Stephanie Bond - Irresistible?

1

ELLIE SUTHERLAND opened her mouth to speak, but the sound that emerged was more like a croak. “I’m fired?”

Her supervisor, Joan Wright, coughed lightly, then leaned forward to rest her elbows on the desk. “Not fired. With the new budget cuts, I’m afraid we have no choice but to let you go. In one week,” she added sorrowfully. “Please don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t believe this,” Ellie mumbled, shaking her head. How am I going to make the rent?

“Ellie, yours is not exactly a dream job.”

“Oh, great,” Ellie said. “I’m fired from a job that sucks, and that’s supposed to make me feel better.” Credit cards. Food.

“You know what I mean, Ellie. You’re overqualified to be a gofer in a dumpy little federally funded arts center. You’re too talented.”

“Yeah, that’s why gallery owners are beating down my apartment door.” Utilities. Painting supplies.

“You’ll get your break. Just hang in there. You know as well as I do it takes talent, luck and perseverance to make it in the art industry. And since you have incredible talent, you only need one of the other two qualities.”

Tears pricked the back of Ellie’s eyelids. “I had a feeling when I woke up this morning I should just stay in bed.” She sighed. “I’d hoped to make some contacts at this job.”

Joan brightened. “You did—me. I’ll see what I can do about throwing some commissions your way.”

Ellie raised her head to look over at the woman who’d become a friend in the short time they’d worked together. She could tell Joan felt bad about the turn of events. Ellie summoned her best what-the-hell smile, rose to her feet and said, “I’d appreciate it.”

“Let me buy you lunch,” Joan offered, glancing at her watch.

Ellie shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll be poring over the want ads.” She trudged toward her tiny cubicle and grabbed her purse. She couldn’t afford it, but she’d go out for lunch today and save the bagged egg-salad sandwich for dinner. Right now she needed the time to think.

She walked half a block to her favorite gourmet deli, then admired the handsome order taker as she waited her turn. The hunky guy in the apron was no small part of the reason this was her preferred lunch stop. When she stepped up to the counter, she took her time ordering a salad. The guy scribbled her order on a pad, then studied her intently. Ellie smiled demurely, enjoying the unexpected attention.

“You’ve been in here before,” he stated simply.

“Several times,” Ellie confirmed, sucking in her stomach and turning at a more flattering angle. She saw his nostrils flare as he leaned toward her slightly and inhaled.

“May I ask what kind of perfume you’re wearing?”

Ellie fought to suppress the smirk that teased the corners of her mouth. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total loss, after all. “It’s my own special blend. I worked on it for months to get it just right.”

The attractive man smiled wryly and scratched his temple. “I just realized I get a migraine every time you come in here. I figure it must be the perfume.”

She stood stock-still, her eyes darting sideways to see how many people were privy to the remark. Several customers snorted to cover their laughter and the buxom, vacant-eyed blonde behind her looked downright triumphant.

Ellie paid for the salad as quickly as possible and slunk to a table by the door. Will this day ever end?

She sighed as she sipped her diet cola and skimmed the wedding announcements. Starting with the life-style section had seemed like a good way to cushion her journey to the classifieds. But rather than enjoy the snippets about impending weddings, Ellie miserably counted off the handsome men with straight teeth who were now officially out of circulation in the city of Atlanta. She conceded the pictures also proved a little less female competition existed, but a new crop of coeds graduated every spring to catch the eyes of marriageable men. And spring commencements were upon the city.

She winced. Twenty-nine and dating wasn’t so bad. But twenty-nine without a prospect in sight was downright depressing.

The bell on the door tinkled, announcing another customer. A stiff gust of unusually warm May air rushed over Ellie’s table, lifted the page she’d been reading and wrapped it around her head. She clawed at the sheet with her hands, battling the breeze. After a few seconds of flailing, she tore her way clear, sneaking a glimpse at the person who’d just entered.

Her pulse jumped in appreciation of his profile. His dark head was down, alternately consulting his watch and a day calendar spread on his palm as he joined the long line snaking toward the counter. Ellie frowned at the expensive drape of the olive-colored Italian suit and turned back to her mangled paper.

Why do the cute ones always look as if they were just stamped out with a Donald Trump cookie cutter? Give me a great-looking guy who doesn’t own a beeper and I’ll give him lots of imperfect little kids. Where are all the good men, anyway?

A sudden jolt to Ellie’s elbow sent her cola flying, dousing the paper, her salad and her lap. The icy liquid sluiced down her legs, stealing her breath. Ellie raised her arms, helplessly watching bubbly pools gather and run over the sides of the tiny cafe table to plip-plop onto the white tile floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and mourned the short life of the white linen skirt she’d scrimped for two months to buy. Then she stood and furiously spun to face the klutz who had ruined her lunch and her outfit.

Mr. Italian Suit had wedged himself between her table and another one, presumably to take a cellular phone call in peace, away from the din at the counter. He held one finger to his ear and stood with his back to Ellie. The big palooka hadn’t even noticed his errant rump had wreaked so much havoc. Or worse, he didn’t care.

“Hey!” Ellie yelled, reaching up to poke the man none too gently on his shoulder blade.

The man was just ending the call and turned toward her, his chocolate-colored eyebrows lifted in question. Ellie caught her breath. Mamma mia. He was gorgeous. Light brown hair, with green eyes framed by those wonderful dark, dark eyebrows and lashes.

“Yes?” he asked, apparently still unaware of the soda puddling around Ellie’s shoes.

Ellie opened her mouth to speak, and the phone started ringing again. The man muttered, “Excuse me,” then flipped down the mouthpiece and said, “Hello? Yeah, Ray, what’s up?” He glanced at Ellie and shrugged apologetically. Ellie stood, arms akimbo, and glared.

Of all the nerve! A few diners around her tittered and shook their heads. The hunky guy in the apron cast worried glances toward the spill. Well, Armani-man had picked the wrong day to mess with Ellie Sutherland.

She marched around to face him and jerked the phone from his unsuspecting hand. “Ray,” Ellie spoke into the phone, “he’ll have to call you back, sweetie.” She snapped the mouthpiece closed, but held the phone out of reach when the red-faced man lunged for it.

“What are you, some kind of lunatic?” he thundered. “That was my boss—give me my phone!”

“No,” Ellie said sweetly. “Not until you pay me for damages.”

“Damages?” Confusion cluttered his handsome face. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Ellie swept her arm down dramatically to indicate her skirt.

The man stared blankly. “You’re saying I did that?”

“That’s right.” Ellie smiled tightly. “And I have witnesses,” she added, gesturing to the diners close by.

The man looked flustered, then sighed, withdrew a gold business-card holder, flicked out a card and extended it to her. “Send me the cleaning bill.”