Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 by Kelley St. John Page A

pure Ethan as he slowly broke from the embrace and entered her apartment.
    “You too,” she said, trying to remember how this worked—breathing, that is. In and out, in and out, yeah, that’s it. “Your trip went well, I guess?” she finally asked.
    “It was great,” he said, sitting casually on the sofa as if he belonged here, and in her heart, she believed he did. “The Panache deal should go through tomorrow, and we’ll be an eighteen-store corporation,” he said, his excitement evident in the words. But before he told her more about the deal, he pointed to the television, where a neon green arrow glowed from the VCR portion. “Were you watching a movie?”
    No way. The tape was still rolling, even though the screen was off, and he could see that blinking arrow, dadgummit. “Yeah,” she said, hurrying across the room, then stretching a finger toward the machine and punching the STOP button. A surge of relief flooded through her when the tattletale arrow disappeared. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, trying her best to change the subject. “A Coke, maybe?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “In the can or over ice?” she asked, ever the hospitable hostess for her friend, her boss and her every fantasy.
    “The can is fine.” Then, while she withdrew two cans from the fridge, he turned the subject right back to that blasted tape. “Sounded like a Gasparilla parade. Trying to get an idea of what’s in store?” he asked, accepting his Coke from Clarise.
    Her skin tingled when her fingertips brushed his hand, and she sat abruptly on the other end of the couch to try to camouflage her wobbly knees. They’d been having their coffee chats for nearly three years, and she’d controlled herself; what had happened that made a brush of his fingers do this? But she knew; he’d looked at her, really looked at her, that night at the Christmas party, and, being the planner that she was, she hadn’t stopped calculating the possibilities of that look ever since. She fought the impulse to shiver—if a simple touch did this, what the heck would a kiss do? She could hardly wait to find out. Maybe by tomorrow night, she’d know, if she could ever get the nerve to tell him she wanted more than mere friendship, and if he felt the same. So many ifs, so little time. One more day.
    “There’s nothing like it, seeing that big Jose Gasparilla ship sail into Tampa with hundreds of the city’s most prominent men dressed as pirates set to take over the place. Then you’ve got the parades and the parties,” he added, then cleared his throat. “I thought I should warn you about some of the—activities—down there. The women are—hell, Clarise, I don’t know how to describe it other than—wild.” His mouth crooked to the side. Then he took a long drink, as if he had to do something with those enticing lips to keep from outright laughing at her attempt to blend with the wild women of Tampa. Was that it? Or was it something else that made him look uncomfortable with the statement?
    Well, whatever the reason, Clarise wanted to spout some smart remark about how she could be sexy if she wanted—how she could make him want her, if she wanted—but she couldn’t concentrate on anything beyond watching his neck pulse with each swallow.
    Ethan lowered the can and looked at her thoughtfully. “Not that I think you should pass on the trip. I’m glad you’re going, but you’ve never been around anything quite like Tampa during Gasparilla. I want you to be prepared.”
    Clarise didn’t mind him giving her a few pointers. Actually, she’d have been surprised if he didn’t try to prepare her, in a friend-to-friend kind of deal. In fact, that lack of preparedness was the real reason she’d asked Rachel to loan her the Gasparilla tape. Ethan was right; Tampa during Gasparilla was more than Clarise had expected. More colorful. More exciting. More naked.
    “I’m ready,” she said, and couldn’t keep her smile from