Mr Right There All Along

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?”