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Not Quite as Advertised
Tanya Michaels
Perfectionist (n.)–someone doomed to disappointmentFor a person convinced second best simply won't do, all of a sudden Jocelyn "Joss" McBride can't seem to win. Not in the battles with her snippy Siamese or skirmishes with the fire-breathing dragon who's her mother. Or even more annoying, losing advertising awards and clients to the infuriating Hugh Brannon, her not-quite-perfect ex-lover whom she, um, sort of lost, too.Well, enough already.Like any overachiever, Joss is determined to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat–meaning beating Hugh, of course. Unfortunately, her attempts at evening the score bounce right off the Teflon man and a new suspicion dawns–if life was absolutely perfect, wouldn't it be a bore?
Dear Reader,
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 (http://www.tanyamichaels.com) for excerpts of upcoming books, reader giveaways and other fun information.
Happy Reading!
Tanya
“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
Tanya Michaels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
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 (http://www.tanyamichaels.com).
Books by Tanya Michaels
HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE
6—WHO NEEDS DECAF?
HARLEQUIN DUETS
96—THE MAID OF DISHONOR
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
968—HERS FOR THE WEEKEND
986—SHEER DECADENCE
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.
Contents
Chapter 1 (#ucd708eb8-f801-502e-a12a-dd3caf1fb036)
Chapter 2 (#ubce8fd55-714d-5c2f-9603-d9405d57d19d)
Chapter 3 (#u912ea482-8919-516d-a9e5-bc0879fd4389)
Chapter 4 (#u9c95356e-8a30-5f8b-84e1-ae391499a5f7)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
1
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.
“Oh, I see.” He smirked. “You chose to go with one of our competitors. How unfortunate they proved unreliable.”
Client-oriented herself, Joss had marveled in the past over the occasional rude waitress, condescending bank teller or postal worker who seemed on the verge of going, well, postal. Today, she should have expected it. The EWA agent was just par for the course here at purgatory’s country club.
“I realize the plane’s taxied away from the gate, but it hasn’t actually left the ground, right?” Hoping to win him over while there was still time, Joss attempted a bright smile. The result felt muddled, like the face-lift her mom’s friend Lacey had had. “Is there any chance we could call it back?”
“Oh, sure. We make it a point to inconvenience hundreds of passengers to accommodate the one who couldn’t be here at final boarding call.” His sarcasm sent her newly risen hopes plummeting like the stock market on Black Thursday.
Fighting the urge to abandon her own people skills and grab Mr. Helpful by his ugly polyester ascot, she reminded herself that any hint of violence would send airport security swarming.
Then again, a flying body tackle by a well-muscled guy would be the most action she’d seen since her breakup last month with David. And let’s face it, David wasn’t anything to write home about. No man had been, not since—
The gate agent heaved an impatient sigh. “There’s another flight in a couple of hours. Do you want me to book you on it, or not? According to the schedule, I should’ve been on my break three and a half minutes ago.”
And she should be en route to Dallas! The ADster awards gala was tonight, and her More Than Common Scents campaign for a local aromatherapist had been nominated.
“Yes.” She spoke through involuntarily clenched teeth. “Please get me on the very next plane.”
Joss had been in the ADster running last year, too, but had placed a frustrating second behind then coworker Hugh Brannon, who’d been nominated for a separate campaign. At the time, she’d been working for the ultraprestigious Mitman Marketing Solutions…and had only recently ended her affair with charming, competitive, sexy-as-sin Hugh. He was an incredible lover, but somehow his stealing a salon account out from under her had quelled her warmer feelings for the man.
Losing a promotion to him prior to the awards had been harsh; taking home a silver certificate in light of his gold trophy had been rock bottom. But, as any good geologist knew, you could get a lot lower than rock—there were whole layers of iron and crust and molten core. Joss probably shouldn’t have been so surprised when, a week later, her mother had called to ask if Joss was watching the news. Mitman Marketing had been charged with fraud. So much for prestige.
Now Joss was with Visions Media Group and back on top of her game, more than ready to face Hugh tonight. One of his print campaigns with the full-service agency Kimmerman and Kimmerman was up against her aromatherapy ads. Her employer was overjoyed just to have a nomination, but Joss wanted to win. She hadn’t been raised to appreciate second place.
