Good heavens. I’d only felt this kind of attraction to three other men in my life. One turned out to be a lying sociopath. The other turned out to be studying for the priesthood. And the third turned out to be The Blob, a man who actually wore flip-flops to our wedding. So you can see that I haven’t had a great track record when it comes to guys who make my G-spot sing. Which is why I decided right then and there to rein in any and all lustful feelings for Andrew Ferguson.

It wasn’t easy, but I almost managed to ignore his crooked smile and pay attention as he told me about the job as freelance editor of the bank’s monthly newsletter.

“You’d write employee profiles. You know, employee-of-the-month kind of thing. The branch managers would supply you with news items about promotions. And we’d expect you to cover any events the bank sponsors. What do you think? Sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“That depends. Are you married?”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was, “Yes, it sounds great.”

“The salary is forty thou a year.”

Forty thousand dollars a year? For a newsletter that probably wouldn’t take more than a week each month to put together? Yikes. I’d just died and gone to paycheck heaven!

Well, not quite, I reminded myself. I didn’t have the job yet. Far from it.

“So,” Andrew said, putting the palms of his hands on his desk, waiting for the show to begin. “Let’s take a look at your writing samples, shall we?”

Fortunately, I’d done some freelance journalism in the past. Human interest stuff. Garden Clubs. Senior Water Aerobics at the Y. The annual Santa Monica Frisbee Olympics for Dogs. Not exactly Woodward and Bernstein. But then, the Union National Tattler wasn’t exactly the Washington Post, so I was hoping I might have a shot at that forty thou.

Act confident, I told myself, as I opened my attache case. You’ve got some fine work here. For all you know, he’ll be fascinated by octogenarians in water fins.

But when I reached into my attaché case, disaster struck. Something else popped out along with my sample book. Something beige and me shy and queen sized. Oh, God! It was my waist-nipper pantyhose! Lying smack dab in the middle of Andrew Ferguson’s Mark Cross blotter! With the cotton crotch staring him right in the face.

So that’s where Prozac hid it!

This had to be one of the Top Ten Most Humiliating Moments of my Life. Both of us sat there for what seemed like an eternity, staring at the damn thing. I wanted to do something, but I was paralyzed with shame.

Finally Andrew broke the silence. He smiled and said:

“Got anything in a fishnet?”