Free Wife Is A 4-Letter Word by Stephanie Bond

mind about buying the Sheridan house, haunts and all. She retrieved her answering service with a few punched buttons. The message from Nick the All-Nighter was wicked enough to fry the phone lines. And Jo had called, concern in her voice—had Pam seen Alan and was he all right?
    She shot a look toward the bathroom door just as it opened. Speak of the devil . Swallowing, she scanned the tempting length of Alan in black running shorts and a tight touristy sweatshirt. He offered her a small smile, apparently in a much better mood. She lifted her finger, then turned away from him and tried to concentrate on Jo’s rambling, heartfelt message. With a sigh, Jo thanked Pam for going after Alan and asked Pam to call her at John’s house—Jo laughed—make that her house. Pam smirked into the phone, happy for her friend, but disturbed by the sticky mess she’d left behind.
    She felt contrite as she replaced the handset. It wasn’t Jo’s fault that she was having these inappropriate feelings for Alan. “Jo left me a message.”
    Alan’s handsome face remained impassive—perhaps a little too nonchalant. “What did she say?”
    Pam hesitated, then said, “She was wondering if I’d seen you and how you’re doing.”
    He exhaled loudly and cracked his knuckles in one quick movement. “What business is it of hers?”
    â€œShe’s just worried about you—”
    â€œWell, I’m not suicidal,” he snapped.
    Pam stood, jamming her hands on her hips. “You don’t have to shoot the messenger.”
    â€œSorry—I’m not feeling very well.”
    â€œJoin the crowd,” Pam yelled back, then touched a hand to her resurrected headache.
    His expression softened a bit. “You don’t look too bad—I mean, uh, you look...fine.”
    She smiled wryly, then turned toward the bathroom. “Nice try. I’ll be out in two shakes.”
    Alan watched her retreat into the bathroom, the curves of her hips tugging at the hem of her T-shirt. A little more than two shakes, he amended silently, making fists of frustration at his side.
    â€œThis is insane,” he said to the frantic-looking man in the mirror.
    â€œWhy are you worried about it?” his image asked. “Just bed the woman, for heaven’s sake.”
    â€œI can’t—she’s my ex-fiancée’s best friend.”
    â€œEven better.”
    Alan squeezed his eyes shut and cursed, then slowly opened them to address his argumentative reflection. “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into.” Oh, well, maybe his secretary would come through with less evocative accommodations.
    True to her word, Pam showered quickly, emerging like a ray of sunshine, her skin glowing, her golden hair caught up in a high; swishy ponytail. He groaned inwardly. She was even gorgeous in running shorts and a baggy white jersey sporting a multicolored parrot. “Ready?” she asked.
    â€œAnd willing,” he mumbled, picking up his wallet.
    At the last minute, they both shoved their feet into hard, ill-fitting plastic thongs, then stumbled downstairs to find the reservation desk deserted. A fiftyish woman sprawled in one of the lobby chairs, smoking a long cigarette and watching a church program on television. She was happy to nod in the direction of the restaurant, and as soon as they smelled food their clumsy steps quickened.
    Alan’s stomach rumbled when he saw how packed the restaurant was. Grasping Pam’s elbow, he pointed to the buffet line. “If you’ll get us something to eat, I’ll try to find a table.” She nodded and he cased the area, his eyes lighting on a family of four wiping their chins over emptied plates. He scrambled toward the table, arriving at the same time as a busboy and an older couple holding laden plates.
    The silver-haired man smiled. “Share?”
    â€œSure,” Alan agreed.
    â€œWe’re