Page 16 of Making Over Maris

She ignored this, leaning in to sniff him. As exciting as that was, his mood plummeted when she winkled her nose. “When’s the last time you did laundry?”

“Laundry?”

“Yeah. You know that thing where you clean your clothes on a regular basis so you don’t smell like a Sasquatch?”

“How do you know what a Sasquatch smells like?”

It was a serious, empirical question. Enquiring minds wanted to know. No hard data on the Bigfoot phenomenon existed but conspiracy theories flourished on the web.

He didn’t understand why she bristled like a hedgehog.

A hedgehog on its period.

He decided not to share the analogy with her, which was probably for the best. She was a little cranky.

She yanked open the fridge, pulled out his salad and thrust it at him. “This is your lunch.”

He took the salad and slunk back to his office, trying to appear chastened. But inside he was nearly delirious with joy.

Because Sara was back.

Damn Jack.

Sara fumed as she stormed back to her office.

She’d been so angry when she walked into the break room to see him fondling that stupid sandwich.

Part of the anger, she had to allow, was at men in general. The whole time she’d been gone, Todd hadn’t called or emailed or texted her once. She hadn’t expected him to—not really. But she had hoped.

And as usual she was disappointed.

And Jack—that was icing on the disenchantment cake.

She should have known. She should have known giving him a diet and workout plan was a stupid idea. Men were so weak when it came to self-discipline.

Hell, they were weak when it came to everything.

She should have known her plan wouldn’t work. That he wouldn’t let it.

She’d made a promise.

She’d done her best.

She’d be damned if she would let him ruin everything. He would not cheat her out of that trip.

It had become something of an obsession with her over the past month—the glimmer of hope. The dream of Paris.

During the past few weeks, she’d spent a lot of time reviewing her life. Reviewing one’s life was never pleasant when one was staring down the barrel of her thirtieth year. And realizing life wasn’t turning out as planned led one to obsess.

She’d come to realize she’d probably never find what she was searching for. Never have the kind of relationship she craved—that magical, romantic connection with a man. She’d probably never get married or have children or a have picket fence or any of that crap. It was, in fact, a fairy tale. An evil lie told to girls to keep them docile and submissive.

Sara wasn’t docile or submissive. Not in the least.

She never had been.

And by God, she was fucking going to Paris. She was going to spend her fucking birthday enjoying the fucking city lights from the top of the fucking Eiffel Tower with a fucking glass of champagne in her hand if it killed her.

Jack was not going to blow this for her.