola, clients, and generous income, was a fantasy. She smiled. Creating a character out of whole cloth was kind of fun. For the relationship box, she wrote that she was recently divorced after seven years of marriage.
She handed the form back to the receptionist, who promptly took it and knocked on a door down the hall. Georgia heard a muffled conversation. The receptionist returned and said to follow her. A whiff of sweet, musky perfume trailed behind her.
Georgia walked into a large, airy office. Behind a desk covered with a mass of papers was a woman with long black hair, pale skin, red fingernails, and a face that was almost artfully made up. Dressed in a casual black pantsuit—also with no blouse underneath—the woman looked like Morticia Addams as played by Angelica Huston. On the wall behind her was a framed diploma from George Washington University. She motioned Georgia into a chair.
“Hello, there. Felicia says you are a walk-in.” Her voice was soft but her smile chilly. “Tell me, what made you drive out here without an appointment? It’s not as if we run commercials on TV.”
Georgia’s antenna went up. The woman was already grilling her. She needed to be careful. She shot back with a question of her own. “And you are?”
She held out a hand. “Tracy Alessi. I own More-than-Friends.” Her handshake was perfunctory. Another cool smile. Then she scanned the form. “Georgia Davis.” She looked up, her eyebrows arched. “Well?”
Georgia remembered a name from the lobby directory. “I—I had a meeting with PRSA Management Consultants. I’m a graphic designer. Anyway, when I was looking for the floor it was on, I noticed your listing. It looked—well—I just thought I’d take a chance.”
“I see.” Alessi studied her. Georgia knew she was trying to make up her mind whether she was for real. “And what were you
An attractive young woman behind the receptionist’s desk was reading Cosmopolitan , but when Georgia opened the door, she slipped it in a drawer. The woman was perfectly made up and coiffed, but her outfit, a dark green suit with no blouse, exposed a little too much cleavage for the office.
“Can I help you?” She asked sweetly.
Georgia rethought her strategy. She’d been planning to pretend she was a teacher who was looking for love in all the wrong places, but given the upscale atmosphere, she’d probably need a more lucrative “career.” She cleared her throat, glad she was wearing a nice dress. “I’d—I’d like to see someone about your service.”
The receptionist looked her up and down. “Do you have an appointment?”
Georgia felt a tic of irritation. The receptionist was screening her. “I don’t.”
The woman hesitated, then flashed Georgia a bright smile. “That’s okay. I think we can squeeze you in.” What did it? Georgia wondered. Her hair? Clothes? Her sad dog expression? She didn’t know, but she was pleased she’d passed muster. The receptionist opened another drawer and pulled out a form. “You’ll have to fill this out.”
“No problem.” Georgia took it and sat in one of the chairs. Four pages long, the form asked for her education level, work history, income, significant relationships, hobbies, and about a hundred other things. As she filled out the “relationship” box, a fleeting memory of Matt surfaced. They’d lived together for a year. No. She wouldn’t include him. Too close to the truth.
As for a career, she decided she would be a graphic artist. Her friend, Samantha Mosele, was one, and she was raking in a bunch of money developing and maintaining websites. Georgia wrote down her true name and address, but everything else—the degree from Northwestern, graduate work at Loyola, clients, and generous income, was a fantasy. She smiled. Creating a character out of whole cloth was kind of fun. For the relationship box, she wrote that she was recently divorced after seven years of marriage.
She handed the form back to the receptionist, who promptly took it and knocked on a door down the hall. Georgia heard a muffled conversation. The receptionist returned and said to follow her. A whiff of sweet, musky perfume trailed behind her.
Georgia walked into a large, airy office. Behind a desk covered with a mass of papers was a woman with long black hair, pale skin, red fingernails, and a face that was almost artfully made up. Dressed in a casual black pantsuit—also with no blouse underneath—the woman looked like Morticia Addams as played by Angelica Huston. On the wall behind her was a framed diploma from George Washington University. She motioned Georgia into a chair.
“Hello, there. Felicia says you are a walk-in.” Her voice was soft but her smile chilly. “Tell me, what made you drive out here without an appointment? It’s not as if we run commercials on TV.”
Georgia’s antenna went up. The woman was already grilling her. She needed to be careful. She shot back with a question of her own. “And you are?”
She held out a hand. “Tracy Alessi. I own More-than-Friends.” Her handshake was perfunctory. Another cool smile. Then she scanned the form. “Georgia Davis.” She looked up, her eyebrows arched. “Well?”
Georgia remembered a name from the lobby directory. “I—I had a meeting with PRSA Management Consultants. I’m a graphic designer. Anyway, when I was looking for the floor it was on, I noticed your listing. It looked—well—I just thought I’d take a chance.”
“I see.” Alessi studied her. Georgia knew she was trying to make up her mind whether she was for real. “And what were you
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