Every Girl's Secret Fantasy by Robyn Grady

blood simmered more. He couldn’t wait to see how the rest of their day panned out—even with the mutt along.
    Phoebe opened the door to an elderly lady and exclaimed, “Oh, good morning, Mrs G!”
    Setting his private thoughts aside, Pace nodded politely towards a woman wearing a jet-black rinse and a multi-coloured shift. As “Mrs G” entered the room, she regarded the two thoughtfully, worrying her jaw back and forth as if ill-fitting dentures were terrorising her gums.
    â€œDidn’t mean to interrupt anything,” she said. A single bark sounded as Hannie leapt over into the older woman’s arms, and those assessing eyes suddenly glistened with unabashed love. “How are you, darling boy?”
    Pace swallowed uncomfortably as kisses—the wet kind, involving at least two mouths and one tongue—were exchanged.
    â€œYou’re not interrupting, Mrs G,” Phoebe said, guiding her visitor into the room.
    â€œI wanted to know if you needed me this weekend.”
    â€œActually,” Phoebe said, “we’re about to head off for the country.”
    The woman’s expression sharpened. “To your aunt’splace? Be nice this time of year.” She eyed Pace like a headmistress summing up a possible truant.
    Phoebe gestured to Pace. “This is a friend of mine—Pace Davis.”
    The old biddy glared. “You like dogs, Mr Davis?”
    â€œSure,” he answered jauntily. “ Hot —with mustard and pickles.” He chuckled, but fell silent when everyone, including the hairball, simply stared. He tugged his ear. Bad joke.
    After sizing him up a final time, Mrs G turned to Phoebe. “I wanted to let you know that I have an appointment next Wednesday. Not till late.”
    Phoebe turned to usher the older woman out. “I’ll make sure I’m home early to take Hannie off your hands if he’s over there.”
    Mrs G dropped a kiss on the dog’s crown. “You be a good boy. No chasing possums, hmm?” She looked down her nose at Pace. “No need to tell you to behave, I hope?”
    Pace smiled ear to ear. “I haven’t chased a possum in years.”
    â€œGoodbye, Mrs G.” Taking Hannie, Phoebe politely showed the frowning woman to the door. When Mrs G was out of earshot, Phoebe shrugged apologetically. “She’s really very sweet when you get to know her.”
    Pace shuddered. “A veritable bee at the hive.”
    Phoebe gave his arm a playful slap as she wove around and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll pack some provisions,” she called over a shoulder.
    Sensing an outing, Hannie scampered across the timber floor to camp out by the front door. Pace surrendered to a grin. Smart dog. A little too smart.
    Pace cast an eye around the apartment. A coupleof surrealist paintings on the wall, air-con installed. Comfortable furniture strewn with bright cushions.
    He spotted a loose sheet of paper on the side-table and scooped it up.
    â€œâ€˜Phoebe’s Wish List’,” he muttered aloud, then shook his head, smiling. Typical organised female. Making a list for Christmas already.
    His eye ran down the page before his vision scudded back to the top. A hot bath of hope poured over him as he reread that very inviting first point: Find Mr Right Now.
    Impressed, Pace let out a low whistle. He wondered how many requests Santa got for that .
    He peered around the corner. With Phoebe still busy in the kitchen, his attention went back to the list.
    Guess it wasn’t such a strange request. It was the twenty-first century, after all. Today’s women were supposed to be into careers and having it all. Being tied down to a Mr Right with a couple of kids made that difficult. Hell, he was about to turn thirty and he was nowhere near ready for that kind of commitment. Playing the field was a good alternative—it seemed for both sexes.
    But if having a memorable affair was at the top