Behind the counter, Mr. Helpful stabbed a few computer keys with his index finger. Then he stole a pointed glance at his watch—clearly her cue to genuflect with gratitude for his postponing his break to do her the favor of a seat assignment.
Next time, she was flying the friendly skies.
He handed over the new boarding pass in its orange-and-purple paper jacket. “I suggest you come to the gate early so that we don’t have to do this again.”
Deciding a mumbled thanks was the wisest, if not the most satisfying response, she walked away. As she headed for the lounge on the other side of the corridor, she dug her cell phone out of her purse and hit the preprogrammed button for the office.
“Visions Media Group.” The male voice that answered didn’t belong to receptionist Cherie Adams.
“This is Joss…Nick?”
“Yeah.” Like numerous advertising groups these days, Visions was small, made up of fewer than a dozen people. But they weren’t so tiny that the graphic design/IT guy usually played secretary.
“Where’s Cherie?”
“She had a dental emergency,” he said. “Where are you? Over Indiana?”
“No.” She sat on a padded vinyl stool in the passenger bar and darted a malevolent glance over her shoulder toward the now abandoned gate counter. “I missed my connection out of O’Hare.”
“Missed your connection? Joss, the awards are tonight!”
You don’t say. Nick was a good guy, though, so she spared him her cranky sarcasm.
“I’m on a flight at five,” she said. “My car’s at DFW, and if traffic’s not too bad, I should be able to just make it. I’m going to call Emily now. If she can drop off my dress and shoes, can you meet me in the lobby tonight?”
“Sure…How’d it go with Neely-Richards?”
“The presentation seemed to go well, but then Neely told me over breakfast that they ‘went in another direction.’” The industry lingo for “thanks, but not a chance” stuck uncomfortably in her throat. “They voted last night to name a firm in New York their exclusive agency of record.”
“To handle promotion of stores they’re opening out West? Too bad they didn’t come to this brilliant decision before we ate the expense of the trip.”
“It happens.” She attempted to sound philosophical. Winners did not cultivate bad attitudes. “Don’t worry about it. I have two meetings next week I feel really good about.”
“Right. Sorry things aren’t going better now, though.”
So was she. Her boss, Wyatt Allen, had been a bit preoccupied lately, almost tense, and if he was worried about business, this contract would have really helped.
“See you in a few hours, then,” Nick said. “It would really stink if you didn’t get to accept your aromatherapy trophy in person.”
She groaned. “There’s a reason we hired you to do visual and not copy.” Her friend’s sense of humor was a lot like the common cold—there was no known cure, and you just had to suffer through it. She liked his optimism, though.
Her second call was to her best friend, business-communications professor Emily Gruber. “Hey, Em. It’s me. You have a minute before class?”
“You mean the sixty seconds I’m using to magically finish all the grading I put off?” Emily’s sigh was rueful. “I know, I know—I’m worse than the students. But these mock cover letters and résumés make me fear for the future of the country.”
Joss laughed. “It’s barely October. You have the rest of the semester to whip your students into shape.” Well, not so much “whip,” as gently nudge. Emily’s classes always had high numbers because she was known for being something of a soft touch. “I won’t keep you, but can I ask a quick favor?”
“At least you ask,” her friend said cheerfully. “Simon just lets me know what I can do for him.”
Joss bit back her first instinctive reply. Much as she loved Emily, Joss had never really warmed to Em’s boyfriend—Dr. Simon Lowe, Ph.D. and SOB. The pompous man took Emily for granted. But, since Joss herself was calling to impose, perhaps now wasn’t the optimal time to lecture her friend on telling people no.
“I’m stuck in Chicago,” Joss said, “and have the ADsters tonight. Would it be possible for you to run by my house later, pick up my dress and some essentials and leave them at the office?”
“Sure, no problem. Dulcie will appreciate the extra visit.” Since Joss didn’t know any of her new neighbors very well, Emily had agreed to stop by and feed the chocolate-point Siamese while Joss was gone. “Will you have time to get to the office, or is someone bringing your clothes to the awards?”
“Nick’s taking care of that. You are an absolute lifesaver, Em. The only other person with a key is my mother.”
