Summer Kisses (279 page)

I signed off, clicked the disconnect button, and handed the phone back to Crystal. Her husband Bob chose that moment to wander in. “Honey, do you know a good locksmith?” Crystal asked.

He shrugged. “Not off hand.”

The keyboard on her phone clicked as she pulled up a list. “There are two in Sudden Falls. Only one is twenty-four hours.” She pushed another button on her phone. “It’s ringing.”

She handed the phone back to me. I held it to my dripping ear, mumbling a prayer under my breath that they could get here before I froze to death. After the fourth ring, a harried voice came on the line. “King Lock and Key, how can I help you?”

I explained the situation.

“I can have someone out there in about two hours,” the woman said. “Sorry, we’ve had a rash of emergencies this evening.”

I sighed. “Nevermind. In a couple of hours, the person with a spare key to my house should be back.” I couldn’t imagine Will would be later than ten.

The woman apologized, and I disconnected the call.

A couple of suppressed words eked out under my breath. “I’m going to check again to see if I might have left any windows open.” I handed the phone back to Crystal, knowing I still had two I hadn’t checked.

“Good luck. If you need a dry place to hang out, come on back.”

“Thanks.” I ducked back into the rain and crossed the street, not bothering to hurry as I was already as wet as I could get. When I went around to check the back of the house, I noticed the kitchen window was open a couple of inches. Of course, the kitchen window was seven feet off the ground.

Unfortunately, my ladder was locked safely inside the garage, and the Abernathys didn’t have one. Bob had borrowed mine a couple weeks before to get up to their roof to install a satellite dish. I snagged a lawn chair from the back deck. Made of steel rather than aluminum, it would probably support my weight if I was careful.

Dragging the chair underneath the window, I perched cautiously on the arms, my sneakers slippery on the lacquered steel. I managed to open the screen up and raise the window all the way without too much difficulty. The problem, I realized quickly enough, would be pulling myself through the window. Standing on the arms of the chair as I was, the bottom of the window ledge met the bridge of my nose.

I stepped onto the back of the chair, carefully digging my toes into the siding, as if the half-an-inch toehold would make me any steadier. At least now the window ledge was chest-level. Maybe I had a fighting chance of levering myself through the window.

As I teetered on the back of the chair, a trickle of icy water rolled off the roof and into my collar. This whole exercise became a great deal less about not wanting to wait for a locksmith than answering a challenge.
I can do this.

I hoped.

After a bit of preliminary planning and sizing up the dimensions of the situation, not to mention my own dimensions—
why did I eat the whole double-chocolate decadence?
—I figured the most likely way to success would be to get one leg over the ledge, pull myself up so that I was straddling it, and then ease myself the rest of the way through.

In theory, a good plan.

In execution, perhaps not so much.

I did manage to get one calf through the window. But that didn’t put me much closer to my goal. Grabbing tightly to the interior of the window frame, I tried to hoist myself up. I barely budged.

“What was I thinking?” I muttered. “I can’t even do a freakin’ pull-up. How did I plan to pull my body weight through the window?” If the encounter with Rodney hadn’t completely demoralized me,
this
would finish me off.

I’d die of mortification if anyone saw me like this, one leg through an open window, tilting precariously on the back of a lawn chair in the middle of a thunderstorm. Tears of frustration threatened. Thank God the Abernathys didn’t have an eye view of the kitchen, because Old Mrs. Abernathy would already have dialed 9-1-1.

The rain had made my hands slippery, so I wiped them on the curtains surrounding the window. Peering in, I tried to find something better to grab onto.

I tried a jumping hop to further my position and managed to crack the crown of my head on the bottom of the raised window instead. “Ouch!” I exclaimed, along with all the other choice comments I’d been withholding for the last half an hour.

This was a matter of pride now, and I couldn’t give up. Grabbing tightly to the window frame once again, I ducked my head, gave a little hop, and managed, with more desperation and determination than skill or strength, to pull myself through the window. I toppled onto the kitchen floor, landing in Mr. Whiskers’ large water bowl.

