Cindi Myers - What Phoebe Wants

Dear Reader,

We’ve all had those days when nothing seems to go our way. Days when our work is full of jerks, PMS, hair that won’t behave and cars that don’t run. “If we were in charge,” we say, “things would be different!”

My heroine Phoebe Frame has had one day too many like this and decides to do something about it. Writing in first person, I felt as though I was an observer along for the ride, taking dictation as Phoebe set out to exact revenge and make the kind of life she’s always wanted for herself. And believe me, I never knew what Phoebe was going to do next!

I hope you enjoy reading about “our” adventure! Let me know what you think of this story—I always love to hear from readers. E-mail me at cindi@cindimyers.com. And stop by my Web site at www.cindimyers.comto see what’s new with me.

Happy reading!

Cindi Myers

“You’re the one who ran into me, lady.” He was quite tall and, in a better mood, I probably would have thought he was handsome.

We glared at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to look away. However, as much fun as this was, I had tons of work to finish.

The thing to do was act calm and collected. Ms. Cool. “If you’re here to see the doctor, his office is back there.” I pointed down the hallway.

“Actually, I’m looking for a Phoebe Frame.” The man glanced around. “Maybe you could point me in the right direction and I promise to stay out of your way.”

“Phoebe Frame?” Ooh, this day was improving by leaps and bounds…not. “I’m Phoebe.” I cleared my throat. “And you are…?”

“Jeff Fischer. My friends call me Jeff, but you can call me Mr. Fischer.”

Wonderful. This was the software specialist I would be working with—closely. Young, too good-looking and a delightful attitude. Could things possibly get better?

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Cindi Myers believes in love at first sight, good chocolate, cold champagne, that people who don’t like animals can’t be trusted and that God obviously has a sense of humor. She also believes in writing fun, sexy romances about people she hopes readers will fall in love with. In addition to writing, Cindi enjoys reading, quilting, gardening, hiking and downhill skiing. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado with her husband (whom she met on a blind date and agreed to marry six weeks later) and two spoiled dogs.

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

10—LIFE ACCORDING TO LUCY

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

902—IT’S A GUY THING!

935—SAY YOU WANT ME

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

82—JUST 4 PLAY

118—RUMOR HAS IT

For Pam Hopkins who never gave up on this one.

And special thanks to Wanda Ottewell for giving Phoebe a chance.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

MY GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME, you make your own luck. As if luck was something that could be baked like a cake or sewn like a shirt. Of course, my cakes could be used as first base down at the ballpark, and my ninth-grade home-ec class voted me “girl most likely to do bodily harm with a sewing machine.” This could explain why I haven’t had much luck lately, of any kind.

Which would you say is worse: being dumped by your husband who then takes up with a twenty-four-year-old cocktail waitress who has a stomach tight enough to bounce quarters off, or sitting in a cubicle that smells of cigar smoke and sweat, listening to a shiny-faced car salesman try to make you a “deal”?

Having recently endured both, I’d have to say it’s something of a draw. The whole sorry business with my husband dragged on longer, but in its own way, the ordeal with the car salesman was just as tedious.

“Now, I know a woman like you is concerned about finding something dependable.” The salesman nodded sagely and gave me a toothy grin. He had a bad comb-over and his deodorant had long since packed up and hitched a ride out of town. “I mean, what good is a great deal on a vehicle if it leaves you in the lurch?”

Left me in the lurch. That’s what Steve did when he walked out. Just calmly packed his bags and said, “I know you don’t want me here if I’m not happy.” As if his leaving was all about his concern for me, and not about his own pathetic midlife crisis.

“You see what I’m saying, Ms. Frame? My only concern is that you leave here today happy.”

There was that word again—happy. At this point in my life, I was beginning to think the whole pursuit of happiness shtick was highly overrated. “I just need something that will get me where I’m going and doesn’t cost more than six thousand dollars.” I twisted the straps of my purse in my hand.

The salesman made a face as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Six thousand. Now, I don’t know if we’re gonna find much for six thousand.” He leaned toward me, his yellowing teeth looming large in my vision. “Do you have a trade-in?”

I blinked. “A trade-in?”

“Another car? Do you have another car to trade in?”

“Yes. It’s…uh, it’s parked down the street.” The maroon Ford Probe had died at the corner of Anderson and Alameda, smoke spewing from under the hood. An alarming sequence of pings and rattles issued from the engine before it gave a last gasp and simply quit altogether. I had sat there for a long moment, head on the steering wheel, too disgusted to waste tears. Then I’d gathered up my purse and keys and started walking.

Walking is a relative term in Houston in late August. It was more like swimming through the heavy, humid air. Heat radiated up from the pavement, through the soles of my sandals. Sweat pooled in the small of my back and my hair clung damply to my forehead. As I walked, I tried to think of new epithets for Steve, who had driven away from me in a brand new black Lexus, leaving me with the twelve-year-old Ford.

I’d started alphabetically, with addlepated asshole and was up to middle-aged midget-brain when I saw the sign for Easy Motors. That was it. I’d buy a new car. Or at least one that was newer than the recently departed Ford.

The salesman—the nameplate on his desk said his name was Hector—grabbed a form off the corner of the desk and began to write. “So what are you trading in?”

“It’s a 1990 Ford Probe. Maroon.”

“Maroon.” He wrote down this information. “Mileage?”

“One hundred and seventy thousand.”

His frown got a little tighter. “Car that old, that many miles, most I can give you for it is five hundred dollars.”

I blinked. Wasn’t he even going to ask if it ran? I bit my lip, fighting a decidedly inconvenient attack of conscience.