Plum Girl (Romance)

Plum Girl

by

Jill Winters

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Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2002, 2011 by Jill Winters. All rights reserved.

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Thank You
.

Dear Reader,

I am thrilled to reissue my very first novel to you! I honestly can not believe ten years have passed since
Plum Girl
was first published. It seems only recently that I was a procrastinating student spending hours at the Starbucks down the street from my apartment in Brookline, penning this tale of a sarcastic but sweet office temp who gets in way over her head with romance, danger, and an intra-office murder mystery. I had an absolute blast writing this book, and I can't wait for you to read it!

Since the novel is ten years old, I was tempted to update the content a bit—changing the names of bars & restaurants that no longer exist, making cell phones endemic & text a crucial second language—but then I changed my mind. I'd rather preserve
Plum Girl
exactly as it was, and present it to you as the glib, romantic & zany story that I will always treasure.

I hope you will also keep an eye out for my new mystery novel,
The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle
. If you'd like to drop me a line, I love to hear from readers & welcome your feedback! You can email me through my website (
www.jillwinters.com
), or follow my updates on Facebook and Twitter.

Best wishes & happy reading!

Jill Winters

Chapter 1

"The punk is
begging
for it."

"What'd he say?" Peach asked.

Before Lonnie answered, she hooked the phone on her shoulder and looked around the corner, where her boss, Beauregard Twit, had just turned. When she was sure he was out of earshot, she slid the receiver back in place and said, "Sorry. I just had to make sure he was gone before I finished bitching to you."

"No problem," Peach said, chomping her gum cheerfully on the other end. "So, what did the Twit do today? Beat his top score in Minesweeper and make you take minutes?"

"Good guess, but no," Lonnie answered, pushing some of her long, dark hair behind her ear, and resting her elbow on her overly cluttered desk. "You know how I was put in charge of planning the holiday party?"

Peach replied, "Uh-huh. The one you're taking me to next week, so Mom can sit home in ecstasy thinking about all the so-called eligible lawyers I'll be meeting? Right, go on."

"Yeah, well, Twit just told me to change the menu to a, quote, Chinese theme."

"Why?"

Lonnie shrugged for nobody's benefit, and said, "I can only assume it's because he's been trying to court Lyn Tang for months and he thinks this will help win her over."

"Why, just because she's Chinese? Isn't that ploy a little obvious? Not to mention idiotic."

"I'm not clear on your point."

Peach asked, "Wait, if Lyn Tang hasn't joined the firm yet, why would she be going to the party?"

"Oh, the party's not just for the firm. There's a whole list of 'exclusive guests,' too. Twit's already invited three district court judges and two city councilmen. You know, it's all a PR thing."

"I've never understood why kissing ass is called 'PR.' What's wrong with 'KA'?"

"True," Lonnie conceded sarcastically. "Anyway, I booked the caterer over a month ago. But, of course, as soon as I tried to explain that, he just cut me off with: 'No arguments. Remember, there's no I in team.'" Lately, Beauregard Twit's use of tired corporate mantras reigned among Lonnie's top pet peeves.

"He's ridiculous," Peach consoled.

"He just waddled away without giving me a chance to say anything."

"What a fool."

"Right after he called me Lydia."

"Savage."

"Yeah," Lonnie agreed. "Well, beyond calling Lucky Noodle for takeout, I'm out of ideas."

"Which reminds me, why'd you put Lucky Noodle on our speed dial? If that doesn't prove how hurting our lives are—"

"I'm telling you, it's good. You've never even tried it."

"What can I say? I'm a vegetarian. My aversion to meat includes mystery meat." She paused before she spoke again, and Lonnie could tell she had just spit out her gum. "So, speaking of bosses, you know what Iris told me before?"

"I thought your boss's name was Cheryl."

"No, no. Cheryl's just her overly dependent, thirty-five-year-old daughter."

"Oh, yeah."

"I'm technically Iris's assistant."

"Right."

"So this morning Iris said she thinks of me as another daughter."

"That's sweet."

"Then she told me to rinse out her underwear."

Lonnie laughed. As annoying as Beauregard Twit was, Lonnie was thrilled not to have her sister Peach's job as a personal assistant to a high-maintenance society woman. Apparently, Iris Mew worked out of her home—in this case, a sprawling mansion in Chestnut Hill—organizing local charity events. Peach had gotten the job by answering an ad in the
Boston Globe
the first week she'd moved back to Boston.

Peach was twenty-two and beautiful, with light, streaky hair and glittery blue eyes. The quality of Lonnie's life had definitely been improved after her bubbly, artistic little sister moved into her studio apartment.

"So how's Dominick?"

"What do you mean?" Lonnie assumed her best act-casual tone.

