more than half an hour early,” he said.
Becca glanced at her own wristwatch. He was being generous. They were closer to forty-five minutes early. She’d made the appointment for ten o’clock, and it was just past nine-fifteen now. “I thought traffic would be a lot worse,” she said lamely. “I wanted to get an early start.”
The real reason she’d wanted to get an early start was because she’d figured Turner would put up more of a fight about coming, so she’d shown up at his place extra early to allow time for the argument. But he’d been surprisingly cooperative about everything. He’d also been pretty yummy-looking in his faded blue jeans and a navy-blue sweater that made his blue eyes seem even bluer somehow, especially when he pulled a disreputable-looking denim jacket on over it. Becca, too, had opted for blue jeans today, pairing hers with a white, scooped-neck T-shirt and black blazer.
The day outside the downtown office building where Dorcas Upton and all the letters following her name had sited their office was coolish but sunny, the perfect weather, Becca couldn’t help thinking, for a good hypnotizing. She and Turner had both taken a personal day off from work, feeling not one bit guilty about it since they had to be present for a big meeting at the office on Saturday morning. Robert Englund hadn’t complained, and besides, they were doing this as much for him as they were for themselves.
Well, okay, maybe that was pushing it. But tomorrow, Becca and Turner would put the finishing touches on their pitch for a big new account Englund Advertising was trying to land—an account that could bring in loads of money, not to mention a nice, fat promotion for Becca and Turner both—and the meeting Saturday would herald the big reveal. It made sense that the two of them would want to be at their best for the rest of the week.
And their best, Becca had decided, would be smoke-free. That way, they could work on the campaign with one hundred percent of their focus, instead of always being distracted by when they might be able to sneak away for a cigarette.
“Maybe Ms. Upton can take us early,” she said now as she reached for the knob and opened the door. “I didn’t have any problem making the appointment yesterday. That makes me think she can’t be booked solid all the time.”
“It makes me think she’s a quack,” Turner muttered.
Becca shushed him, but had to admit he had a point. And that point was made even finer when they entered the hypnotherapist’s office to find it completely empty. Although there was a little frosted window pushed open over a counter where a receptionist might normally be seated, there wasn’t a receptionist sitting there now.
Still, it was a very nicely appointed office, with wallpaper in a pale yellow stripe, plush, plum-colored seating, soft lighting and lots of ferns. And someone must be around, because there was soft classical music playing, and somewhere on the other side of that frosted window, down a hall or in another room, someone was talking on the phone.
“Place doesn’t seem to be hopping,” Turner said. “I bet she could take us early.”
Becca nodded. “If she’s here…”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a door on the other side of the room opened and a slight, wiry woman came striding through. When she saw Becca and Turner, she seemed to be as surprised as they were, but she quickly recovered and smiled. “Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Dorcas Upton. Can I help you?”
Becca wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when it came to hypnotherapists, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t this. Dorcas Upton had more in common with Mother Goose than she did with the Amazing Mesmiro. Probably around sixty years old, she had her gray hair fixed atop her head in a tidy bun, and beaded black half-glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Slender to the point of being almost angular, she stood a good three or four
Becca glanced at her own wristwatch. He was being generous. They were closer to forty-five minutes early. She’d made the appointment for ten o’clock, and it was just past nine-fifteen now. “I thought traffic would be a lot worse,” she said lamely. “I wanted to get an early start.”
The real reason she’d wanted to get an early start was because she’d figured Turner would put up more of a fight about coming, so she’d shown up at his place extra early to allow time for the argument. But he’d been surprisingly cooperative about everything. He’d also been pretty yummy-looking in his faded blue jeans and a navy-blue sweater that made his blue eyes seem even bluer somehow, especially when he pulled a disreputable-looking denim jacket on over it. Becca, too, had opted for blue jeans today, pairing hers with a white, scooped-neck T-shirt and black blazer.
The day outside the downtown office building where Dorcas Upton and all the letters following her name had sited their office was coolish but sunny, the perfect weather, Becca couldn’t help thinking, for a good hypnotizing. She and Turner had both taken a personal day off from work, feeling not one bit guilty about it since they had to be present for a big meeting at the office on Saturday morning. Robert Englund hadn’t complained, and besides, they were doing this as much for him as they were for themselves.
Well, okay, maybe that was pushing it. But tomorrow, Becca and Turner would put the finishing touches on their pitch for a big new account Englund Advertising was trying to land—an account that could bring in loads of money, not to mention a nice, fat promotion for Becca and Turner both—and the meeting Saturday would herald the big reveal. It made sense that the two of them would want to be at their best for the rest of the week.
And their best, Becca had decided, would be smoke-free. That way, they could work on the campaign with one hundred percent of their focus, instead of always being distracted by when they might be able to sneak away for a cigarette.
“Maybe Ms. Upton can take us early,” she said now as she reached for the knob and opened the door. “I didn’t have any problem making the appointment yesterday. That makes me think she can’t be booked solid all the time.”
“It makes me think she’s a quack,” Turner muttered.
Becca shushed him, but had to admit he had a point. And that point was made even finer when they entered the hypnotherapist’s office to find it completely empty. Although there was a little frosted window pushed open over a counter where a receptionist might normally be seated, there wasn’t a receptionist sitting there now.
Still, it was a very nicely appointed office, with wallpaper in a pale yellow stripe, plush, plum-colored seating, soft lighting and lots of ferns. And someone must be around, because there was soft classical music playing, and somewhere on the other side of that frosted window, down a hall or in another room, someone was talking on the phone.
“Place doesn’t seem to be hopping,” Turner said. “I bet she could take us early.”
Becca nodded. “If she’s here…”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a door on the other side of the room opened and a slight, wiry woman came striding through. When she saw Becca and Turner, she seemed to be as surprised as they were, but she quickly recovered and smiled. “Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Dorcas Upton. Can I help you?”
Becca wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting when it came to hypnotherapists, but she was pretty sure it wasn’t this. Dorcas Upton had more in common with Mother Goose than she did with the Amazing Mesmiro. Probably around sixty years old, she had her gray hair fixed atop her head in a tidy bun, and beaded black half-glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Slender to the point of being almost angular, she stood a good three or four
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