Mr. Right There All Along Read online

  She’d grown into a lovely, bright, funny and creative young woman. But then, he’d always found her lovely and funny, bright and creative. She, however, still entertained a ridiculously warped view of herself. It was time she exorcised her demons. To do that, she had to face the past. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, send her into the lion’s den alone.

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.

  “Did we or did we not attend the same high school?” Purple-hued lips turned down in a frown. He had to be crazy, but he still found those lips incredibly sexy.

  And that was his problem. And the reason why women like Sara never lasted for very long. They simply couldn’t measure up to Chloe.

  “Those days are over,” he told her, taking her hand in one of his. “Those girls have nothing on you, Chloe. They never did.”

  “They made my life hell!”

  “They were cruel,” he agreed in a tone more moderated than hers. “But they can’t make your life hell now, unless you let them. Go back, face them and show them how far you’ve come since high school. You’ve got a lot to be proud of.”

  “Yeah, right.” She pulled her hand free. “I’m twenty-eight years old, single, working part-time and living with an antisocial cat.”

  Simon waved hand. “All cats are antisocial. I told you to get a dog if you wanted companionship from a pet.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Must you lecture me now?”

  “It seems so.” He waited a beat before asking, “Are we going together? Or are you bringing a date?”

  “A date.” She frowned, apparently realizing what she’d said. Her hands fell to her sides. “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Talk me into doing something that I absolutely don’t want to do?”

  “Years of practice,” he replied.

  “Okay. Since you think I need to do this, I will.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But only because I know you’ll hold it over my head forever if I don’t.” She ended on a long-suffering sigh.

  They both knew it was a cover and that she was grateful for the push.

  “You’ll thank me someday,” he said.

  “Or I’ll blame you indefinitely for the years of therapy to follow.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He shrugged and started in again on the mac and cheese. It was good, nearly as mouthwatering as Chloe’s pout.

  She was quiet while he finished off the last of the pasta, which was never a good sign. It meant she was thinking. More accurately, it meant she was plotting.

  Sure enough, just as he blotted his mouth with a napkin, she said, “You don’t mind if I go with someone else, do you? We can still sit together.” Her expression brightened. “You can bring someone, too. We can double-date. That will be fun.”

  Simon ignored the twinge in his chest. He always felt it when Chloe talked about other men. In fact, one of the things Sara had flung in his face that evening during their breakup was what she termed his “unhealthy attachment to that woman.”

  Sara wasn’t the first girlfriend to mention it. Nor, he suspected, would she be the last. He was attached to Chloe. How could he not be? They’d been close friends since before puberty and had seen one another through the good, the bad and the ugly of adolescence. They’d also been there for one another through high school and college and, now, the better part of their twenties. She was the only constant in his life.

  “Well?” Chloe was frowning, and obviously waiting for his reply.

  “Why would I mind?” Even to his ears, the words came out sounding hollow and defensive. He cleared his throat and shifted the conversation in a new direction. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

  “I’m not. But I plan to come up with the best-looking, most successful guy I can find, even if I have to pay him to attend with me.”

  Oh, yeah. Those wheels had been turning, all right.

  “Chloe, really—”

  She cut him off. “Yes, really. I want Natasha, Faith and Tamara to take one look at the hunk I’m with and drool an Olympic-size swimming pool.”

  “That’ll show ’em,” he drawled.

  She nodded, oblivious to his sarcasm.

  “Where do you plan to meet this Adonis?” God, please, tell him that she wasn’t going to say the internet. He’d talked her out of cyberspace dating twice already.

  Her smile was overly bright despite the fact that her teeth were tinted the same shade of purple as her lips. He knew he was in trouble even before she said, “I remember seeing a really attractive guy at your office the last time I stopped in to see you. Trevor something. I think you mentioned that he was a lawyer helping you with some of the details on your merger.”

  Uh-uh. No way was Simon going to set her up with Trevor, or, as the ladies at his company had dubbed him, “Mr. Hottie.” He would be only too glad to have the merger behind him so he could cut the guy loose. Productivity among the women at Ford Technology Solutions came to a standstill whenever Trevor was around.

  “No.”

  “Please.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Pretty please?”

  Her smile, purple-tinted or not, was nearly Simon’s undoing. God knew, as it was, he would do anything short of murder for the woman, and even that was negotiable. But, he managed to remain firm. “I’m sorry, Chloe, but no.”

  “All right.” She nodded. “I understand. I mean, it’s not as if I’ve ever done you a huge favor or anything.”

  It was all he could do to suppress a groan, because the list was long and, no doubt, Chloe planned to launch into it at any moment. Simon sighed and capitulated with the grace of a man being pushed to his death.

  “Fine. All right.”

  “Thank you!”

  “I make no promises.”

  “I know. I don’t expect promises.”

  Which was exactly why Simon, to his everlasting regret, meant it when he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cramming for Finals

  THE FIRST THING Chloe did when she woke the next morning—after trying to rub off the worst of the wine stains from her lips—was to boot up her computer and make a list of all the things she needed to do before the reunion.

  Six weeks.

