Praise for Jackie Braun

‘A great storyline, interesting characters and a fast pace help immerse readers in this tender tale.’

—RT Book Reviews on Inconveniently Wed!

‘Quite humorous at times, with beautifully written characters, this is a terrific read.’

—RT Book Reviews on A Dinner, A Date, A Desert Sheikh

‘Solidly plotted, with an edgy, slightly abrasive heroine and an equally unforgettable hero, this story is a great read. Don’t miss it.’

—RT Book Reviews on Confidential: Expecting!

‘ … reading her books [is] a delightful experience that carries you from laughter to tears and back again.’

—Pink Heart Society on Boardroom Baby Surprise

About the Author
About Jackie Braun

JACKIE BRAUN is a three-time RITA® Award finalist, a four-time National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist and the winner of the Rising Star Award for traditional romantic fiction.

She can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com

‘I remember the first time I saw the man who would become my husband. I thought he was gorgeous and had a nice butt. What I didn’t know then was that he also had a terrific sense of humour and a contagious laugh. Nor did I know that he would eventually become my dearest friend.’

—Jackie Braun

Also by Jackie Braun

The Road Not Taken

The Daddy Diaries

Inconveniently Wed!

A Dinner, A Date, A Desert Sheikh

Confidential: Expecting!

Boardroom Baby Surprise

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Mr Right There All Along

Jackie Braun

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my husband, Mark.

We’ve had lots of reasons to cry.

We’ve chosen to laugh instead.

That—and you—have made all the difference in my life.

I love you.

CHAPTER ONE

High School History 101

WHEN SHE SPIED the invitation amid the pile of bills and junk mail, Chloe McDaniels’s lips pulled back in a sneer. She’d been expecting it, but that didn’t make her reaction any less visceral.

Tillman High School’s Class of 2001 was set to celebrate its ten-year reunion.

Chloe did not have fond memories of her New Jersey high school. In fact, she’d spent her four years at Tillman ducking into bathroom stalls and janitors’ broom closets to avoid the unholy trinity of Natasha Bradford, Faith Ellerman and Tamara Kingsley.

She’d known the girls since grade school. They’d never been friends, but neither had they been enemies … until the start of their freshman year when, for reasons that had never been terribly clear to Chloe, she’d become their favorite target.

Literally.

Somehow on that first, already awkward day of high school, they managed to attach a “Kick Me” sign to the back of her shirt just before the start of first period. It was the last time Chloe ever accepted a friendly back slap without taking a gander over her shoulder afterward. As cruel pranks went, it wasn’t terribly original, but it was effective. She’d taken enough sneakers to the seat of her favorite jeans to feel like a soccer ball.

Then, between third period and lunch, Simon Ford had happened along.

“You might not want to wear this,” he’d said simply, removing the sign and handing it to Chloe. That was his way. Understated.

Good old Simon. He always had her back. Or backside, as the case had been. They’d been friends since his family had moved into her family’s apartment building at the start of third grade and their friendship continued to this day. Thinking of him now, Chloe picked up the phone before realizing the time. It was well after five on a Friday. He was probably out with his girlfriend.

Chloe realized she was sneering again. Well, it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t like Sara. The long-limbed and lithe blonde was too … too … perfect.

She glanced down at the invitation. Perfect Sara would never find herself in this position. Perfect Sara would have been the homecoming queen and the prom queen and the every other kind of queen at her high school. Unlike Chloe, whose only class recognition had come in the form of “curliest hair” and “most freckles.”

Yeah, that was what a girl wanted to be remembered for, all right.

Her gut told her to ball up the invitation in a wad, spit on it and, with expletives she knew in four languages, send it whizzing into the trash can. Her heart was a different matter. It was telling her to reach for a spoon and the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream in her freezer.

Diet in mind, she went with her gut.

Sort of.

She lavished the invitation with every foreign epithet she could think of before heaving it in the trash. But, while she bypassed the ice cream, she booted up her computer and downloaded a recipe from her favorite cable cooking show, Susie Kay’s Comfort Foods. If it was all but guaranteed to clog the arteries and contribute to heart disease, Susie Kay made it.

Tonight’s dinner selection was a case in point. Macaroni and cheese with not one, but four kinds of cheese and enough butter and calories that Chloe swore her clothes fit tighter just reading the ingredients. Not good considering she was already wearing her fat pants.

Actually, the pants were elastic-waist exercise gear that she didn’t exercise in but instead reserved for days when she felt particularly bloated. Today was just such a day. Strap a few cables to her and she would be right at home gliding down Sixth Avenue like one of those huge helium balloons in the annual Thanksgiving Day parade. Even so, that didn’t keep her from making the mac and cheese and eating half of the six servings.

