First You Kiss 100 Men.... Carolyn Greene
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approval by validating his decision. A little sucking up during a job interview never hurt anyone. Especially when that someone’s college degree was in theater costuming and she was applying for a journalist position with Virginia’s prestigious Richmond Reporter newspaper. Hopefully, Mr. Upshaw wouldn’t hold it against her that she’d changed career paths after graduation. ‘‘For example, this lame answer she gave—‘you’ll just know’—doesn’t cut it. How can your Generation-X readers trust advice like that? They want answers that are black-and-white.’’ She squinted at the small, grainy photo of the elderly columnist. ‘‘How old is she, anyway? I’d guess at least ninety.’’
The editor cracked his knuckles. ‘‘My aunt Ethel turned eighty-seven last month. And I’m not firing her. She’s retiring.’’
Aunt Ethel? Julie swallowed. When would she learn to think before she opened her mouth? ‘‘I’m sorry, Mr. Upshaw. I have nothing against the advice of older people. In fact, my grandmother used to say stuff like ‘a girl should kiss a hundred men before she marries,’ so I got a journal and started keeping a list of all the guys I…’’
The editor stared at her, saying nothing, so she impulsively filled the silence with the first thought that came to mind. ‘‘I could write about my grandmother’s advice to see if it holds true in this millennium.’’ She sat up straighter, excited about this fun new possibility. ‘‘It wouldn’t be an advice column in the traditional manner of questions and answers, but you did say you wanted something different.’’
Her voice trailed off as she realized she was babbling from nervousness.
He rubbed his chin. ‘‘A column about kissing. That’s different.’’
‘‘There’s lots of other advice I could research, too.’’
He seemed not to have heard her. ‘‘How would you find a hundred men to kiss?’’
Writing solely about kissing was a turn she hadn’t expected, but it sounded like an opportunity, and Julie wasn’t about to pass it up. ‘‘Oh, I have a part-time job that introduces me to lots of men.’’
His eyebrows rose a notch.
‘‘Not that kind of job,’’ she added hastily.
Now he scratched his bald head, as if weighing the possibility of hiring her. Julie crossed her fingers in her lap.
‘‘You suppose you’ve got enough material for a month of columns, three times a week?’’
‘‘Undoubtedly!’’ She wasn’t so certain, however, whether her limited supply of kissable men would hold out for a month.
‘‘I like your style,’’ the older man said, rising to his feet.
Yes…! Julie followed him to the door, doing a little victory jig behind his back.
‘‘We’ll try you for a month, freelance and if you’re any good you can stay on as columnist and take on some reporting duties as well.’’ He blocked her exit with an arm across the open doorway. ‘‘But you’ll have to remain anonymous during the trial period. Keep in mind that the ability to handle confidentiality is a major requirement for a reporter.’’
‘‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.’’
Chapter One
In my limited experience, I’ve found that the most difficult part of kissing is the approach. Who makes the first move? Are the signals being read correctly? A kiss, especially the first one shared by a couple, involves a delicate dance of uncertainty…and anticipation.
Laughter pealed from the reception area, shaking Hunter’s thoughts from the case he was investigating and making him wish, not for the first time today, that his secretary’s month-long honeymoon was already over.
It was Monday, the first workday since his efficient assistant’s wedding, and things were already going to Hades in a wicker basket. His much-coveted sense of order and calm was already being shattered.
Now someone was strumming what sounded like a ukulele, and a buzz of giggling and chattering voices sounded from the reception area. He had already rescued the company from near-collapse once. It wouldn’t do to let things regress merely because Trudy and his top investigator had tied the knot. Better nip these shenanigans in the bud now and remind everyone to save their fun for the lunch hour.
Hunter closed the file and lined it up squarely with the right, near edge of his desk.
Out front, all the staff from Oltmeier-Matthews Investigation Agency surrounded his elderly business partner, Leonard Oltmeier. In addition, a number of employees from neighboring offices had come over to see what the noise was about, and had stayed to lend even more frivolity to the event.
Hunter stood in the doorway for a moment, hating to be the bad guy again. But if it hadn’t been for his insistence on adhering to the strict policies and procedures he’d drawn up shortly after coming to work here, the company would have gone under a long time ago. Everyone who worked here appreciated the increased efficiency and higher salaries that resulted from following his rules, but old habits were hard to break. And most of the time Hunter was the one who had to remind them.
Like now. He sighed and stepped into the crowded reception room. His partner perched on the arm of the couch and smiled at a young, dark-haired woman who handed him an oversize greeting card. Hunter couldn’t blame the old guy for abandoning work in favor of being serenaded by the lovely siren.
Of course! It was Len’s birthday. Hunter cursed his rotten memory. If Trudy were here, she would have reminded him. But his secretary wasn’t here, so he’d have to make do the best he could until her return. Meanwhile, he’d have to remind Priscilla, Len’s secretary, to keep him posted on such matters.
Having handed the giant greeting card to Len, the brunette hit an off-key note on her ukulele, sang a few notes of ‘‘mi-mi-mi,’’ and then launched into the ‘‘Happy Birthday’’ song. Her voice was untrained but enthusiastic…and somewhat familiar. Hunter moved into the room and positioned himself near the exit, hoping to get a better look at the woman in the Sherlock Holmes hat, but she was intent on giving the birthday boy her full attention.
The back view of her wasn’t bad, though. Her slim-fitting pink body shirt, decorated with large black question marks, showcased the taper from ribs to waist, and a soft black leather skirt skimmed her narrow hips, falling to the middle of her thighs. Hunter drank in the view. By now, she’d switched to Marilyn Monroe’s version of the song, going so far as to act it out by bending forward slightly and placing her palms on the tops of those mind-boggling legs.
The voice, though tickling his mind with its familiarity, left a lot to be desired, but that didn’t matter as long as his gaze caressed her gently rounded rump. Hunter’s body responded in a way that had him thinking of hot, sweaty nights and wrinkled sheets. He turned to leave before his libido led him to do something he might regret.
That’s when the brunette turned, arms outstretched, and milked the final words of the song. ‘‘…to you…!’’
Julie Beth Fasano? No, it couldn’t be. The last time he’d seen his former neighbor, he’d been about to depart for college, and she’d been a barefoot, gangly kid of eleven. A tomboy who untiringly dogged his tracks, often inviting herself to accompany him on dates with her older sister.
He blinked and looked again. This was no tomboy. All traces of the scraggly hair, skinned knees and crooked teeth had evaporated, and in their place was a lovely young woman with below-the-shoulder curls, legs that seemed to go on forever, and sweet pouty lips that dared a man to kiss them.
Hunter took a couple of deep breaths as he assessed the changes that had taken place in his pesky former neighbor over the past dozen years or so. Half a lifetime for her.
She played to the audience, and their eyes met. Hunter gave her an embarrassed smile.