  That’s all she had. It wasn’t a lot of time…and she had a lot to do. Well, no problem. She was the queen of self-improvement. She’d had enough practice at it—she had an entire library of books in her apartment on the subject. More might be in order, she decided, thinking of a show she’d seen earlier in the week.

  She prioritized her needs as she created the list.

  First and foremost, she would whip herself into the best physical shape possible. Since this had been a regular New Year’s resolution since her late teen years, she was familiar with the format. But rather than mere diet and exercise, the reunion timeframe called for a boot-camp mentality.

  If she had to forgo ice cream, so be it. The same for her favorite bagels, pasta, comfort food and…food in general. She’d work out five—no, seven—days a week. And really work out. Not just don the outfits and sit in a smoothie bar, pretending to have just come from aerobics class. She’d even give in and accompany Simon on his morning runs in Central Park. He was always after her to join him.

  Running. Hmm.

  She tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully as she gazed at the computer screen. In parentheses next to the bit on exercise, she wrote: Shape wear.

  She wasn’t above a little cheating, as proved by the padded push-up bras she wore on a regular basis. As her mother was fond of saying, “What God has forgotten can be fixed up with cotton.” Or synthetic filling, as the case may be. So why not reduce the appearance of a muffin top and jiggly bottom with a discreet foundation garment?

  After all, realistically speaking, there was only so much one could do in six weeks. Chloe leaned back in the chair and folded her arms over her middle. She could feel the subtle roll just above the elastic w
aistband of her pajama bottoms. She straightened.

  Shape wear, definitely.

  Besides, celebrities and beauty-pageant contestants did it all the time. Heck, they did more than that to acquire their perky breasts and sag-free butts, so that everyone sighed with envy as they watched them strut the stage in Atlantic City or glide up the red carpet on premier night.

  Which reminded Chloe. She needed a killer outfit to show off the killer curves she was planning to acquire through either sweat or spandex. She typed, Little black dress, emphasis on little.

  Smiling, she pictured it. Something sleek and clinging…okay, and with subtle ruching around the waist to distract from any flaws that remained despite the shape wear. Her legs, from mid-thigh down, would be the star of the show, which made sense since they remained her best attribute. Even when she gained weight, the extra pounds tended to collect at her hips and middle rather than on her thighs. And she had nice calves. They were shapely without looking like they belonged on a bicycle messenger. Put her in a pair of high heels and she could be a pinup…well, from mid-thigh down. Heels. Ooh. She would have to practice walking in them. She’d never been very steady on anything higher than a couple of inches.

  Stilettos, she typed.

  That was what she had in mind to go with the sexy, stingy bit of black fabric that was going to pass for her dress.

  Was black the best color for her? She studied her arms. Her skin was pale. Like most redheads, she had a tendency to freckle, which was why she stayed out of the sun whenever possible. Black brought out her most, well, ghostly hue. But if not black, then what?

  Given her hair color, she generally steered clear of reds and oranges. Pink was out, too. She didn’t care for purple. It reminded her too much of eggplant, and she hated that vegetable on principle. She’d barfed up an entire plate-worth of eggplant parmesan in the cafeteria her freshman year, earning her the unfortunate nickname Yack-Attack.

  Green would do in a pinch, though paired with her hair it made her feel a little too much like a pumpkin. As for blue…uh-uh.

  She hated blue.

  Any and all shades, but especially baby blue for reasons far more emotional than aesthetic. She’d worn a formal dress that color to her senior prom. Her mother had talked her into it, claiming it flattered her figure, when in fact the full skirt made it appear she was trying to smuggle someone into the dance.

  She could still recall how humiliated she’d felt when Natasha and company had cornered her on the dance floor and pulled up her skirt to see if she was alone.

  She’d been alone and wearing a pair of briefs the likes of which would have been right at home on her Nana.

  Chloe shuddered now. Black it was. With thong panties. Under shape wear.

  She’d compensate for her pale complexion with a salon-bought tan. Not the sort that involved lying on a bed under UV rays. That would only bring out her freckles, and Chloe hated her freckles, even if Simon had once commented that he found them adorable. She didn’t believe him. After all, none of the women he’d ever dated had freckles. If he liked them as much as he claimed, the women in his life should have resembled leopards.

  Chloe decided to go with a spray-on tan. Her sister had gotten such a treatment before her wedding the year before. Of course, Frannie was a brunette and her skin wasn’t nearly as pale as Chloe’s, but Frannie had come away with a nice, healthy glow. She was always after Chloe to try it.

  The phone rang as she shot her sister an email asking for the name of her salon.

  “Hello?”

  “Good morning,” Simon replied. “I’m going for coffee at the Filigree Café. Want to meet me there? I’ll spring for the bagels.”

  The Filigree served some of the best coffee and homemade baked goods in Lower Manhattan. She and Simon met there on weekend mornings when neither of them had other plans. That was often the case for Chloe. Not so much lately for Simon, but then his dating status had changed.

  Once again, she ignored jubilation, as well as the way her mouth watered at the mere thought of a toasted onion bagel with herbed cream cheese.

  “Sorry. No bagels for me. I’m on a diet,” she informed him.

