Not Quite as Advertised. Tanya Michaels

me into a dung beetle and get it over with.”

      Vivian paused in her small talk with the Versace-clad hostess standing behind a stained-wood podium. “Who are you talking to, Jocelyn?”

      The universe. “Nobody.”

      “Mumbling isn’t very well-bred,” her mother reprimanded.

      Neither was the four-letter word that had sprung to Joss’s mind when she’d entered the Well-Fed Waif and spotted Hugh Brannon. He sat at a corner table near the decorative fireplace, across from a gentleman who looked about Vivian’s age. Obviously the cosmos was having a little joke at Joss’s expense.

      Hugh. He’s everywhere you don’t want him to be.

      At least he wasn’t with a woman. Joss was over him, but that didn’t mean she was in a hurry to find him wooing a date at their old table.

      Vivian took in the conservative art, the strains of violin overhead and the fresh-cut flowers hanging in glass wall vases, then allowed a small smile of approval. “This place is acceptable.”

      Geez, Mom, contain your exuberance—what will people say?

      Truer to form, Vivian frowned suddenly. “I’m not pleased with the wait, though. If I’m to lunch with clients here, I need to know we’ll be seated a bit quicker. You don’t waste the time of Important People.”

      The hostess looked down, busying herself with straightening the reservation book and a basket of mints, clearly abashed, even though Joss and her mother had arrived mere minutes ago.

      Vivian had that effect—making people feel their best was inadequate. She would’ve had da Vinci stammering that of course the Mona Lisa needed a wider smile, and he didn’t know what he’d been thinking! In real estate, Vivian was such a whiz at finding fault with property that by the time her client made an offer—well below asking price—the grateful seller was ready to agree to anything just to offload the dump.

      Joss watched as her mother glanced around the restaurant again, not evaluating the setting itself this time, but looking to see if she knew anyone and whether there were any noteworthy individuals present. “Noteworthy” to Vivian wasn’t just someone with enough money to potentially buy or sell in her specialized area of town—although that helped—but anyone with status in the community. Financial security and respectability were what a twenty-year-old and pregnant Vivian had been denied when she’d shared the news of her pregnancy with her fiancé. He’d backed out of the wedding, which was only weeks away, and the appalled McBrides had threatened to disown their daughter if she didn’t put the baby up for adoption, convinced single parenthood would ruin the life they’d envisioned for her.

      Vivian had vowed to raise the perfect daughter all by herself, refusing her parents’ help when they softened a couple of years later. Instead, she’d busted her butt to make money, and as far back as Joss could remember, her mother had taken every opportunity to rub elbows with those who had local prestige—business owners, philanthropists, the deputy mayor. Even now, Joss caught occasional glimpses of what a younger Vivian must have been like, facing abandonment with the determination to prove she was Someone.

      “Jocelyn! Do you know who that is over there?”

      Nine times out of ten, the answer to this question was no, but Joss dutifully followed her mother’s gaze, anyway. You have got to be kidding me! For a horrible second, she thought her mom meant Hugh, which would be bad because Vivian wouldn’t like finding out her daughter had been involved with a man for almost a month and hadn’t mentioned him; much less introduced him. Then Joss realized Vivian meant Hugh’s companion, which, come to think of it, was just as bad if it meant Vivian wanted to say hello.

      “That’s Stanley Patone,” Vivian said, emphasizing Patone as if the single word should draw the same social recognition as DeNiro, Madonna or Brad and Jen. Then came the dreaded words, “We simply must go over and say hello!”

      Life as a dung beetle was looking better all the time.

      Reminding herself that she’d survived plenty of encounters with Hugh Brannon and that this would be brief, Joss held her head high and followed her purposeful mother.

      Hugh saw them first, doing an astonished double take. Dallas was big enough that they seldom bumped into each other without expecting it beforehand, and he had to be wondering about the petite woman who was so obviously Jocelyn’s mother barreling, in her own graceful way, toward him. Joss had always found it oddly poetic that she looked exactly like a younger version of Vivian, with no visible genetic trace of the father she’d never met or the grandparents who had balked at her existence.

      “Joss!” Recovering quickly, Hugh rose from his chair. Joss could have sworn jeans were against the Waif’s dress code, but he looked so good in them, who would complain? “What a pleasant surprise.”

      “You two know each other?” Vivian shot a questioning glance over her shoulder, clearly displeased that Joss hadn’t armed her with all pertinent data.

      “I had the privilege of working with her sister at Mitman,” Hugh answered, flashing one of his patented charming grins at Joss’s mom. “She didn’t tell me she had a sister.”

      As the smiling and portly Stanley Patone—whoever he was—got to his feet, Vivian shook her head. “Young man, do I look like someone who’s easily won over with glib flattery?”

      Easily won over? Vivian McBride? Ha. Suddenly Joss regretted never having brought Hugh to a Sunday brunch. It would be fun to see him squirm.

      Unfortunately, being Hugh, he didn’t.

      Instead, he grinned. “No, ma’am, but it was worth a shot. If you’re anything like your daughter, I need all the help I can get.”

      Vivian actually chuckled before turning to Stanley, taking his hand in hers. “It’s so nice to see you again. Perhaps you don’t remember, but we met briefly—”

      “At the Fosters’ garden party in June,” the man finished for her. With his self-conscious expression and a bulky-knit sweater that exaggerated, rather than flattered, his girth, Stanley Patone was less polished and more endearing than Viv’s usual Important People. “How could I forget? The mosquitoes were Jurassic-size, but you were enchanting.”

      “Aren’t you a dear! Allow me to introduce my daughter, Jocelyn McBride.” As Joss shook Stanley’s hand, Vivian added, “This is Stanley Patone. Of Patone Power Tools.”

      Any chance they made wallpaper steamers? Joss nodded obligingly. “Of course. Nice to meet you.”

      Stanley sighed. “You’ve never heard of us, have you? No, it’s okay. Too few people have, but Hugh here tells me he can change all that.”

      Next to her, she noticed Hugh fidget. Clearly, Stanley was teetering on the brink of an ad man’s worst nightmare—the prospective client letting another agency know he was looking.

      Regaining his composure, Hugh smiled smoothly. “It’s practically criminal to be sitting in here on such a gorgeous Sunday morning talking business, I know, but I’m afraid that’s what we’re doing. We’re grateful you lovely ladies stopped by and broke up the monotony, though.”

      Translation: You should be going now, but really, you wouldn’t want to stay anyway because our conversation is dreadfully boring. The man didn’t know who he was dealing with.

      With a wide isn’t-this-a-small-world smile, Vivian placed her hand on Stanley’s arm. “You know, Jocelyn’s in advertising, as well. She’s building that up-and-coming Visions Media Group.”

      Joss winced inwardly at her mother’s version of the truth, which ignored the fact Wyatt Allen had been steadily growing his respected company long before Joss arrived, needing a job after the Mitman fiasco. She did her part, certainly, but she couldn’t take single-handed credit for the success Wyatt had been seeding for years.

      Stanley gestured toward the two empty chairs. “We’ve neglected our manners. You will join