Free Slightly Married by Wendy Markham Page B

entirely her idea. Buckley had dragged his feet from day one.
    Maybe not from day one . I was there on day one—or rather, night one. I watched Buckley fall all over Sonja, with her long curly dark hair, white-white-white smile and one of those impossible figures that is svelte with big, perky boobs.
    Don’t get me wrong, I’m not lacking in that department. Especially not when I’m less-than-svelte.
    But whenever I lose weight, I lose it all over and things immediately start to sag. A good push-up bra takes care of it.
    Sonja doesn’t rely on underwire, though. She goes braless every now and then—very obviously—and I happen to know that the only thing pushing up her boobs is good fortune and a good gene pool.
    Anyway, this isn’t about boobs and bras—or lack thereof—it’s about Buckley’s feelings for Sonja. He was definitely into her the night they met, and immediately thereafter.
    So what changed that for him?
    Her constant pushing for a commitment.
    I pushed Jack for a commitment, too.
    What if he changes his mind about me? asks a small voice in my head—the voice that belongs to Inner Tracey, who is frequently insecure.
    I haven’t heard from her in quite a while.
    I didn’t miss her.
    He won’t change his mind , I assure Inner Tracey, irritated. Don’t worry .
    After all, Jack might have been slow to commit, but now that he’s in, he’s in. That’s just how he is. He takes his time making up his mind to do something so that he’s absolutely sure it’s the right choice.
    Trust me. I’ve been shopping with the man for everything from suits to groceries. It’s a painstaking process.
    I, on the other hand…
    Well, I’ve been known to make an impulse purchase on occasion. My closet—and our kitchen cupboards—are full of proof:
    A pair of scary, dressy wool shorts—remember when dressy wool shorts were all the rage? (Me, neither: I’m sure the rage lasted all of a week after some frivolous starlet wore them to an awards show. I, of course, must have had the misfortune to go shopping that week and the greater misfortune of thinking they’d look hot with a blazer and heels.)
    A tin of canned salmon (in the cupboard, not the closet) because I thought I would learn to make croquettes, which must also have been all the rage at the moment.
    Back to the closet: a pair of perennially trendy spike-heeled boots that couldn’t safely and steadily transport me across the shoe department floor, let alone anywhere else.
    A can of steel-cut Irish oats—probably bug-infested by now—that are supposed to be good for you but take forever to cook (cupboard again, and I really should toss them).
    A pair of marked-down Levi’s in my size that should have fit but didn’t, which I would have realized had I tried them on, but I didn’t feel like it.
    I could go on, but I won’t.
    The point is…
    Wait, what is the point?
    Well, one point is that dressy shorts is an oxymoron.
    Another point is, who buys jeans without trying them on?
    Not Jack.
    What that has to do with anything is unclear to me at the moment because my head is spinning—without benefit of champagne.
    Maybe I never should have thought that an engagement ring—not to mention a promotion—would solve anything.
    Now I’m starting to wonder if my problems have just begun.

5
    I f the first three days of the week were bad at work, Thursday is absolutely atrocious.
    The presentation didn’t go well. The Client hated it—and us.
    That’s what I tell Latisha when she sticks her head into my office just after six-thirty to see how it went.
    “They hated you? ” she echoes dubiously, catching me with a pocket mirror examining the latest stress-generated blemish on my face.
    “Yup,” I say, nodding vigorously and snapping the mirror closed.
    “They hated you personally.”
    “All of us.”
    Latisha smirks. “What did they do? Push you down and call you names?”
    “Don’t laugh. They might as well have.” Sitting in my desk chair, I