What Phoebe Wants
Move over, boys!Half of humanity–the half with the Y chromosome–seems to think mild-mannered Phoebe Frame is a pushover. Like her ex, her boss, oily used-car salesmen and the anonymous owner of those roving hands in the morning elevator to name just a few. But now she's got a new motto. And it starts What Phoebe Wants…Phoebe is taking control. She's sitting in the driver's seat and she's not taking orders from anyone. Not even the hunky young thing who's captured her eye. If Jeff Fischer wants to hitch a ride, then he better hang on.Because before she's through, those Ys will have learned a thing or two…!
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Dear Reader,
We’ve all had those days when nothing seems to go our way. Days when our work is full of jerks, PMS, hair that won’t behave and cars that don’t run. “If we were in charge,” we say, “things would be different!”
My heroine Phoebe Frame has had one day too many like this and decides to do something about it. Writing in first person, I felt as though I was an observer along for the ride, taking dictation as Phoebe set out to exact revenge and make the kind of life she’s always wanted for herself. And believe me, I never knew what Phoebe was going to do next!
I hope you enjoy reading about “our” adventure! Let me know what you think of this story—I always love to hear from readers. E-mail me at [email protected]. And stop by my Web site at www.cindimyers.com to see what’s new with me.
Happy reading!
Cindi Myers
“Get your hands off of me!”
“You’re the one who ran into me, lady.” He was quite tall and, in a better mood, I probably would have thought he was handsome.
We glared at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to look away. However, as much fun as this was, I had tons of work to finish.
The thing to do was act calm and collected. Ms. Cool. “If you’re here to see the doctor, his office is back there.” I pointed down the hallway.
“Actually, I’m looking for a Phoebe Frame.” The man glanced around. “Maybe you could point me in the right direction and I promise to stay out of your way.”
“Phoebe Frame?” Ooh, this day was improving by leaps and bounds…not. “I’m Phoebe.” I cleared my throat. “And you are…?”
“Jeff Fischer. My friends call me Jeff, but you can call me Mr. Fischer.”
Wonderful. This was the software specialist I would be working with—closely. Young, too good-looking and a delightful attitude. Could things possibly get better?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cindi Myers believes in love at first sight, good chocolate, cold champagne, that people who don’t like animals can’t be trusted and that God obviously has a sense of humor. She also believes in writing fun, sexy romances about people she hopes readers will fall in love with. In addition to writing, Cindi enjoys reading, quilting, gardening, hiking and downhill skiing. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado with her husband (whom she met on a blind date and agreed to marry six weeks later) and two spoiled dogs.
Books by Cindi Myers
HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE
10—LIFE ACCORDING TO LUCY
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
902—IT’S A GUY THING!
935—SAY YOU WANT ME
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
82—JUST 4 PLAY
118—RUMOR HAS IT
For Pam Hopkins who never gave up on this one.
And special thanks to Wanda Ottewell for giving Phoebe a chance.
Contents
1
MY GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME, you make your own luck. As if luck was something that could be baked like a cake or sewn like a shirt. Of course, my cakes could be used as first base down at the ballpark, and my ninth-grade home-ec class voted me “girl most likely to do bodily harm with a sewing machine.” This could explain why I haven’t had much luck lately, of any kind.
Which would you say is worse: being dumped by your husband who then takes up with a twenty-four-year-old cocktail waitress who has a stomach tight enough to bounce quarters off, or sitting in a cubicle that smells of cigar smoke and sweat, listening to a shiny-faced car salesman try to make you a “deal”?
Having recently endured both, I’d have to say it’s something of a draw. The whole sorry business with my husband dragged on longer, but in its own way, the ordeal with the car salesman was just as tedious.
“Now, I know a woman like you is concerned about finding something dependable.” The salesman nodded sagely and gave me a toothy grin. He had a bad comb-over and his deodorant had long since packed up and hitched a ride out of town. “I mean, what good is a great deal on a vehicle if it leaves you in the lurch?”
Left me in the lurch. That’s what Steve did when he walked out. Just calmly packed his bags and said, “I know you don’t want me here if I’m not happy.” As if his leaving was all about his concern for me, and not about his own pathetic midlife crisis.
“You see what I’m saying, Ms. Frame? My only concern is that you leave here today happy.”
There was that word again—happy. At this point in my life, I was beginning to think the whole pursuit of happiness shtick was highly overrated. “I just need something that will get me where I’m going and doesn’t cost more than six thousand dollars.” I twisted the straps of my purse in my hand.
The salesman made a face as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Six thousand. Now, I don’t know if we’re gonna find much for six thousand.” He leaned toward me, his yellowing teeth looming large in my vision. “Do you have a trade-in?”
I blinked. “A trade-in?”
“Another car? Do you have another car to trade in?”
“Yes. It’s…uh, it’s parked down the street.” The maroon Ford Probe had died at the corner of Anderson and Alameda, smoke spewing from under the hood. An alarming sequence of pings and rattles issued from the engine before it gave a last gasp and simply quit altogether. I had sat there for a long moment, head on the steering wheel, too disgusted to waste tears. Then I’d gathered up my purse and keys and started walking.
