The Cover Model by Cheyenne Meadows

tried to pay attention to a couple of presentations that morning, only to find herself too distracted and excited to garner much from the speakers. At the first break, she had bolted, heading directly for the costume place.
    Twirling around, Fancy checked herself out in the full-length mirror for the third time in the past ten minutes, a bit uncertain about her outfit for the evening's events; Old West night. She envisioned most of the men would dress as cowboys, either good or bad as indicated by the color of cowboy hat. Perhaps a couple might dare to come as a Native American. The women surely would lean toward a dutiful wife, saloon dancer, or school teacher with a handful of Annie Oakleys and Calamity Janes tossed in for good measure. She'd had those images in mind when visiting the nearby costume shop that Mitch pointed out the day before as they had shared lunch. The school teacher's dress called to her, although she had to pass on the period style short ladies' boots. Her tennis shoes would just have to do. No way could she dance in boots or spend hours in her black flats without arch support.
    The impromptu get-together still bumfuzzled her. While she could understand running into one another at a restaurant, she didn't understand why he chose to sit with her and begin chatting away. The reason didn't really matter, considering she thoroughly enjoyed herself and him. Once she could see past the cover model face and body, she found a decent man with a witty mind, charming smile, and quirky sense of humor. She wouldn't have guessed he was a lawyer, but looking back, she could see it now. Intelligence and an easygoing manner pointed to a logical and steady career, one that offered rewards to those willing to do the hard work.
    Then last night. She sighed in remembrance. He'd shown up at her door and they had spent the evening in her bed, reading a romance novel to one another. She'd never thought much of reading out loud, except perhaps teachers to small children or a loving parent to their infant. Yet the night sparkled for her. Even more touching was Mitch had taken the time to cover her after she'd fallen asleep and lock her door as he'd left. She vaguely recalled him mumbling to her and kissing her crown, but she could have already been asleep and dreaming. No matter. She'd had a blast and knew the upcoming night, attending a ball with Mitch, would only be better.
    Why did he pick me? The question hounded her. The sexiest man at the convention had asked her to the party. It didn't make sense, but she vowed not to fight it. Spending the evening on the arm of Mitch Jameson might be a highlight to her fairly mundane life. Even if the dream date lasted for only a few hours before he moved on to another lady the next night, she could scribble the events down in her diary to re-read sometime down the road.
    Don't knock him until you try him. The adventuresome voice in her head clanged loudly. A motto to live by for today.
    Worrying with her hair, she tugged the ponytail holder out and grabbed a brush. After a few strokes, she twisted and wound her long hair into a solid bun, held in place with a few pins and clips. Satisfied the blonde locks would remain in place, she brushed off imaginary lint and checked the mirror one last time, halfway cringing at her white tennis shoes only partially covered by her dress. She didn't have any other shoes than black flats used for her presentation and her workout sneakers. However, the western dress truly needed something else in footwear. Releasing a sigh, she chose to ignore the issue, telling herself that no one would notice the fashion faux pas.
    She glimpsed the clock on the wall. Six fifty. Mitch should be knocking on her door any moment. A thrill of excitement sped through her.
    Three raps on her door caught her attention. Hurrying over, she checked through the peephole and immediately opened the door to find Mitch dressed in black jeans, a black western shirt, a prominent belt