  “Since when?”

  “Since when not?” she replied. “I’m always on a diet.”

  Which, sadly enough, was all too true.

  A wise man, Simon didn’t point out that this had never stopped her from joining him for a bagel in the past. Instead, he asked, “Is this about the reunion?”

  “No.”

  They both knew she was lying.

  “Come on, Chloe. Join me. What’s the fun in eating alone?”

  “Simon…”

  “We’ll go for a walk afterward,” he promised. “A long, brisk one. It’s a great morning for it. No humidity and the temperatures aren’t supposed to reach into the eighties until this afternoon.”

  She pulled at her curly hair, and relented. “Okay. But I’m not having a bagel.”

  “Agreed. And I won’t let you have so much as a bite of mine.”

  “You’re humoring me,” she accused.

  “I’m dead serious. Meet you there in half an hour?”

  The old Chloe would have said yes. The brand-new and improved Chloe knew that half an hour would barely give her enough time to brush her teeth and hair and throw on whatever clean clothes she could find hiding amid the heaps of laundry on her bedroom floor.

  “Make it an hour. I’m not even dressed or anything.”

  “An hour?” Simon sounded surprised and no wonder given their long history as friends. “You really need an hour to get dressed?”

  “I’m turning over a new leaf. I want to actually wear makeup and look presentable when I appear in public. Even if it’s just with you,” she replied drily.

  “Okay, an hour.” Rather than sounding irritated, he almost sounded intrigued. “I’ll get our usual corner table. See you then.”

  Simon was on his third cup of coffee when Chloe finally arrived at the cafe. It was hard to be angry with her given the way she looked. She didn’t primp often, but when she did… Wow! He sucked in a breath and reached for his cup, failing in his determination not to admire the way her jeans hugged her hips or the way the vee of her shirt offered the slightest hint of cleavage.

  She thought she needed to lose weight. When she dressed like this, he thought he’d lose his mind.

  She was wearing makeup, not a lot, but enough to enhance her long lashes and bring out the cool green in her eyes. And her hair. No quick and easy ponytail intended to disguise its lovely and natural waves. No. She’d left it down in a riot of curls that framed her face and fell past her shoulders.

  It was wrong of him, Simon knew, but he almost wished she’d shown up in baggy sweats and a T-shirt, no makeup and that dreadful, all-purpose ponytail. Then, at least, he wouldn’t feel so damned interested and, well, needy.

  He chanced a glance around and regretted it. Sure enough, several of the other male patrons were checking her out. He didn’t like their interested expressions. Not one damn bit. Before he could stop himself, he pushed to his feet. The legs of his chair scraped noisily over the tiled floor. They seemed to scream, “Back off! She’s mine.”

  The attention was on him now. All of the attention, including Chloe’s. Her face lit up when she spied him and a pair of full lips pulled into a smile that was sexy without trying to be. How was it possible, he wondered for the millionth time, that a woman as naturally lovely as she was had self-esteem issues?

  He shot a smug look at each of the guys who’d been ogling her, and took his time kissing her cheek when she reached the table.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said as she slid onto the chair opposite his.

  Simon shrugged. “It was worth the wait. Look at you. The hair, the makeup, the cleav…clean clothes,” he amended hastily, forcing his gaze back up to her face.

  She grinned. “So, you like?”

  “Of course I do. So do half the guys in here, judging from the way t
hey were watching you.”

  “Yeah?” Her face brightened and she glanced around. “Which ones?”

  He unclenched his teeth and forced out a laugh. “Forget it. I’m not going to stroke your ego any more than I already have.”

  “Spoilsport,” she replied.

  Her expression said she didn’t believe him. He considered relenting. He should throw her a bone—or a whole roomful of them. But their waitress arrived then. She was a heavyset woman named Helga with a thick accent of Eastern European origin. The woman had been waiting on them for half a decade. Even so, she eyed Chloe curiously before asking, “Your usual today?”

  Chloe’s usual was a double mocha latte and toasted onion bagel slathered with enough melted butter and cream cheese that it should have come with an American Heart Association warning.

  “Not today. I’ll have coffee, black. Make it decaf.”

  “And to eat?”

  “Nothing.”

  Helga’s bushy eyebrows shot up at that. “You no want something to eat?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “You feel okay?”

  “Fine. I’m on a diet,” she confessed.

  “Chloe’s always on a diet,” Simon inserted.

  Helga made a rude sound. “Girls nowadays, they all want to be so skinny. Too skinny, I think. A stiff breeze, they blow over.” She motioned with her notepad, before turning to Simon. “So, you think she need to lose weight?”

  “No. Not a pound.” She was perfect in his book. Always had been.

  “See.” Helga nodded vigorously. To Chloe, she said, “I bring you onion bagel just how you like.”

  Chloe’s expression turned panicked, but before she could refuse, Simon said casually, “You don’t have to eat all of it. Or any of it, Chloe. Consider it a test of your willpower.”

  “Fine.” She straightened in her seat and squared her shoulders, making the display of her cleavage even harder for Simon to ignore. It was like a magnet, drawing his gaze.

  “What will you have?” Helga asked.