by Lee, Marilyn
Marilyn Lee Unleashed Presents
Women of Substance: Just One Look
©2012 Marilyn Lee
All Rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in reviews. Copyright laws prohibit trading, selling, and or giving away ebooks.
Chapter One
Narena
When I was a teenager, all my friends were supermodel thin while I was what my father called “healthy.” But because I grew up in a home filled with love and shielded by a father and two older brothers who constantly told me how pretty I was, I was never self-conscious about outweighing my friends. Dad was fond of saying that the Devon women were healthy, beautiful women of substance.
Even though most of my friends dated more often than I did, I honestly believed my mother’s admonition that quality was more important than quantity. So, although a little envious, I was generally content to date occasionally, confident that when I met my Mr. Right, my weight would not be an issue.
I think my confidence started to fray a little around the edges when I found myself unmarried with no serious love interest while most of my friends were married. Two were mothers.
By that time I was thick but still managed to turn a few male heads. Nevertheless, I hadn’t protested when my friend Candi gave me an expensive exercise bike for my thirtieth birthday. I planned to use it and go on a diet with the goal of losing at least twenty pounds. Such a loss would allow me to retain the curves I personally liked without leaving me feeling overly thin or skinny.
I had a great, well-paying job as an online blogger that afforded me the freedom to spend most of the workweek at home instead of in an office. I drove a late model SUV and had my dream apartment in an upscale apartment complex with a river view and all the amenities a young, upwardly mobile single woman could want. My assets included a bank balance that allowed me to take two vacations a year without excessive scrimping and saving.
I had everything an ambitious woman could want—except a special man to light up my life and heat up my increasingly lonely nights. Of course, I had one or two male friends I could enjoy the occasional benefit with, but I was so over that. I wanted what nearly all my friends had—a special man to share my goals, love me as I was, and always have my back.
That’s the frame of mind I was in when I met Anderson Prescott in an unexpected meeting that would shake my confidence and leave me unsure of how I felt about my lack of a model-thin body for the first time in my life.
After a restless night, I woke that morning to find my stomach muscles knotted with tension. Not because I knew I would meet him but because I had foolishly agreed to do an interview with a minor league baseball player with big ambitions at the sports complex that day.
My portion of the blog was woman centric. I covered everything from women in politics to encouraging women of all shapes and sizes to love themselves first whether they had a special partner in their lives or not.
I had wide latitude in my blog subject matter. I occasionally wrote fantasy blogs. My last one was baseball centric. It was so well received that when a co-worker ended up in the hospital with pneumonia, my editor challenged me to do the interview with the minor leaguer scheduled for a few days later. Rashly, I agreed.
I’d spent a few hours of the night before with my older brother who was a sportswriter for one of our local papers. He gave me several interviewing tips along with a pep talk.
After showering, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I ended up changing three times before I finally settled on a comfortable, two-piece pantsuit that I knew complimented my figure without emphasizing any particular body part.
I combed my thick dark hair away from my face and applied my make-up. The reflection in the mirror showed clear, brown skin and dark eyes. Most men seemed to find me attractive.
When doing in–person interviews, I generally carried a shoulder bag with a leather tote large enough to hold a digital tape recorder, my Internet tablet, and a small notebook to take backup notes.
By the time I was finally satisfied that I looked professional and confident, there was only time for a cup of coffee and a fattening donut before leaving for the office.
Harry Jones, the editor of the sports section of our online daily, stood outside the small, two-person cubicle I shared with Mark Thompson, the paper’s sports writer, when I arrived half an hour late.
He took one look at me and frowned. “If you’re not up for this, I’ll do the interview myself, Narena.”
Despite the pep talk from my brother and my own desire to do the interview, I suddenly wanted to blow it off. I suspected Harry expected me to falter at the idea of walking into a locker room filled with scantily clad baseball players. But with two older overachieving brothers, I’d always rose to a challenge when people dared to think or imply I was in over my head.
“Not only am I up to it, I’m looking forward to it,” I said, sitting at my desk and pulling several files toward me. “I just need to review his stats and bio before heading out to the ballpark this afternoon.”
“Ok—if you’re sure.”
“I am,” I said with far more confidence than I felt.
“Great. I’ll look forward to reading the interview,” he said.
The moment he walked away, I pushed the files away and sat taking deep breaths.
I looked up as Candi, who was Harry’s secretary, sat in the chair next to my desk. We’d become good friends over the five years we’d worked together. She was one of my few remaining single friends. “Hey girl. You look locked and loaded and ready to interview.”
I shook my head. “Well, I’m glad I look ready because I don’t feel ready.” I shook my head. “Mark picked a lousy time to get sick.”
“It’s too bad he’s sick, but let’s face it Rena, this is a great opportunity for you to show what a well-rounded, skillful writer you are. After this, Harry will be hard-pressed to not acknowledge that you’re one of the top writers on staff.”