My arms and legs shook with the effort, and I could already feel a bruise developing on my calf. I tugged the window closed before stripping off my coat and leaving it dripping on the kitchen’s vinyl floor.

Making my way into the bathroom, I peeled off my wet clothes and hung them over the glass shower door. After slipping my arms into a warm, dry terrycloth robe, I reached for a towel to dry my hair. The goose egg on my head where I’d hit the window casing hurt like hell.

I seriously considered dying as I limped to the bed and burrowed inside, praying for warmth.

No dice.

Flopping onto my back, I eyed the closet. The electric blanket was there, promising thirty square feet of glorious warmth. But there was no way I could move. The way my body felt right now, that blanket might have well have been in Topeka.

Tears started to trickle down my face, the only thing on my body apparently capable of moving without sending me into spasms. How had I let this happen to me? How could I have let myself get this fat and out of shape?

I vowed to start—and stick to—a diet tomorrow. And call Mitchell Fitness to see about hiring a personal trainer. Something had to give.

After I’d warmed up enough not to be completely miserable, I walked down to the pantry and started tossing out food items I tended to grab when I was bored, lonely, or depressed.

Into a black garbage bag flew a bag of potato chips, a bag of flavored corn chips with a fat content somewhere in the three-grams-per-chip range, and a package of Oreos. Well, most of the package. I wasn’t perfect, and I really
loved
Oreos. So I ate a couple for old time’s sake, promising myself that
tomorrow
was the first day of the rest of my life and that
today
seemed like a good day to celebrate that. A Fat Tuesday mentality, to be sure.

I threw out a package of chocolate chips, which by themselves presented little temptation but did give me the easy opportunity to make chocolate-chip cookies or brownies. When I was done with the pantry, I hit the freezer and tossed a half-eaten carton of Rocky Road ice cream, after taking a last taste of the cold chocolate concoction, of course. I found nothing in the refrigerator to pose any great threat to my restraint.

I moved to the dining room where I’d left my briefcase and pulled out a tablet.

I’m a list maker. When I need to make a big decision, I outline pros and cons. When I have to get something accomplished, I detail the steps I need to take. And when I make a goal for myself, I make out a list of the things I promise myself to do to reach that goal. The exercise keeps me organized, even if it’s a little compulsive.

Grabbing a pen, I started writing. Scribbling furiously, I committed to paper my goal: “Lose AT LEAST 30 pounds before the reunion.” Then I added a title that read “Steps needed to reach goal.” Under that heading, I listed “Exercise (minimum of 40 minutes) every day. Consume a maximum of 1000 calories per day. Eat only 3 times a day. (No Snacking!) Avoid eating out if at all possible. No cheating until after the reunion.” I looked back over my list and couldn’t think of any other major points I needed to cover.

