What Phoebe Wants. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ fought against a blush. “It was all we had. They’re very popular with kids. Would you like one?”

      His voice was a low rumble that set up vibrations in my chest. “I can think of a few things I’d like from you, but a Band-Aid isn’t one of them.”

      My knees suddenly felt wobbly. I fought the urge to hold on to him for support. “Dream on,” I said, sounding a little out of breath.

      He leaned closer, a decidedly wicked grin making him more handsome than ever. “Sometimes dreams come true, you know.”

      He let me by him and I tottered to my room, which was miraculously back together. A mixture of victorious exaltation and frustrated desire made me giddy. So Jeff wasn’t right for me? A woman could flirt, couldn’t she? I probably needed the practice. And putting one over on “Dr. Love” was enough to make anyone happy.

      I sank into my chair. Yes, from now on I wasn’t putting up with crap from anybody. I was declaring a one-woman revolution. I reached for the phone and punched in Darla’s number.

      “Darla, I want to make an appointment. I need a color job.”

      “Okay. Let me make sure I have some Bashful Blonde in stock.”

      I glanced at my reflection in the darkened computer monitor. “Forget the blond. I’m ready for a change.”

      “A change? What kind of a change?” She sounded alarmed.

      I twirled a lock of hair around my finger. “I think I’m ready for something more exciting. More daring.” My grin widened. “I’m ready to be a redhead.”

      AT FIVE O’CLOCK ON THE DOT, I escaped from work, leaving Jeff on his hands and knees in my office, threading computer wire along the baseboards. “Leaving already?” he asked as I walked past.

      “I have an important appointment.”

      “Another hot date with the vampire?” He had a way of arching one eyebrow when he said something meant to tease me that made my mouth go dry.

      Hormones, I reminded myself. Just those damned hormones. “Next time I see him, I’ll drive a stake through his heart.”

      Jeff put a hand over his heart. “Remind me to never rub you the wrong way.”

      You’re never going to rub me the right way, either, I thought, but did my best to keep the sentiment from my face. Jeff Fischer was sexier than any man had a right to be, but he was also six years younger than me. Not that much older than Just-a-waitress. Wouldn’t Steve laugh if he thought I was having my own midlife crisis?

      With that thought souring my mood, I drove to Hair Apparent. It was one of those huge places with six stylists, two manicurists, a tanning booth and a massage therapist. The year before, they’d added the words Day Spa to their name and prices had shot up twenty percent. But I stayed with the place because of Darla. It’s hard enough to find a friend these days, and even harder to find a good hair stylist.

      Darla greeted me with what looked like a giant, economysize bottle of ketchup in her hand. “What do you think?” she asked, holding up the bottle so that a beam of sunlight from the front window struck it. “It’s called Ravishing Ruby.”

      “It looks like ketchup.” Maybe my decision to be a redhead had been a little hasty….

      “It looks better on. Trust me.” She shoved me into a chair and wrapped me in a plastic cape.

      “What’s with the Barney bandage on your neck?” she asked as she fastened the cape.

      “You don’t want to know.” I grabbed a magazine off the counter beside the chair and opened it at random.

      “There are two people you do not keep secrets from in this world—your hairdresser and your best friend. I happen to be both, so spill.”

      I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know my face was redder than my hair was going to be. “I had a run-in with Dr. P. this morning. Apparently, he’s got the idea that I should be his next conquest.”

      She frowned. “The lech. But what does that have to do with the bandage on your neck?”

      “He, uh, apparently thought it would be cute to leave his mark on me,” I said grimly.

      “No! A hickey?” Darla’s squeal silenced every other conversation in the room. Chairs swiveled in our direction and the other stylists froze, combs and scissors poised as they waited for the next revelation.

      I sank down in the chair. Darla began combing out sections of hair and everyone else went back to work. “That man’s got a lot of nerve. You ought to report him.”

      “Yeah, like that hasn’t been tried before. It never does any good. He’s this big respected doctor and I’m just some sex-starved receptionist.” I frowned at my reflection in the salon mirror. “No, the best thing to do is to just stay out of his way until he gets tired of it and decides to pick on somebody else.”

      Darla’s scowl let me know what she thought of that strategy, but a good friend knows when to keep her mouth shut. She shook the ketchup bottle and began squirting color onto my hair. I closed my eyes. It looked like the fake blood they used in movies. I could always tell people I’d been the victim of a tragic accident.

      “What did people at work say?” she asked.

      “Most of them didn’t notice. The only one who gave me a hard time about it was Jeff.”

      “Jeff? Who’s Jeff?”

      I opened my eyes. “This kid who’s installing my new transcription equipment.”

      “Just how old is this kid? And is he good-looking?”

      I shifted in the chair. “Too young. Twenty-six.”

      “Oooh. Twenty-six is a good age in men. They’re too old for fraternity parties and most of them still have all their hair. He’s handsome, I’ll bet. He must be, or you wouldn’t have ignored the question.”

      I picked a piece of lint off the cape. “I wouldn’t call him ugly.” Tall, muscular, thick brown hair, dark brown eyes—no, that definitely wasn’t my idea of ugly. “It doesn’t matter what he looks like.”

      “He’s that good, huh? So, are you gonna go out with him?”

      “I’m not going out with him. He’s just a kid.” I swiveled the chair around so suddenly Darla missed my head altogether and a big blob of the fake-blood-looking hair color landed on my shoulder and dripped down the front of the cape.

      Darla wiped at the spilled color with an old towel. “Twenty-six is not a kid. And he’s only six years younger than you. Just because you married an old man when you were nineteen doesn’t make you old. Besides, haven’t you heard that younger men and older women are more compatible sexually? There was a therapist on Oprah last week talking about it.”

      Maybe six years didn’t sound like much to most people, but it felt like more than six years to me. I was mature for my age. Though come to think of it, that doesn’t sound like the compliment now that it did when I was nineteen. “Darla, СКАЧАТЬ