Page 13 of The Frog Prince
“I thought you were going to the gym,” Olivia says, hands on hips. She’s wearing a silk turtleneck the same misty gray as her eyes, a minuscule black pleated skirt, dark hose, and high heels with pointy toes. They’re probably very fashionable and very expensive, but I couldn’t tell you what they are, because I buy most of my shoes at the Nordstrom Rack.
“It doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to break free after all,” I say, sitting back in my chair and running a hand through my hair. At least it’s clean today, not quite so flat. “There’s so much I need to do.”
“But the front desk has a guest pass waiting for you.”
“I’ll try to go after work.” I smile with more confidence than I feel. I don’t really care about going to the gym. I can always do push-ups and crunches in the privacy of my own home.
“We talked about this,” Olivia persists, and it’s true. We did discuss my going to the gym earlier this morning, and I’d agreed to try Olivia’s state-of-the-art fitness facility, but I don’t remember committing to a lunchtime workout.
“I’m still trying to get through to the appropriate writer at theExaminerandChronicle.”
“Good luck. You’ll be trying all day.”
“Why?”
“The feature writers aren’t going to give you what you want. They’re not interested.” Olivia says it kindly, though. “You’ll discover soon enough that newspapers have their own agenda. And they always will.”
“But you were the one that wanted me to get the write-up in the first place for next year’s Kid Fest.”
“It was worth a try.”
“So why won’t anyone bite? Everybody loves kids.”
“Everybodyhaskids.” Olivia nods to the phone, where the hold light is blinking. “Who’s on the phone?”
I had totally forgotten about the call. “Aimee,” I say, reaching for the phone.
“What does she want?”
Aimee is Olivia’s friend, not mine. “I don’t know. She called just as you walked up.”
“Talk to her.” Olivia perches on the corner of my desk, interested and prepared to wait.
I lift the phone, brace myself, knowing that a couple of drinks with Aimee doesn’t make us pals. “Aimee? Sorry about that. Olivia needed to talk to me just as you rang.”
“Is she still there?” Aimee asks, drawling a little. Aimee’s a tall, blonde Texan, with Texas-size breasts (implants) and a great Dallas twang. Aimee uses her twang (and implants) the way Olivia uses her beauty.
“She is.”
“Tell her I’m working on your social life. That will get her off your back.”
I laugh. But Aimee’s serious. “Tell her,” Aimee insists.
But I don’t need to repeat what Aimee said; Olivia has heard for herself. “She’s setting you up?” Olivia asks.
“No.”
“Yes,” Aimee says.
Olivia lifts an eyebrow. “Anybody I know?”
“No,” I answer.’
“Yes,” Aimee says.
This is getting ridiculous. “I don’t need to be set up.”
“It’s not a setup,” Aimee soothes. “It’s just drinks.”