Now I needed to put my plan into action.

~~~

I found Ben-III pacing the hallway outside my office when I arrived the next morning. He had a folder in his hand and a smirky expression on his face. “Kath-ryn. I have a budget for you for the Mitchell Fitness campaign. I expect you not to exceed it.”

He handed me the folder. As I read the contents, I felt my heart sink. He might as well have said, “You’re not going to be allowed to use any agency assets except interns. Copywriters?
Verboten.
Web development?
Good luck with that.
Video production?
Sorry, Charlie.
”

So I was wrong. Ben-III actually would sabotage this project in order to make me look bad. I felt myself slipping toward anger. Then I vowed to create the most brilliant advertising campaign in the history of advertising, with only the help of a couple of interns.
Thank God
this semester’s crop of interns was pretty impressive.

“Thanks, Ben,” I said as if I
didn’t
want to shove him out the fourteenth-story window. I opened my office door, let myself in, and closed it tightly behind me with a resonating
click.

My hands shook as I dialed Quinn’s office—though I’m not sure whether it was with anger at Ben-III or nerves about asking Quinn for help with my exercise plan. He answered, and after we exchanged pleasantries, I let him know that I had his proposal completed.

“Thanks. That was quick.”

“I had most of it done on Saturday, and then I finished it up early this morning. Actually, that isn’t the only reason for my call. On Friday, you recommended that if I wanted to lose weight I should hire a personal trainer.”

“Decided to bite the bullet, then?”

“Yes. Long story short, yesterday I realized how out of shape I am. I was wondering, could you recommend someone for me?”

“I have several really great trainers on staff, of course. A couple of them specialize in working with people who are trying to lose weight and get in shape. However, if you want, I’d be happy to work with you myself.”

“Really?” After he took off on Saturday like he was fleeing a fire, I figured that was the last I’d see of him outside of work. “Doesn’t being the head of Mitchell Fitness keep you busy enough?”

“I used to do a lot more personal training, and I miss it. I really would enjoy getting back to it. I have to admit, there are days when I really don’t like being an administrator.”

“Thanks, Quinn. I’d appreciate it a great deal.”

“When do you want to get started?”

I toyed with the phone’s cord, dreading what I was about to commit to. “As soon as possible.”

“Would you like to come by with the proposal this afternoon? After we take care of business, I can get you started working out.”

My stomach dipped a bit. I was really going to do this. No chickening out now. We arranged to meet at the gym where his corporate offices were.

Hands shaking, I set the phone back in the cradle. What had I gotten myself into? Not only did I agree to work out—
gulp
—but I’d be doing it with Quinn watching. Which would kill me first? The exercise or the humiliation?

After Friday night’s interrupted kiss and Saturday night’s temptation-fest, followed by my deliberately swift-and-slightly-rude disappearance, I feared Katherine might pass my account off to someone else.

I was torn between being very grateful she hadn’t and wishing she could take her curvy and delectable self outside of my sphere of temptation.

And I still couldn’t figure out what caused me to agree to train her. Clearly I was a masochist and hadn’t realized it before now.

I saw her before she saw me, standing in front of the reception desk with her briefcase strapped over one shoulder and a duffel in her hands.

Katherine looked nervous, shifting her bag from one hand to another and not meeting my eyes as I finally greeted her.

“From now on, come straight up to the office.” I hoped to make her feel more at ease. “No need to check in at the reception desk.”

She nodded, but if her teeth nibbling on her lip were any indication, I hadn’t really made her feel any better.

“Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.” I led the way to the stairs.

When we reached my office, I peeled her duffel from her hands and dropped it by the door. “You don’t need this right now, do you? We’ll get you out of your clothes...” I paused meaningfully as if I’d made a slip of the tongue. “Er, that is, into your workout clothes soon enough.”

Katherine laughed as I’d intended and shook her head.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You’re not the first to make that observation.”

She wore some silky tank-top thing that wasn’t nearly low-cut enough and a dark purple suit that hid most of her curves. Her hair was caught in the twisty thing on the back of her head again. My fingers itched to yank the clip out.

Instead, I put my hands in my pockets and made my way to my desk.

Katherine sat opposite of me and started digging in her bag. She slid the proposal from her briefcase and handed it to me. “I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment if you’re looking forward to this as entertaining reading.”

“We need to get this started.” I took the paperwork from her hands. “Because of the article in Saturday’s paper, I’ve lost an investor. I really can’t afford to lose any more. How do you recommend we fight this article?”

“It might be good to identify members who aren’t necessarily at an ideal weight, but who are reasonably healthy. And who have become healthier for their membership with Mitchell Fitness. They regularly come to the gym, have had good experiences with the trainers, and are willing to talk about those experiences.”

I nodded, impressed by her preparedness.

She watched as I skimmed the proposal’s contents briefly. “Feel free to read that if you’re having trouble going to sleep,” she offered, then more seriously, “If you have any questions, be sure to let me know. I’ll be happy to explain anything that doesn’t make sense.”

The proposal was laid out in clearly defined sections, and from what little I read, made plenty of sense. I nodded then shook my head. “I will, but this is understandable.” I set the proposal back down on my desk. “Anything else?”

“No. That about covers it.”