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“Pretty much. She called me stagnant.”
Mel gasped.
Yup.
“So what are you gonna do?” Caroline asked, moving closer.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you the best part.”
“That’s not the best part?”
Marti licked her lips. “She wants me to use Logan.”
“What do you mean use Logan?” Mel asked. “The guy from the bar?”
“Uh-huh. She said we’re opposites, that people will love the chemistry.”
“But wait.” Caroline shook her head and grabbed Marti’s arm, guiding her to the bench. “What are you supposed to do? You can’t just go up to him and say, hey, wanna date so I can write about you in my nationally syndicated column?”
“Precisely, which is why I refuse to use him. He’s so cocky his head would explode at the mere prospect.” Marti could just imagine those green eyes shining with glee as she groveled at his feet, begging him to go out with her. He’d probably attest her conversion to himself.
“That’s too bad. I think he sounded kind of hot.” Caroline bit her lip, and Marti could almost see her mind working overtime. “I’m just saying that if you wanted to find him, you probably could. All it would take is one article asking—”
Marti speared her with a look. “I’d rather eat lead.”
“That’s a little extreme,” Caroline chided.
“So, if not Logan, then who?” Mel asked. “Are you just going to show up at the nearest coffee shop and go eenie meanie minnie moe and pick a guy?”
“You’ve been spending way too much time with your kids,” Marti said.
Mel groaned. “I know. Hazards of the job.”
“Well, whoever you choose, you should definitely wear this.” Caroline shoved an emerald green Oscar de la Renta in Marti’s arms.
CHAPTER FOUR
MARTI
MARTI ENTERED THE STERILE examination room with Mel by her side. The faded blue walls were adorned with a weird combination of framed abstract prints and giant posters of the female anatomy, a mother’s womb, a fetus, and contrasting contraception methods.
Taking a sip of her coffee, she grimaced at the giant picture of a baby in utero. “I feel like I shouldn’t consume anything in here.” She gripped her stomach as it flopped at a close-up image of genital warts.
“What?” Mel asked, pink-cheeked from the cold, her dark hair stuffed under a knit cap.
“Nothing.” Marti smoothed her own auburn locks, eyeing the poster as if it might follow her across the room. “Why are we here again?”
Mel groaned. “Because I’m doing an article on the male perspective of the female anatomy, and Blue thought it would be fun to get my Gynie’s opinion.”
Fun? Nothing about the gynecologist is fun.
“So if I have to suffer through this awkward conversation,” Mel continued, “You do too.”
The middle-aged nurse that ushered them into the room held out a paper gown, the kind that tied in the back. “You’ll need to put this on.”
Mel raised her hands. “Oh, no. I’m not a patient—”
“You’re not a patient?” the nurse interrupted, frowning as she glanced down at a chart. Her laser beam eyes studied Mel’s file. “It says right here you are.”
