Irresistible?. Stephanie BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
“People change, Ellie. Look at your dad. The man sees more naked people than a doctor.”
“Yeah,” she said with a short laugh. “Imagine my mom and dad retiring next to a nudist colony. It was by accident, you know.”
“Oh, sure, Ellie, what would you expect them to tell their daughter? If they didn’t know about the nudist colony when they moved there, why haven’t they posted a For Sale sign in the two years since?”
“I don’t want to think about it. The whole situation brings to mind pictures I’d rather not see.”
“The point is, your dad finally mellowed out.”
Ellie snorted. “After thirty years of missing family dinners and undergoing two bypass surgeries.” She stabbed another dumpling. “My mom should have left him decades ago.”
“He’s a good man, Ellie, you said so yourself.”
“He neglected his family.”
“But your mom was always there for you.”
Angry tears welled in her eyes. “But who was there for her?”
Manny reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving her a light shake. “They’re happy now, Ellie. Save it for your therapist.” He took a sip of wine, then asked, “So what are you going to do about rent money?”
Leave it to Manny not to mince words. “I called about an ad for participants in a clinical study. The money sounds good—I’m going to find out more about it tomorrow night.” She told him about her conversation with the screener. Manny laughed and agreed it sounded promising.
“You’ve got a guardian angel on your shoulder, Ellie. How else can you explain losing a job, then finding a want ad for desperate women on the same day? A toast!” He lifted his wineglass to hers.
Ellie stuck out her tongue at him, then good-naturedly clinked her glass to his.
THE MEETING ROOM WAS more crowded than Ellie had expected. Based on the cramped accommodations, the crowd had apparently surpassed the clinic’s expectations, as well. The room resembled a college classroom: no windows except the tiny one in the door, fairly new, dense low-grade carpet in a speckled gray, and filled with more folding chairs than the fire marshal would probably care to know about. A large blackboard covered the entire front wall. The side walls were adorned with various-size corkboards bearing dozens of multicolored sheets on topics ranging from sleep disorders to impotence.
Ellie lowered her dark glasses and, as inconspicuously as possible, peered at the other women in the room. She judged her appearance to be somewhat better than the room’s average, and the observation depressed her even more. She pulled down her floppy hat and slumped in the hard metal chair.
Opening her pocket sketchbook, Ellie flipped through to find a clean page, always ready to draw the face of the person nearest her for a few minutes’ practice. Her hands stilled at the page where she had sketched a caricature last night. Mr. Italian Suit with the gooey dark eyebrows smirked back at her, a cellular phone clutched in his cartoon hand. His athletic body strained at the savvy suit, miniature in comparison to his big, good-looking head. Ellie studied the rendition of his eyebrows and nose and wondered how close she’d come to capturing his true expression. If she remembered when she got home, she’d add a smudge of green to highlight those brooding eyes.
At that moment, a bespectacled, lab-coated woman walked to the front of the room and raised her arms to hush the chatter.
“My name is Dr. Cheryl Larkin. I’m a medical doctor, and a professor of human behavior, and it is my privilege to oversee this clinical study. Each of you has been prescreened to a certain extent to qualify for a four-week experiment using pheromones, chemicals produced in animals which attract other animals of the same species.”
Ellie sat up. Her own experiments in perfume making had overlapped into the area of aromatherapy. She had become intrigued with the idea that certain scents could be aphrodisiacs. Supposedly, pheromones went even further.
The doctor continued. “Pheromones are subtle but powerful secretions. Some people say they explain the elusive chemistry that attracts a specific man to a specific woman, and vice versa. The objective of this study is to see what effect, if any, oral pheromones have on your ability to attract and meet a romantic interest.”
Ellie glanced around and saw that Dr. Larkin had the undivided attention of every woman in the room. Hope shimmered in the eyes of the shy, the overweight, the very short and the very tall. She swallowed because she knew her own baby blues reflected the same emotion.
“It will be necessary for participants to answer a lengthy and somewhat personal questionnaire, and to keep a daily journal detailing encounters, or absence of encounters, for each day.” A spirited buzz broke out in the room as applicants whispered excitedly to strangers next to them. Ellie ignored the gleeful exclamation of the middle-aged woman beside her.
“The dosage is two pills first thing in the morning, around midday, and again at bedtime. Besides the aforementioned hypothesis,” the doctor said, finally smiling, “there are no proven side effects with this particular formula. We will ask, however, that participants be especially aware of and record any changes in your energy level or in your eating and sleeping patterns.”
An arm shot up near the front. “Let’s say I take these pills and meet a great guy. You’re telling me after four weeks the rug gets jerked out from under me?” Everyone laughed and the doctor joined in, then raised her hands defensively.
“Wait a minute—we can’t guarantee you’ll meet even one eligible man during the course of this study. If that were true, we wouldn’t need the experiment at all.”
Intrigued, Ellie nodded. This could be fun. After the doctor had finished her talk, Ellie stayed to fill out the necessary paperwork and wait for a counselor to administer the dreaded questionnaire. Three hours later, she emerged with a week’s worth of pills and a small blank journal in her purse, feeling as if she’d just been to confession. But she noticed a new spring in her step. She believed in the powers of aroma. Pulling off the hat and dark glasses, she tossed her short blond locks.
Unsuspecting men of Atlanta, beware!
“WELL, Marcus, if you’re not going to get married, you’re going to have to learn to cook,” Gloria admonished her son as she held a dripping whisk.
Mark Blackwell plucked a green olive from the tray on the kitchen counter and popped it into his mouth, smiling. Il like to eat out.”
The plump woman turned back to her bubbling red sauce. “It’s beyond me how, out of all those women you’ve dated, not one of them could find her way around a kitchen.”
“I don’t—” he walked over and took the whisk from her hand “—date women for their culinary skills.” He flashed a grin in his mother’s direction.
“Oh, you,” she snorted, rapping him playfully on the arm. Then her tone grew more threatening. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to grow old all by yourself.”
“I’ll hire a comely young nurse,” he teased. “Besides, you’d be bored if you couldn’t fret over my state of bachelorhood all day.”
“Not if I had grandchildren,” she replied with a twinkle in her eye.
Mark didn’t miss a beat in the familiar exchange. “You’re much too young to be a grandmother.”
“And you’re much too young to be working yourself to death in that law firm,” she chided.
Mark grabbed two plates and settled them onto his arm, waiter-style. “That’s what I came to talk to you about,” he said, smiling. He dished up a hearty helping of lasagne for each of them, and spooned on the rich homemade sauce. When he set the laden plates on the table, he struck a cocky pose and said, “Say hello to the newest