I’ve been living a double life. Oh sure, on the surface, I might seem low-key. The people who’ve seen my office—and weren’t too traumatized to speak afterward—would say I lean more toward chaos theory than perfectionism. But they just don’t know the sleep I’ve lost agonizing over the best way to phrase a single sentence. Or about that one Thanksgiving when, admittedly, I became a tad uptight in my attempts to mash the perfect potatoes. Hey, there is such a thing as smoothing out too many lumps.
I’ve learned the hard way that there’s a fine line between trying your best and trying too hard. But Jocelyn McBride, my alter-ego heroine, was raised to be a perfectionist and is convinced that she can solve all her problems by giving one hundred and ten percent—even when Joss’s newest problem is her ex-lover Hugh Brannon. When Joss and Hugh are made co-workers through an unexpected business merger, her well-choreographed life spins out of control like a drunken dance troupe. But through it all, she and Hugh learn that the secret to life and love, as with mashed potatoes, is balance.
If you enjoy Joss’s story, please check out my Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com for excerpts of upcoming books, reader giveaways and other fun information.
“Joss, I don’t want anything to drink. I want—”
“There’s no good way to end that sentence, Hugh,” she said softly. “Except possibly ‘the Cowboys to get to the Super Bowl this year.’ But then, I’d probably be offended that you’re thinking about football right now.”
“Trust me, I’m not.”
Trust him? Easier said than done.
“I’ve missed you,” he told her.
“We work together,” Joss reminded him.
“That didn’t stop us before.”
As arguments went, it wasn’t his most convincing. “Yes, and didn’t that turn out swimmingly?”
Hugh wisely dropped the issue, choosing to return his dishes to the kitchen, then hovered in the hallway. “I guess I should go?”
As opposed to stay and have delicious sex? “I’d see you out, but…”
“You need to stay off that ankle.”
True. But what she’d really been thinking was that her knees might still be too weak from his kisses for her to stand.
Not Quite as Advertised
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RITA® Award-nominated author Tanya Michaels has been reading books all her life, and romances have always been her favorite. She is thrilled to be writing for Harlequin—and even more thrilled that the stories she makes up now qualify as “work” and exempt her from doing the dishes after dinner. The 2001 Maggie Award winner lives in Georgia with her two wonderful children and a loving husband whose displays of support include reminding her to quit writing and eat something. Thankfully, between her husband’s thoughtfulness and that stash of chocolate she keeps at her desk, Tanya can continue writing her books in no danger of wasting away.
For more information on Tanya, her upcoming releases and periodic giveaways, please visit her Web site at www.tanyamichaels.com.
Books by Tanya Michaels
6—WHO NEEDS DECAF?
96—THE MAID OF DISHONOR
968—HERS FOR THE WEEKEND
With heartfelt thanks to that loopy group of women who’ve given me unfailing friendship and support, advice on everything from babies to food to grammar, and more laughs than classic SNL and Python combined. Bless you guys for always being there.
JOCELYN MCBRIDE was in hell. Who knew it would look so much like an airport?
In lieu of the more obvious horns and tail, the smug little man at the gate check-in counter was sporting an orange-and-purple vest with the East West Air logo, but, judging by the barely suppressed glee in his expression, he would enjoy the eternal torment of others. “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am, but the plane has left the gate. Perhaps you were unaware of our company’s policy encouraging passengers to check in at least an hour in advance?”
“My flight out of Detroit was delayed,” Joss explained breathlessly, still winded from sprinting through O’Hare.
After a dismal breakfast meeting that morning, when she’d been told her agency was not getting the account, then being grounded for an hour because of mechanical difficulties, she’d finally arrived here in Chicago. She’d jogged up to the departure gate just in time to see her plane’s backside as it turned on the tarmac. That had been the topper—being mooned by a 717.
Eyebrows raised, the man with the receding hairline and conspicuously absent name badge consulted his computer screen. “This was a connection? I’m not showing any EWA—”
“It was with a different airline.” Joss enjoyed her job with Visions Media, a much smaller advertising agency than the last company she’d worked for, but the much smaller expense budget left something to be desired. Convenient travel plans, for instance.