I smiled. “Thanks Candi. I needed that pep talk.”
“Why? You know you’re one of the paper’s most popular writers.”
“I’m not a sportswriter.”
“But you can rattle off stats with the best of them and Harry probably wants to see how you function under pressure and out of your comfort zone.” She grinned at me. “So show him. You are ready. Aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “This is as good as it’s going to get.”
“Had a good breakfast?”
“I had a donut and coffee,” I said, making a face.
I’d only known Candi as tall and voluptuous with what I thought was the perfect body type. But I knew that after struggling with her weight for years, she’d lost over sixty pounds and kept them off for over six years. She had natural breasts, an almost flat belly, and legs and hips that often elicited wolf whistles from men.
“So you can see I haven’t started my diet yet.”
“Well, it’s never too late to start.” She sighed. “But keeping the weight off, take it from me, is an ongoing and never ending process.”
I frowned. Candi was nearly always upbeat and perky so the uncertainty I heard in her voice was unusual. “Candi? Are you okay?”
She smiled. “I’m okay. Tell you what. Why don’t you co
me over for dinner tomorrow night and I’ll make a killer, low-cal but to die for meal.”
“You need a low-cal meal like I needed the donut I had for breakfast,” I told her.
She shook her head. “Actually, I’ve been putting on weight lately and need to double up at the gym.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I feel it and I’ve been there and done that before. I need to get a grip on things before they spiral out of control.”
I frowned. Candi was the office cheerleader—always ready to boost our coworkers’ moral. “You’re a gorgeous woman. A few pounds either way won’t change that,” I reminded her.
“Sometimes men feel differently.”
“Are things okay with you and Rob?” I asked of the man she’d been in an exclusive relationship with for the last year.
“Not really. He’s one of those men who have a problem with a few pounds.” She smiled suddenly. “But let’s not get maudlin. Are we on for dinner?”
“It’s a date,” I said.
“Great. Break a leg and I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she said.
My conversation with Candi unnerved me. If a man who said he loved her had a problem with her gaining such a small amount of weight that it wasn’t apparent, then I would probably need to lose more weight than I’d planned to increase my chances of landing my Mr. Right.
But you do not have time to worry about that now. Stay on track and focus on this interview. I spent the next two hours at the office before I left for my interview. At the ballpark, I felt better when I saw that two other women were among the reporters.
As I moved into the locker room, my heart pounded so hard I was sure everyone could hear it. To my relief, the interview went well. Still, being among so many athletically fit males left me very conscious of my size and more than a little horny. Eager to get away from so much temptation, I rushed out of the locker room and plowed right into the man who’d just opened the door to enter.
“Hey!” He grabbed at my arms in an apparent attempt to steady me.
But I’m no lightweight. Instead of keeping me on my feet, he fell backwards through the doorway—taking me with him.
We landed face-to-face with me on top of him. His briefcase, my shoulder bag, which I carried in my hand, and my tote flew to the floor.
We lay in the corridor for several moments catching our breaths and staring at each other. I soon became aware of the sexy brown eyes staring up at me. And of the big, hot hands seeming to burn through my clothes to sear my nether cheeks. I didn’t know how his hands ended on my ass but I liked having them there.
“Damn,” he spoke in a low, husky voice that seemed to dance along my nerve endings sending fire all through my body.
Oh hell. I must be crushing him. “I’m sorry,” I murmured and tried to scramble off his body. His hands were still on my ass and all I accomplished was rubbing myself against his groin. Heat rushed to my cheeks when I felt what I thought was the beginning of an erection in him.
I reached back to push his hands off my behind. Finally, I managed to scramble to my feet with a total lack of grace with the unmistakable impression that he was aroused. Instead of shocking me, the knowledge excited me. How nice would it have been to continue lying on top of him with his cock hardening to a full erection under me?
“I beg your pardon!” I cried.
He rose slowly and straightened his tie.
I was relieved to see that he was a tall, well-built man with dark hair combed back from an attractive, lightly tanned face.
His silent stare left me feeling as if he were undressing me with his eyes and not liking what he saw. Yet he’d cupped my ass so firmly had it been bare he would have left palm prints.
It would be just my luck that I’d plowed the most attractive man I’ve met in months over and made him sprain something. “Are you all right?”
“Damn, woman.”
Was that a good damn or a bad one? I couldn’t decide. “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling awkward yet undeniably attracted to him.
He blew out his breath and gave me another long stare before he responded. “When did they convert these doors to a freight entrance?” he asked, finally looking away from me and brushing off the expensive, dark suit he wore.
Even though I’d already decided I needed to lose weight to increase my chances of landing Mr. Tall, dark, and handsome sooner rather than later, I’d never met a man who made me feel so much like an unattractive blimp with so little effort.
