Vivian Leiber - The 6'2'', 200 Lb. Challenge

“Toss. You don’t look like a firefighting kind of woman to me.”

“And just what’s a firefighting kind of woman supposed to look like?”

He regarded her briefly, top to bottom. Then a little more slowly, his eyes instinctively lingering at all the curves.

Then a sly, lazy smile spread across his face.

“Wait a minute. You say the chief sent you?”

“Yes. Keep or toss the sports magazine?”

“Toss. In fact, uh, what did you say your name was?”

“Mimi. Mimi Pickford.”

“Okay, Mimi. That’s a nice name. You can put all that stuff down now.”

“Why? We’re just getting started.”

“I guess we are. I’ve finally figured out why the chief sent you. It took me a few minutes.”

“Good. Because I’ve been explaining it to you since I walked in the door.”

“Well, I got the message and you can pass along my thanks to the chief.”

“So you’ll help me out?” Mimi asked, in an innocent kind of way that made him doubt his conclusion for just an instant.

The instant passed as he took in her curves.

Those curves were made for a man.

It might be what he needed.

It might be exactly what he needed.

And so, like a man who has almost given himself up for dead and found an instant’s hope, he smiled.

“Sure, I’ll help you out.”

He stretched leisurely and mused that, although he’d never exactly done this kind of thing before, Mimi Pickford might be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

“Do you need music?” he asked. “I mean, do you need music to get started?”

“No, but would you like some?”

“Do you usually work with music?”

She scrunched up her face.

“Well, Boris sometimes plays tapes of folk music from his homeland. He’s from Macedonia.”

“Is that around here?”

“It’s right next to Greece.”

“And you use a tape of Macedonian music?” Gibson considered this, wondering briefly who Boris was. “What’s the music like?”

“It’s got lots of clapping and chanting and drums,” she added. “Very primitive and evocative and kind of catchy in a bizarre kind of way.”

“Hmm. I suppose that’s okay. But I’m more of a simple rock ‘n’ roll man myself. Why don’t you just do this without any music?”

“Okay.”

“You can get started now.”

“I am started. Keep or toss last week’s News-week?”

He shook his head.

“No, Mimi, this is all very amusing, this part about cleaning my house,” he said, chuckling. “But just put down those magazines and take your clothes off.”

Chapter Two

“Excuse me?”

The sweepstakes-entry envelope—Gibson St. James, you could be our next million-dollar winner! —slipped from her hand to the floor.

“You can take your clothes off now,” Gibson said matter-of-factly.

He leaned back into the cushions of the armchair, grimacing slightly as he eased his body into a semi-comfortable position.

“M-My... clothes?”

He hadn’t figured her for stupid.

“Yeah, your clothes. Take them all off. Go right ahead.”

“But, but, but,” she sputtered.

“This isn’t something I’ve had much experience with,” he reassured her, in case she was just as new to this as he was. “Sure, I’ve been to my share of bachelor parties, but I don’t believe in paying a woman for my pleasures. Never had to and, before I got myself all banged up in that fire, I thought I never would. But maybe the chiefs right—it’s been a long time, I don’t get out much, and you’re exactly the kind of woman I like. Blond, curvy and mile-high legs. You can go right ahead and take off your clothes now. Take your time if you’re nervous, but let’s give it a try.”

Mimi felt her mouth open and close, open and close. If she had thought about it, she would have concluded she looked like a goldfish gasping bubbles in an aquarium. But she wasn’t thinking about what she looked like—she was thinking about the assumptions Gibson St. James was making.

There were a couple of possibilities and neither of them were good.

She was thinking about her own shock and outrage and how he had a way of looking at her that made her feel her clothes were already lying in a heap around her ankles.

“You...uh, you think I’m a stripper, don’t you?” she asked, deciding to tackle the least dangerous possibility first.

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re doing such a good job if you’ve been in my house for ten minutes and you’ve still got every stitch on. That keep-or-toss gimmick was pretty cute though. But I should warn you that most men wouldn’t really appreciate its subtlety.”

“I am not a stripper!”

“Oh, I know, I know. The proper term is exotic dancer. Okay, I apologize for not showing proper respect for your profession.”

“I’m not an exotic dancer.”

“Are you going to try to persuade me this is performance art?”

“I’m not here to take off my clothes,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Really? Then just what are you here for?”

She stared heavenward. Counted to ten. Counted to twenty because counting to ten didn’t make her any less aggravated.

“I told you once, I’ll tell you again. The chief sent me. I tried out to be a firefighter but I failed the physical exam. He says if I get you back down to the station house, he’ll let me try again. Understand now?”

She waited for the apology.

It didn’t come.

Gibson’s reaction was swift and merciless. He laughed. And continued laughing even as Mimi thought the floor might reach up and swallow her whole.

“You? A firefighter? You’re kidding me, right?”

“You don’t have to be so amused.”

“The chief doesn’t believe in women firefighters,” Gibson said, sobering. “And besides, you don’t have a firefighter’s body.”

“And what exactly does a firefighter’s body look like?”

Gibson held up his hands to make a box.

“You would need to be a little wider muscle-wise... in places you’re not very wide. And you’d have to be smaller...in places you’re not very...”

Mimi followed his eyes to her breasts. Her very big breasts. For the zillionth time in her life, Mimi confronted the truth that her body type was more Dolly Parton than Kate Moss. She had plenty of unfashionably feminine curves and she had never apologized for her lack of supermodel angularity.

Mimi liked being a woman. Liked all the parts of womanhood that she supposed a more politically correct woman might reject.

She liked her lipstick—usually choosing a pink champagne that set off her pale complexion perfectly. She liked getting her nails done—regard—ing it as a luxury, particularly after a long day working at the diner.

She liked to play with new hairstyles, go shopping with girlfriends, try out makeovers from magazine pictures, giggle over the new soap-opera hunk, and leaf through bridal magazines on a rainy afternoon even though the closest she’d ever gotten to the altar was when she was her best friend’s maid of honor.

As a woman, Mimi was used to getting a lot of male attention, although she attributed this more to her job than her appearance.

She had been a waitress for five years at Boris’s, a diner that was on the cloverleaf intersection of highways that led to nowhere and everywhere and brought in customers, mostly truckers, from all over North America.

She had developed certain skills as a waitress: The ability to juggle five full dinner plates without losing a morsel of food. The talent of running nonstop for a two-hour lunch rush with a smile on her face. The skill of remembering coffee preferences for a full counter—coffee with cream, with half-and-half, with sugar, black, with sugar substitute.