The wine she poured for herself was an afterthought. She’d been saving the pricey bottle of cabernet sauvignon for a special occasion. This definitely was not it, but three glasses later, she didn’t care.

Chloe set the wine aside and went to her stereo. Music. That’s what she needed now. Something with a wicked beat and a lot of bass. Something she could dance to with reckless abandon and maybe work off a few extra calories in the process. She chose. Céline Dion.

As one weepy ballad after another filled Chloe’s Lower East Side studio apartment, her willpower wilted like the water-deprived basil plant on her kitchen window-sill. Again muttering foreign curses, this time aimed at herself, she fished the crumpled invitation out of the trash. When the telephone rang, she was still sitting on the kitchen floor smoothing out the wrinkles.

It was Simon.

“Hey, Chloe. What are you doing?”

Anyone else—her older and über-chic sister, Frannie, for instance—and Chloe would have felt compelled to come up with some elaborate reason why she could be found home alone on the official start of the weekend.

Since it was Simon, she confessed, “Drinking wine, wearing Lycra and listening to the soundtrack from Titanic.”

“No ice cream?”

How well he knew her. Despite her best intentions, the mint chocolate chip was next on her list. “Not yet.”

“Want some company?” he asked.

Did she ever. She and Simon always had a good time together, whether it involved going out or just hanging out. Still, his question surprised her. Wasn’t he supposed to be with his girlfriend tonight? She liked thinking he’d throw over Perfect Sara to be with Comfortable Chloe. Liked it so much that she immediately felt guilty. She was a terrible friend. To make up for it, she would share her ice cream and what was left of the wine.

“When can I expect you?”

“Right now. I’m standing on the other side of your apartment door.”

If he were a boyfriend—not that Chloe had had one of those in several months—this news would have sent her into a panic. Her apartment was a mess. For that matter, so was she. Her red hair was a riot of curls thanks to the day’s high humidity. And what little makeup she’d applied that morning was long gone. But this was Simon. Simon, she reminded herself, after a glance down at her unflattering attire had her wanting to flee to her bedroom and change.

It was sad to admit, but he’d seen her looking worse. Much worse. Such as when she came down with the chicken pox in the sixth grade or the time in high school when she’d succumbed to salmonella after her cousin Ellen’s bridal shower. Aunt Myrtle made the chicken salad, which was why, henceforth, the woman was only allowed to bring paper products or plastic cutlery to family gatherings. The coup de grâce, of course, was last December. Three days shy of Christmas, the guy Chloe had been dating for the previous six months dumped her.

Via text message.

And she’d already bought him a gift, a Rolex watch, which she couldn’t return since the street vendor who’d sold her the incredibly authentic-looking knockoff had moved to a new location.

So, now, she flung open the door, feeling only mildly embarrassed by what her hair was doing, by the mac-and-cheese stains on her shirt or the fact that her lips had probably turned a slightly clownish shade of purple from the wine she’d enjoyed.

“Hey, Simon.”

As usual, his smile made her feel as if seeing her was the highlight of his day.

“Hey, gorgeous.” He kissed her cheek as he always did before waving a slim, square box beneath her nose. “I’ve got pizza. Thin crust with extra cheese from that new Italian place just shy of Fourteenth.”

Any other time, the aroma of pepperoni and melted mozzarella would have had her salivating. Right now, it reminded her of how full she felt. “Thanks, but I just finishing eating.”

His gaze took in the stained shirt. The sides of his mouth lifted. “So I see. What was on today’s menu and why?”

Yes, he knew her way too well.

“Mac and cheese.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Comfort food.”

She touched an index finger to the tip of her nose. “You got it in one.”

He smiled in return. Simon had a great smile. She’d always thought so. With perfectly proportioned lips in a face that wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous but handsome and pleasingly male. Over the years, his cheeks had gotten leaner and more sculpted-looking, but his ready smile kept him from ever looking hard.

“How much did you eat?” he asked.

“Too much.”

“Save me any?” He glanced in the direction of the stove.

“Enough.” She tapped the box he held. “What about your pizza?”

He shrugged. “You know pizza. It’s even better cold.” Then, with the pad of his thumb, he pressed down on her lower lip. She ignored the sensation his touch sent coursing up her spine. “And what about the wine? Did you save me any of that?”

Chloe laughed. How did other women manage to drink a few glasses of cab and not wind up with stained lips? For that matter, how did other women manage to eat a meal’s worth of carbs and not have to do deep knee bends so they could breathe in their jeans?

“There’s almost half a bottle,” she told him.

“Pour me a glass and tell me about your day.”

He set the pizza box on the kitchen counter and shrugged out of his trench coat. He was wearing his usual business attire—crisp white shirt and tailored suit with a perfectly folded handkerchief peeking from its breast pocket. The matching silk tie, however, was pulled askew. It struck Chloe then. “Did you just come from work?”

