of a muffin top and jiggly bottom with a discreet foundation garment?
After all, realistically speaking, there was only so much one could do in six weeks. Chloe leaned back in the chair and folded her arms over her middle. She could feel the subtle roll just above the elastic waistband of her pajama bottoms. She straightened.
Shape wear, definitely.
Besides, celebrities and beauty-pageant contestants did it all the time. Heck, they did more than that to acquire their perky breasts and sag-free butts, so that everyone sighed with envy as they watched them strut the stage in Atlantic City or glide up the red carpet on premier night.
Which reminded Chloe. She needed a killer outfit to show off the killer curves she was planning to acquire through either sweat or spandex.
She typed, Little black dress, emphasis on little.
Smiling, she pictured it. Something sleek and clinging … okay, and with subtle ruching around the waist to distract from any flaws that remained despite the shape wear. Her legs, from mid-thigh down, would be the star of the show, which made sense since they remained her best attribute. Even when she gained weight, the extra pounds tended to collect at her hips and middle rather than on her thighs. And she had nice calves. They were shapely without looking like they belonged on a bicycle messenger. Put her in a pair of high heels and she could be a pinup … well, from mid-thigh down.
Heels. Ooh. She would have to practice walking in them. She’d never been very steady on anything higher than a couple of inches.
Stilettos, she typed.
That was what she had in mind to go with the sexy, stingy bit of black fabric that was going to pass for her dress.
Was black the best color for her? She studied her arms. Her skin was pale. Like most redheads, she had a tendency to freckle, which was why she stayed out of the sun whenever possible. Black brought out her most, well, ghostly hue. But if not black, then what?
Given her hair color, she generally steered clear of reds and oranges. Pink was out, too. She didn’t care for purple. It reminded her too much of eggplant, and she hated that vegetable on principle. She’d barfed up an entire plate-worth of eggplant parmesan in the cafeteria her freshman year, earning her the unfortunate nickname Yack-Attack.
Green would do in a pinch, though paired with her hair it made her feel a little too much like a pumpkin. As for blue … uh-uh.
She hated blue.
Any and all shades, but especially baby blue for reasons far more emotional than aesthetic. She’d worn a formal dress that color to her senior prom. Her mother had talked her into it, claiming it flattered her figure, when in fact the full skirt made it appear she was trying to smuggle someone into the dance.
She could still recall how humiliated she’d felt when Natasha and company had cornered her on the dance floor and pulled up her skirt to see if she was alone.
She’d been alone and wearing a pair of briefs the likes of which would have been right at home on her Nana.
Chloe shuddered now. Black it was. With thong panties. Under shape wear.
She’d compensate for her pale complexion with a salon-bought tan. Not the sort that involved lying on a bed under UV rays. That would only bring out her freckles, and Chloe hated her freckles, even if Simon had once commented that he found them adorable. She didn’t believe him. After all, none of the women he’d ever dated had freckles. If he liked them as much as he claimed, the women in his life should have resembled leopards.
Chloe decided to go with a spray-on tan. Her sister had gotten such a treatment before her wedding the year before. Of course, Frannie was a brunette and her skin wasn’t nearly as pale as Chloe’s, but Frannie had come away with a nice, healthy glow. She was always after Chloe to try it.
The phone rang as she shot her sister an email asking for the name of her salon.
“Hello?”
“Good morning,” Simon replied. “I’m going for coffee at the Filigree Café. Want to meet me there? I’ll spring for the bagels.”
The Filigree served some of the best coffee and homemade baked goods in Lower Manhattan. She and Simon met there on weekend mornings when neither of them had other plans. That was often the case for Chloe. Not so much lately for Simon, but then his dating status had changed.
Once again, she ignored jubilation, as well as the way her mouth watered at the mere thought of a toasted onion bagel with herbed cream cheese.
“Sorry. No bagels for me. I’m on a diet,” she informed him.
“Since when?”
“Since when not?” she replied. “I’m always on a diet.” Which, sadly enough, was all too true.
A wise man, Simon didn’t point out that this had never stopped her from joining him for a bagel in the past. Instead, he asked, “Is this about the reunion?”
“No.”
They both knew she was lying.
“Come on, Chloe. Join me. What’s the fun in eating alone?”
“Simon …”
“We’ll go for a walk afterward,” he promised. “A long, brisk one. It’s a great morning for it. No humidity and the temperatures aren’t supposed to reach into the eighties until this afternoon.”
She pulled at her curly hair, and relented. “Okay. But I’m not having a bagel.”
“Agreed. And I won’t let you have so much as a bite of mine.”
“You’re humoring me,” she accused.
“I’m dead serious. Meet you there in half an hour?”
The old Chloe would have said yes. The brand-new and improved Chloe knew that half an hour would barely give her enough time to brush her teeth and hair and throw on whatever clean clothes she could find hiding amid the heaps of laundry on her bedroom floor.
“Make it an hour. I’m not even dressed or anything.”
“An hour?” Simon sounded surprised and no wonder given their long history as friends. “You really need an hour to get dressed?”
“I’m turning over a new leaf. I want to actually wear makeup and look presentable when I appear in public. Even if it’s just with you,” she replied drily.
“Okay, an hour.” Rather than sounding irritated, he almost sounded intrigued. “I’ll get our usual corner table. See you then.”
Simon was on his third cup of coffee when Chloe finally arrived at the cafe. It was hard to be angry with her given the way she looked. She didn’t primp often, but when she did … Wow! He sucked in a breath and reached for his cup, failing in his determination not to admire the way her jeans hugged her hips or the way the vee of her shirt offered the slightest hint of cleavage.
She thought she needed to lose weight. When she dressed like this, he thought he’d lose his