I stared at him, biting back the urge to tell him to go fuck his sorry ass. Instead, with my face burning with embarrassment, I pushed past him, snatched my shoulder bag from the floor, and rushed down the corridor to the elevator.
“Hey, wait a minute,” he called after me.
I couldn’t ever remember feeling so humiliated and hurt by a strange man’s clear lack of interest. There was no way in hell I’d give him a chance to make his opinion even clearer. I heard him run after me but managed to reach the opening elevator doors and push the door close button before he could reach out a hand to hold it open.
Once I reached the street floor, I hurried from the ballpark and quickly walked out to the parking lot. Once safe inside my car, I took several deep breaths before I started the engine. I’d never been more thankful to do most of my work at home than I was that afternoon. I wouldn’t have to go into the office and face anyone until I’d regained my emotional balance.
My face felt hot and I struggled to overcome an unexpected but powerful urge to have a good, gut-wrenching sob. My reaction to our brief and unpleasant encounter angered me. I’d never been particularly attracted to white men. So why should I care what he thought of me? I didn’t even know who the hell he was and would probably never see him again. Thank God.
Nevertheless I spent the entire fifty– minute drive home thinking about him—recalling his warm brown eyes surrounded by sinfully long dark lashes and his chiseled lips. Not to mention his big, hard body and the beginning of his involuntary erection while our lower bodies were in close, almost intimate contact.
It is so time for you to get a regular man in your life so you don’t go all horny every time you find yourself lying on top of a big, handsome man who does not share the attraction. Yeah. Like that’s going to happen again. You had your shot and you blew it. Despite grabbing your ass, he wasn’t impressed.
I pulled into one of my two parking spots, shut off my engine, and turned to retrieve my shoulder bag from the front passenger seat. And froze. My shoulder bag was there but not my zippered tote. I frowned and glanced over my shoulder to the back seat of my SUV. Of course it wasn’t there. That’s when I realized I’d left it on the floor at the ballpark.
Oh Lord, Rena! My Internet tablet, digital recorder, and notebook were back at the ballpark. How could you have left your tote there?
I sank back in my seat, closing my eyes briefly. Even though the interview had originally been scheduled for the sports section of the blog, once I’d agreed to do it, Harry had agreed to allow me to post it to my weekly column. That gave me a day or so before I had to sit down and pick out actual quotes and background to integrate into the outline I’ve already written.
I resisted the urge to call my brother Greg. As a sportswriter, he spent a lot of time down at the sports complex that included the ballpark. He worked twenty minutes away and would probably know how best to expedite getting my tote back.
Both my brothers were supportive and I knew he would gladly step in and take care of getting my tote back. But calling him would be an admission that I didn’t have my big-girl thong on. And I wasn’t about to allow some strange man I hoped never to see again make me feel insecure again.
Once I discarded the idea of calling Greg, I should have started the car and immediately gone back to the ballpark. However, the thought of running into him again was more than I could face. I took my cellphone from my shoulder bag and called the ballpark’s press office.
I felt a wave of pani
c when told the blasted man hadn’t turned in my tote. What the hell was his problem? Hadn’t he caused me enough grief for one day?
Ok, Rena. Get a grip. What use could he possibly have for your tote? My father and brothers were over six feet tall and well-built. They wore custom-made suits—just as the man from the ballpark did. The only thing of any possible interest in my tote was my Internet tablet. Given what his suit and shoes must cost, he could afford to buy his own gadgets.
Of course he’ll turn in your tote. When you call tomorrow, it’ll be in the press office ready to pick up.
Anderson
What the hell! The lousy day I’d been having got much worse as I watched the woman who’d just knocked me on my ass flee as if she thought I had some nasty STD. “Hey! Wait a minute!” I grabbed my briefcase from the floor and ran down the corridor after her.
But the damned elevator doors opened and she rushed inside and jabbed at the control panel while I was still a foot away. Before the doors slid shut, I saw what looked like a hurt expression in her eyes.
I hit a fist against the closed doors. What the hell was her problem? Clearly, I’d done or said something to annoy or offend her. But what? Recalling my automatic reaction to her rubbing against my cock, I inhaled slowly. What the fuck did she expect to happen when she ground herself against a man like that?
More importantly, what was her name? Damn! I turned and walked back towards the locker room. That’s when I saw the bag lying on the floor in front of the doors. I picked it up and unzipped it. When I saw the Internet tablet, I smiled. If she were like most people, she hadn’t bothered to password protect it and had been foolish enough to enter enough of her private information to make identifying and tracking her down all too easy.
I glanced at my watch. First I’d have to call my date for the night and give her the option of going out later or canceling the date altogether. Then I’d be free to decide if it was worth my time to even try to discover the identity of my mystery woman.