Irresistible? by Stephanie Bond Page B

foot of her bed and slept with it cuddled against her cheek.
    She touched her lips, her mouth watering at the thought of his taste. For a brief moment, he’d pulled her to him and she’d felt his arousal for her. Desire stabbed her even now and she allowed herself the luxury of wondering what it would be like to lie beneath him. She knew the pheromones were getting to him—he’d probably bed her willingly enough, she mused. But was her heart durable enough to withstand the letdown once the chemical reaction fizzled out?
    The following day, Tuesday, marked exactly one week since Ellie had begun taking the pills. She dutifully collected her journal and walked the few blocks to the clinic.
    The unadorned white two-story building squatted on Parish Street between a parking garage and a vintage clothing store. Ellie waited politely while two women entered the door in front of her, wrinkling her nose appreciatively when the smell of paint wafted out The old structure was getting a face-lift
    Two giant stepladders flanked the wide entryway, supporting slow painters with big paint buckets and tiny brushes. Ellie tilted her head back to check their pace and progress. They’d be there at least a decade, she decided, then turned toward the empty waiting room, relieved she wouldn’t have to wait.
    A cold, slimy dollop of something plopped onto her head. Ellie closed her eyes and lifted her shoulders in a deep shrug, instinctively wanting to touch the stuff oozing down behind both ears, but already knowing it was off-white wall paint.
    â€œSorry,” came a muffled voice many feet above her. “Nice buns, though.”
    â€œThanks,” Ellie mumbled without looking up.
    Thirty minutes later she sourly joined a large cluster of people waiting to speak to the harried receptionist standing behind the tall white counter. The clinic was a busy little place. Apparently, a crowd had arrived during her attempt to remove most of the paint from her hair in the rusty old bathroom.
    After a long wait, she was directed to one of the cracking vinyl-upholstered chairs lining the perimeter of the waiting room. Ellie passed the time leafing through an ancient copy of Museum Art , her hair dripping milky water on the curled pages.
    At last her name was called, and she followed a gray-haired, stocky, somber-faced woman to a tiny closet of a room. “I’m Freda,” the woman said defensively, as if Ellie was going to make something of it.
    She didn’t. “Pleased to meet you.”
    Freda looked more like a prison guard than a clinical assistant. After a perfunctory glance over her chart, the woman snatched Ellie’s journal and perused the contents with tight lips. After a few moments, her eyes swung up to meet Ellie’s. “Impressive,” the woman muttered. “All true?”
    Ellie nodded patiently.
    â€œAre you taking the pills exactly as directed?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAny physical symptoms? Changes in energy level or diet?”
    Ellie thought for a moment. “My concentration seems diminished, and my appetite has been depressed.” She grinned and patted her stomach. “I’ve lost two pounds.”
    â€œHow about your exercise level?”
    Ellie shook her head. “About average—no change.”
    The woman noted Ellie’s answers on a form. “Have you become sexually active with any of the men you’ve mentioned in the journal?”
    Ellie squirmed. “No.”
    â€œHave you developed an emotional attachment to any of them?” She skimmed the last journal page with her index finger. “I see the name Mark mentioned quite often.” She peered over her glasses at Ellie.
    Clearing her throat, Ellie said, “N-no. Well, maybe.”
    â€œI don’t have a checkbox for ‘maybe,’” said Freda. “Do you like the man or don’t you?”
    â€œYes, I do.”
    â€œAnd do you have reason to think he