It was nearly eight o’clock.

“The merger with that other software company I mentioned is eating up a lot of my spare time.” He dropped heavily into one of the kitchen chairs.

How had she missed how tired he looked? She wanted to go to him, wrap him in her arms. Friends hugged. But she held back. More and more lately, she found herself doing that. She blamed Perfect Sara and the bevy of beauties that had come before her.

“Sorry to hear that.” She switched on the stove to reheat the mac and cheese, and poured him a glass of wine. After handing it to him, she stood behind his chair and began kneading the knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders.

His moan of pleasure nearly made her stop. Instead, she kept at it and asked, “So, how does Sara feel about the long hours you’re keeping?”

“Not happy,” he admitted. His tone was rueful when he said, “We were supposed to go to a Broadway show tonight.”

“You stood her up?” That wasn’t like him. Simon was the kindest, most considerate man Chloe knew. even if he had really lousy taste in women.

“Ouch!”

Apparently, she’d massaged a little too vigorously.

“Sorry.”

“Actually, when I called to tell her I was running late and we’d have to skip dinner beforehand, she told me to go. Never mind.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The relationship wasn’t heading anywhere anyway.”

Jubilation.

Before Chloe could help it, the feeling bubbled up inside her with all of the effervescence of champagne. Maybe this day didn’t totally stink after all.

However, because she knew a friend wasn’t supposed to feel happy upon hearing such news, she kept her expression sympathetic when she slid into the chair opposite his.

“Ooh. Dumped. Sorry.”

“It was mutual,” he muttered, reaching for his wine. “Sara just said it first.”

“Okaaaay.”

“My heart’s not broken, Chloe. Hell, it’s not even dented or mildly scratched.” He sipped his wine and sighed heavily before squinting at her. “That’s not right, is it? I should feel … a little sad, shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t?”

Jubilation made another appearance, but she carefully tucked it behind a bland expression.

“Not one bit.” He studied his wine a moment before his gaze lifted to hers. “I guess we weren’t suited.”

No kidding. It had taken him nearly a year to figure that out? Chloe had concluded as much within mere minutes of meeting Sara for the first time.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” Simon was saying. He rallied with a smile. “We were going to talk about your day.”

Her day. Ick!

Chloe rose and went to the stove to plate his dinner. She opened the fridge and got out a sprig of fresh parsley to add to the mac and cheese before bringing it to the table. Simon’s eyebrows rose.

“Appearances are everything,” she said, setting the plate before him with a flourish.

He picked up his fork and pointed the tines in her direction. “That’s exactly your problem, Chloe.”

It was an old observation. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have bothered her. Tonight, however, she snapped in exasperation, “Do you want to analyze me or do you want me to tell you about my day?”

“Actually, I want you to tell me about that.” Again, he used the tines of his fork to point, this time toward the class reunion invitation that, somewhere between belting out “My Heart Will Go On” and hearing about Simon’s newly single status, Chloe had forgotten all about.

She shrugged, striving for nonchalance. “It seems our ten-year reunion is right around the corner.”

“I know. My invitation arrived in the mail last week.”

“Last week? Are you kidding? We live in the same city, practically in the same zip code. I bet the unholy trio had something to do with that,” she alleged.

So much for nonchalance.

“Chloe, really. It’s been ten years.” Simon said it in that patient way of his that usually served to talk her down from whatever ledge she was on.

Not on this day. Nope. She was poised to jump, ushered to the edge of reason by the wine and some very unhappy memories.

“Seems like yesterday to me,” she muttered.

Damn the cabernet for her loose lips. Even so, she reached for her glass now and took a liberal sip while she waited for Simon’s well-reasoned rebuttal.

It didn’t come.

“So, are you going?” he asked.

“Am I going?” she repeated incredulously. She returned her wineglass to the table with a smart click. “You’re kidding, right?” The question was rhetorical and they both knew it, so she plowed ahead. “You couldn’t pay me enough to make so much as a token appearance at that thing. I’d rather give up ice cream for … for … forever than to step foot in the …” She craned her neck to read the invitation. The outrage whooshed out of her and she snorted. “The Tillman High gymnasium? Gee, that’s classy. They couldn’t spring for a banquet hall or something?”

“I don’t know. I rather like the idea of seeing the old school again, even if I never spent much time in the gym.”

Simon laughed then. He’d been a geek, not a jock. Chess club, computer club, debate team—those sorts of interests had been his thing. And Chloe’s, too. His geek status had never bothered him as much as hers had bothered her.

Her gaze narrowed. “Wait a minute. Do you mean you’re going to the reunion?”

Simon regarded her over his wineglass. Actually, he hadn’t planned to attend until just that moment. Chloe needed to go. He’d never met anyone so haunted by high school. The invitation’s crumpled appearance was a testament to that, as was her mac-and-cheese binge and wine indulgence.

