Free Always Mr. Wrong by Joanne Rawson Page A

hell that I was going to find Mr. Right here tonight. It was
hardly a wine swilling, loud music playing, hurling up at the end
of the night in the bushes kind of a party. To be honest, as I
sipped my wine and nibbled on cheese, I had never felt more like a
leper. Apparently, to the hoity-toity married women, I was on a par
with Orphan Annie as they sympathetically asked if it worried me
that I would never find a decent man who would want to take on a
thirty-six-year old divorced woman with a seven-year-old. Yet when
they saw me innocently chatting away to their husbands, I suddenly
became a threat, dragging the men away from me like I was some kind
of neurotic nymphomaniac.
    To be fair Jess had asked her husband,
Martin, to invite a few of his single friends. Bless his Marks and
Spencer’s cotton socks, the only unmarried men Martin knew were
from his fishing club. Under normal circumstances, I would never
have given them a second glance. After only a couple of
introductions, that was well and truly enough for me. I had to bite
my tongue when Jess asked me had I found anyone I liked or me
asking her where had Martin found them? Geeks R Us?
    I knew it would be rude to leave after only
one hour, so I gathered a few dirty wine glasses and empty plates
of canapés to make myself useful in the kitchen. Standing at the
kitchen sink, up to my arms in soapsuds, I muttered away to myself.
“This party sucks. I wasted a good afternoon grooming myself like a
bloody gymkhana horse, polishing my nails, applying nail varnish
that I know I have to take off before work on Monday. Spent hours
on my chestnut mane, washing, conditioning, moussing, and
scrunching to achieve the I-just-washed-and-left-it look. And for
what? Geeks?”
    “Um, I’m sorry.” I felt a tap on my
shoulder.
    As I swung around in surprise, accidentally
taking with me half a sink-full of water, a large splodge of
soapsuds landed and stuck to his chest.
    Well, ding-dong, this party perhaps didn’t
suck at all. Things might be starting to look up at last. My
eyes wandered across his chest, the charcoal grey lamb’s wool
sweater he wore was tight enough to see the honed muscles of his
shoulders and arms. Suddenly I felt the urge to touch them, run my
hands over his shoulders and down his arms. Drawing in a deep
steady breath of appreciation, I found myself curling my fingers
into a fist, to stop any urges to touch. This man should have
one of those polite notices attached to him like they have in china
departments. It’s nice to look, but don’t touch.
    I shifted my gaze slowly, allowing myself to
enjoy the magnificent sculpture before me. His smooth
coffee-coloured skin tone could only be a genetic of being mixed
race. A small goatee beard, tinged with silver, made him look
distinguished. Thick, short corkscrew black hair flaunted a
sprinkling of silver around his sideburns and, I have to say as the
butterflies fluttered in my tummy, was still devilish attractive. Did I just say, STILL devilish attractive? I took a closer
look. No, it couldn’t be? It had been almost twenty years, but
Dad did tell me only just the other day Dr. Guy Foreman was to take
over from him as head of Orthodontics when he retired next
month.
    At the time, I hadn’t thought much about it,
but now, seeing him in the flesh, caused an eruption of feelings I
had not experienced since being a teenager.
    When I was sixteen, I’d refused point blank
to allow my father to fit me for braces for my two very prominent
front teeth, demanding to be treated by his prodigy, Dr. Foreman,
an orthodontic surgeon under the wing of my father at St. Andrews
Hospital.
    It all became frightfully embarrassing to
find, as soon as I clapped my eyes on him, I had the most awful
crush.
    I would spend my appointments in a haze of
delirium, perpetually blushing every time he asked me a question.
Lying back in the chair, having a mouth full of wires tightened,
filling my nostrils with the CK1 aftershave he wore. I would