Any-who, like I was saying. Since my less than feminine best friend started dating, Bob the thirty-five year old sweet heart auto mechanic, she’s decided I need to get over my…. How long has it really been? Five years, yes, five year dating dry spell. Okay, it’s more like the Sahara desert without water, of any kind sort of dry spell. I don’t date for a thousand and one reasons and yes, I’m lonely sometimes, but I love my life and I’m always busy. I don’t have much time to be bored or lonely. At least not for extended periods of time.
“Are you paying attention to a word I said?” she snaps, her tanned freckle speckled cheeks flaring fire hydrant red.
“No, I tune you out when you start spouting this dating nonsense. Get over it. I did the profile. That’s all you’re going to get, Roni. I’m too old to date anyhow.”
Standing, I take my mug and rinse it out, leaving it for the housekeeper to clean in the sink when she drops by around noon. It’s nearly nine already and I have an important meeting at ten. I don’t have time to waste.
“Bullshit, Lex! You’re twenty eight, the same age as me!”
Yes, I am. But I’m different than her. She’s sassy and forward and well—I’m just me, Lex Keagan, millionaire, entrepreneur, philanthropist, who lives in a tiny town of eight thousand residents. Which is also the main city within forty miles of anything larger, so we cater to those small villages and towns around us. Providing them with schools, an inventive teaching hospital and twenty-four-hour fast food joints. Among other things, of course.
Having had more than enough of this conversation with Roni, I exit the kitchen to grab my pink Gucci purse from the sitting room and slide on my white, size twelve Prada pumps. Today I’m wearing my favorite pale blue wispy A-line dress with plunging V neckline. It highlights my large fake breasts very scrumptiously, I think. And my new investors will be in today to broker a deal, and making men stupidly drool is kind of my thing. Or so I’m told.
They can eye bang me all they want. They just can’t touch. There’s only one male in my life allowed to touch and that’s Daniel, my bisexual secretary. Who’s such a doll, and more Butch than Sundance. And that’s who I need to help relieve the painful throbbing between my smooth toned legs.
Knowing Roni is probably stewing back in her large upstairs apartment that’s over my four car garage, I decide to drive to work alone today. At least now Wynonna and I can get some alone time without Sassy Britches ruining my country buzz.
Clicking my three inch heels through the house on my pristine dark wood floors, I open the white back door and swinging screen door and lock the house up. Stepping down the three back steps, I head to the garage. I think I’ll drive the black Jag today. It’s more impressive and I need to woo my newest investors.
Here goes nothing.
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Stricken Resolve Page 28