Peach wasn't buying it. "Hmm, I mean: what's new with that sexy, funny computer geek who works three floors below you, e-mails you, and wants to slip his hard disk into your G drive?"

Lonnie shook her head and muttered, "I can't handle you."

Peach giggled. "What?"

"There are so many things wrong with the statement you just made," she said. "First of all, I never said he was sexy."

"It was implied," Peach said.

"In what?"

"In the way you get all awkward when he comes up in conversation. Much like you're doing right now." Lonnie opened her mouth to protest, but then shut it, realizing that yelling "I'm not awkward!" would probably only confirm said awkwardness. "Have you two met for lunch lately?"

"No. Last week he had to work through his lunches, and the week before that I spent all my lunches finalizing things for the holiday party. Or, at least, I
thought
I was finalizing things," she finished, remembering Twit's sudden request to change the entire menu.

"Okay, so I say the time for passivity has passed. Just go down to GraphNet and throw him down on his desk. Wait, he has his own office, right?"

"Would it even matter?" Lonnie asked, grinning. "And, in case you've forgotten, I do already have a practically-semi boyfriend. I know Terry is easygoing, but I don't think he'd love it if I just pounced on some poor, clueless guy. Well, some other poor, clueless guy."

Peach let out a sigh, and Lonnie told herself to ignore it. She'd had a feeling for a while that her sister didn't like Terry—or at least the idea of her
with
Terry—but she'd never felt like pressing the issue. As far as she was concerned, Terry was agreeable, entertaining, and most important, uncomplicated. But for some reason, this time she challenged Peach: "Okay, what? What's wrong with Terry?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"
What?"

"Really, nothing. It's just... Look, I know Terry's a real...
funny
guy," Peach began. Meanwhile, Lonnie knew that tone of voice and could just picture her sister grimacing and making quotation marks with her fingers. "But he lives in New York City," she went on, "What kind of future does this relationship have?"

"Future?" Lonnie repeated, horrified. "You sound just like Mom, and I know that can't possibly be your intention."

"By the way," Peach went on, "is Terry still coming up for Christmas?"

"Yeah. Well, no. His show's on the twenty-first. I think he's leaving the next day. But, it'll be fun—"

"Mmm-hmm," she said with perceptible lackluster.

"It will. You're coming with me to his show, right?"

"I don't get what the show is."

"He said its one of those comedy contests. You know, a bunch of amateurs doing stand-up, and a talent scout in the audience. That kind of thing. Terry's just hosting it."

"Yeah, all right. I'll go."

"Thank you," Lonnie said, smiling, and then glanced at the clock. "Oh, I gotta get back to work and figure all this stuff out."

"Actually, I should get going, too. I've got a long day ahead of me; Iris's cat needs more of that specialty litter from Mansfield. See ya at home."

After Lonnie hung up, she let herself finally face the disheveled papers spread across the top of her desk. Out of habit, she glanced up at the clock on the wall again: 11:51 a.m. She momentarily debated another cup of coffee, knowing full well it was a procrastination strategy. Then she thought about Twit's Chinese whim, as well as her usual daily tasks, and the fact that all the office's kitchen had left the last time she looked were decrepit-looking packets of Sanka, and decided to stay at her desk. She plunged into the first stack to her right and thought,
Things could be worse.

Lonnie had been temping at Twit & Bell, a very modest-size Boston law firm, for the past six months. She took the job shortly after earning her second master's degree—that one in feminist theory, and the first in sociology—with "temp" being the operative word. When she'd first taken the job, she'd been at a crossroads: she'd always loved school, but after turning twenty-seven, she felt a little old to be a professional student. Shouldn't she put all her academic training to more use? Shouldn't she, as her mother tactfully put it, "decide what you're going to do with the proverbial rest of your life"?

The question was: what? She hadn't gone to graduate school with the goal of teaching. It had just seemed like a comfortable thing to do after college. She'd had a particular affinity for sociology because she'd always been fascinated by human behavior and its infinite possibilities for analysis. In other words, she was a people watcher.

During her last semester, she'd worked at a women's shelter as part of her sociology final project. Her experience there had stirred a sincere interest in women's issues, which was why she'd enrolled in a feminist theory graduate program next, while still continuing to work at the shelter.

But she had earned her second master's six months ago, and the shelter had closed down only a month after that, so yes, she had to admit, her mother had a point about her wasting more time than she needed to temping at Twit & Bell. In her defense though, she was paid fabulously well for wasting time. Apparently, Beauregard Twit had trouble, keeping temps, and the income she made doing his tyrannical, insane bidding was helping her pay off her grad school loans.

Finally, though, Lonnie was getting more serious about her future. Over a month ago, she'd sent her resume to several universities, in search of an instructor position. Now she was waiting to hear, and with any luck she'd have a teaching job lined up for September.