Good Karma by Donya Lynne

assistant, Karma Mason.”
    The ruse of being a model was officially
over, not that he’d believed her in the first place. She was a
whole lot of nobody special. She wasn’t a model or a rich, Chicago
socialite, or even Cinderella. She was Karma, executive assistant
by day, wannabe journalist by night, and about as conservative as
Mother Teresa, even if her innermost thoughts seemed to have taken
a more liberal track in the last few days.
    Mama T would not approve.
    Mark’s brow ticked with awareness, and he
took her hand as he tilted his head slightly to one side. “Pleased
to finally meet you, Karma.”
    The choice of his words, as well as his
inflection, made it clear he referred to the fact that he had never
actually gotten to know her, just as she had never really gotten to
know him. So much for charades, because there was no way to hide
the truth, anymore.
    His gaze swept with swift efficiency down her
body and back to her face. The once-over took all of a second, but
she felt stripped on the spot, as if he were kissing her again,
right there, in Solar’s lobby, casting away her logic and reason
with little more than a glance.
    She gestured toward the stairs. “I’ll take
you up to Don’s office.” Forcing her feet to move was like slogging
through mud. Or maybe nearly set concrete.
    “Karma,” he said thoughtfully as they started
up the stairs. “So, you’re Don’s assistant?”
    “Yes.” She took hold of the railing, willing
her legs to stay under her.
    “You know, I recently met a woman named
Karma. She was…intriguing.”
    Oh boy. Breathe, just breathe.
    Heat flooded her face. “What a coincidence.”
Her wobbly legs threatened to give out. Mark was so not what she’d
expected today. She had thought she would never see him again, yet
here he was, in her world instead of his.
    This was no longer a fantasy. It was a
nightmare.
     
     
    When Mark had arrived at Solar this morning,
the last thing he had expected was to come face-to-face with the
woman who had captivated his thoughts the better part of yesterday.
He had felt awful about how he had treated her Saturday night and
had racked his brain to figure out a way to learn her identity and
how he could reach her to at least send a note of apology. He never
imagined he would actually see her again. And now, here she was,
leading him up the stairs to meet with Don Jacoby…apparently her
boss. Talk about your strokes of luck.
    He trailed behind her, studying her mannish
suit, the unremarkable, low-heeled patent leather shoes, and the
tight chignon holding all that beautiful hair in a bundle that
denied its glory. Her story and everything about her was beginning
to make sense. Her innocence, her mystique, the way she had seemed
so unsure in that dress. And yet, the dress and the strappy gold
stilettos had seemed to fit her personality better than this
masculine garb and clunky footwear.
    “So, not a model,” he said at the top of the
stairs as he fell in beside her.
    Her cheeks flushed. “No, not a model.” She
lowered her gaze to the floor then started down the hall.
    The self-conscious gesture tugged at his
curiosity. Seeing her here, in her regular surroundings, wearing
what he could only guess were her regular clothes, with her hair
pulled into what was probably her regular hairstyle, he couldn’t
integrate the woman in front of him with the woman he had met this
past weekend. They were two totally different people sharing one
body. Which persona was real? Which one was a front?
    “Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “Models
are too high maintenance, anyway.” He had dated a model once. Never
again.
    She looked up at him. “High maintenance?”
    “Absolutely.” He lightly elbowed her arm.
“Being an executive assistant is much better.”
    Biting her bottom lip as she smiled, she
turned her attention to the front again.
    Life had given him another opportunity to set
things right. To apologize and behave like a gentleman instead of