Striding up to the plate, I stepped boldly onto the smooth white surface, and winced.
Ten minutes later I was laced into my running shoes and stepping out the front door. Harlequin looked dashing in his red nylon leash. Controlling him was kind of like trying to box up the wind, but after the turmoil of the past six months, there was something comforting about having a rhino-size carnivore on a string. And there was the added bonus of his tendency to pull me up the hills.
The jacarandas were capped in purple blossoms and blooming early on Opus Street. Had I not been sure my lungs were about to explode I would have stared in awe. Dr. Seuss couldn’t have conjured up anything more outrageous, but I turned my back to them and chugged up Oro Vista. True to form, Harley did his part to tow me along. Downhill was like trying to water-ski behind a Zamboni. By the time I reached my own slanted stoop, my right arm was two inches longer than my left and I wasn’t sure which of us was panting harder.
Sloshing water into Harlequin’s dish, I set it on the floor near the kitchen counter. He slopped it up while I retreated to the bathroom. No water for me. Instead, I stripped off every thread of clothing, gritted my teeth, stepped back onto the scale, and glared. Maybe it wasn’t the enemy, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to invite it over for pizza and beer. Stepping off, I slipped off my watch and removed my hair binder. Then, picking up the scale, I placed it on a cushy portion of the carpet in my pencilsized hallway and gave it another chance.
One hundred and thirty-two pounds.
Not bad. If I didn’t eat for a week and shaved my head, my weight would be perfect.
I was inspired to eat light. Breakfast consisted of seven raisins and a glass of water. Not because I wanted to look good for men. The new Christina McMullen didn’t care about such outdated considerations.
Jack Rivera might have bone-melting eyes and an ass like a hot cross bun, but that only mattered to the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was playing it smart. Living right. Keeping her nose to the grindstone.
Where the hell did one find a grindstone?
I pondered that on my drive to work and studiously did not think about buns of any kind. When a guy in a Chevy truck with license plates that said BOSSMAN cut me off, I ground my teeth, bided my time, and returned the favor at the first possible opportunity. Huh. The new Chrissy seemed to be almost as vindictive as the old one.
Eleven minutes later I was sitting across from my first client. Jacob Gerry was thirty-one, attractive, and successful. Luckily, he was also as gay as a bluebird. Ergo, no temptation to fraternize. Fraternizing with clients is a big no-no and tends to jeopardize one’s career. After the debacle with Andrew Bomstad, mine didn’t exactly need jeopardizing. Not that the new Chrissy would have been tempted even if Gerry fought fires in his underwear while simultaneously curing cancer. The new Chrissy was grinding her nose.
“Do you believe everyone really has a soul mate?” Jacob’s voice was quiet and earnest, his eyes solemn. He worked in advertising, dressed like a Macy’s mannequin, and probably made enough in an hour to pay my mortgage. But he was short one mate for his soul.
“What exactly do you mean by a ‘soul mate’?” I asked.
He smiled, showing teeth just a little shy of perfect. Somehow it only made him more appealing. “Is this a clever ploy to induce me to discuss the meaning of life?”
Actually, no. I just honestly had no idea what a soul mate was. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t a guy who ate the center out of my birthday cake or used my e-mail address to converse with girls who had names like Satin and Honey.
The new Chrissy shrugged enigmatically. “Perhaps,” she said.
Jacob glanced out the window, smile fading. The view was less than awe-inspiring. Unless you were inspired by the sight of the Sunrise Coffee House. Which, by the by, had darn good scones.
Ten minutes later I was laced into my running shoes and stepping out the front door. Harlequin looked dashing in his red nylon leash. Controlling him was kind of like trying to box up the wind, but after the turmoil of the past six months, there was something comforting about having a rhino-size carnivore on a string. And there was the added bonus of his tendency to pull me up the hills.
The jacarandas were capped in purple blossoms and blooming early on Opus Street. Had I not been sure my lungs were about to explode I would have stared in awe. Dr. Seuss couldn’t have conjured up anything more outrageous, but I turned my back to them and chugged up Oro Vista. True to form, Harley did his part to tow me along. Downhill was like trying to water-ski behind a Zamboni. By the time I reached my own slanted stoop, my right arm was two inches longer than my left and I wasn’t sure which of us was panting harder.
Sloshing water into Harlequin’s dish, I set it on the floor near the kitchen counter. He slopped it up while I retreated to the bathroom. No water for me. Instead, I stripped off every thread of clothing, gritted my teeth, stepped back onto the scale, and glared. Maybe it wasn’t the enemy, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to invite it over for pizza and beer. Stepping off, I slipped off my watch and removed my hair binder. Then, picking up the scale, I placed it on a cushy portion of the carpet in my pencilsized hallway and gave it another chance.
One hundred and thirty-two pounds.
Not bad. If I didn’t eat for a week and shaved my head, my weight would be perfect.
I was inspired to eat light. Breakfast consisted of seven raisins and a glass of water. Not because I wanted to look good for men. The new Christina McMullen didn’t care about such outdated considerations.
Jack Rivera might have bone-melting eyes and an ass like a hot cross bun, but that only mattered to the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was playing it smart. Living right. Keeping her nose to the grindstone.
Where the hell did one find a grindstone?
I pondered that on my drive to work and studiously did not think about buns of any kind. When a guy in a Chevy truck with license plates that said BOSSMAN cut me off, I ground my teeth, bided my time, and returned the favor at the first possible opportunity. Huh. The new Chrissy seemed to be almost as vindictive as the old one.
Eleven minutes later I was sitting across from my first client. Jacob Gerry was thirty-one, attractive, and successful. Luckily, he was also as gay as a bluebird. Ergo, no temptation to fraternize. Fraternizing with clients is a big no-no and tends to jeopardize one’s career. After the debacle with Andrew Bomstad, mine didn’t exactly need jeopardizing. Not that the new Chrissy would have been tempted even if Gerry fought fires in his underwear while simultaneously curing cancer. The new Chrissy was grinding her nose.
“Do you believe everyone really has a soul mate?” Jacob’s voice was quiet and earnest, his eyes solemn. He worked in advertising, dressed like a Macy’s mannequin, and probably made enough in an hour to pay my mortgage. But he was short one mate for his soul.
“What exactly do you mean by a ‘soul mate’?” I asked.
He smiled, showing teeth just a little shy of perfect. Somehow it only made him more appealing. “Is this a clever ploy to induce me to discuss the meaning of life?”
Actually, no. I just honestly had no idea what a soul mate was. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t a guy who ate the center out of my birthday cake or used my e-mail address to converse with girls who had names like Satin and Honey.
The new Chrissy shrugged enigmatically. “Perhaps,” she said.
Jacob glanced out the window, smile fading. The view was less than awe-inspiring. Unless you were inspired by the sight of the Sunrise Coffee House. Which, by the by, had darn good scones.
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