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 waistband 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 they 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.

Because he knew what he really wanted was off-limits, he wrapped both hands around his cup of coffee and forced his gaze to the stocky waitress. “Two slices of whole wheat toast and a fruit cup.”

Helga pursed her lips in distaste as she jotted down his order. “Fruit cup,” she muttered as she walked away. “Is whole world on diet?”

“I think we’ve ruined her day,” Chloe said.

“We’ll leave a big tip,” Simon replied.

They always did, regardless of the amount they spent. The way Simon saw it, she deserved the tip. He and Chloe took up one of Helga’s prime tables for at least a couple of hours on a Saturday without running up a sizable tab.

Chloe fussed with her hair, pulling it back behind her head. No doubt if she had a rubber band at her disposal, it would wind up in a ponytail.

“I like your hair down,” he said.

On a sigh, she let it drop. “It’s not even humid out and my hair is already going nuts. You wouldn’t know I’d used this expensive new antifrizz stuff. I want my money back.”

“I don’t know. I think it looks nice. I like it when you leave it curly.”

“I don’t mind curly, but it’s heading toward steel wool. For the reunion, I’m thinking of having it professionally straightened.”

Don’t! He wanted to shout. But he doubted she would follow his advice. So, instead he lifted his shoulders. “Whatever you think best.”

Helga was back with Chloe’s coffee and refilled Simon’s cup.

“I’m considering dying it a different color, too.” She smiled at their waitress. “What do you think? Should I attempt blond?”

Helga issued that rude sound again. Before stalking away, she said, “Keep what God gave you.”

To Simon, Chloe said, “I think God could have been a little more generous in certain areas and, well, spread the wealth in others, if you know what I mean.”

“You wouldn’t look good as a blonde.”

She frowned. “I thought you liked blondes? The last three women you dated all looked like they just stepped out of the California sun.”

True enough, he realized, although it hadn’t been intentional. They’d been available and interested and, well, since he’d been available … He didn’t like how that made it seem, though he’d never pretended to have deep feelings for any of them. Nor had he made any promises.

He wasn’t his father … a man who made promises, vows even, with the ease of a politician, only to break them, as wives one through five could attest.

“Simon?” Chloe was staring at him.

He pulled himself back to the present. “Your coloring is all wrong for blond hair. You’re too fair.”

“That can be changed, too.”

He didn’t like the glint in her eye. “Please tell me you’re not thinking about tanning again. Remember what happened before senior pictures.”

She shuddered, making him sorry to have brought it up. She’d gotten the bright idea to lie under the heat lamp her grandmother kept to warm new litters of Persian kittens, and had wound up burned to the point of blistering on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“Not tanning per se,” she murmured, but before he could question her further, she asked, “Will you be going for your usual run tomorrow morning?”

He frowned at the change in subject. “Why?”

“I was thinking of joining you.”

He couldn’t help it. His brows shot up. “Are you going to run?”

She wrinkled her nose, a sign she was insulted. “You don’t need to look so shocked. Haven’t you pestered me since Nana’s heart attack to do more cardio conditioning?”

He had indeed, worried that Chloe’s addiction to comfort food might take her down the same hardened-arteries path as her seventy-four-year-old grandmother. But he knew Chloe’s sudden decision to listen had less to do with his persuasive abilities than their upcoming class reunion. He almost called her on it. But the truth was, he liked the idea of having company during the runs he took four mornings a week.

“We can meet in the park at eight,” he said after a moment.

“Great.”

Her smile lasted until Helga arrived with their food. The cream-cheese-laden bagel beckoned. The way she swallowed before sucking in her bottom lip told him as much. Whoever had been manning the knife in the kitchen had been generous with the topping.

“Anything else?” Helga asked, her meaty hands resting on a pair of what Simon remembered a great-aunt referring to as good child-bearing hips.

No way he was going to point out that his so-called fresh fruit cup looked suspiciously like the syrup-drenched cocktail variety that came in a can.

“No. We’re good.”

More than half of the bagel remained when Helga brought the check. Chloe considered that a victory of the highest order. She’d actually sat on her hands to keep from finishing it off. Whatever it took, she was willing to do it. She had her eye on the prize.

“You promised me a walk,” she reminded Simon.

“So I did. And I never renege on my promises,” he replied. He always looked surprisingly serious when he made comments such as that, and now was no exception. “Do you have a destination in mind?”

“How about that little bookstore just off Fifth? We haven’t been there in a while.”

It was one of the few independent shops of its kind left in the city. And while Chloe had nothing against the big stores that held every title and obscure periodical under the sun and housed trendy cafes where patrons could get a good, if pricey, cup of coffee and read their purchases, she was especially fond of this place. It was the clear underdog. Chloe knew how that felt.

“Sure.”

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