Except for lipstick, her makeup was fine, so she applied another quick coat of high-gloss Ruby Slippers-a freebie from one of the major cosmetics companies in hopes that she would wear it on her show and possibly thank them publicly by name.
Her hair could use a little help, but running her fingers through a couple of spiky strands then scrunching in an attempt to curl a few others seemed to work.
What she needed was a spa day. Or at the very least, a trip to the salon. Her roots, which were a slightly darker shade of blond than the rest, were beginning to show.
Being an on-air personality, she didn’t have the luxury of letting herself go. She was expected to have perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect nails, the perfect figure, and the perfect attitude to go with her perfect smile.
And ninety-eight-point-six percent of the time, she succeeded.
This week just happened to be one of the remaining one-point-four percent.
Her attitude ever since walking in on a half-naked Zack with a half-naked puck bunny had pretty much been “Fuck Zack, fuck her appearance, fuck the show, fuck the world.”
Zack’s constant attempts to contact her weren’t helping, either. He’d called her cell and home phones-to grovel and beg for forgiveness, she was sure-so many times, she’d finally blocked his numbers. And everyone at work-hell, everyone she knew-had strict instructions not to let him anywhere near her, whether it was in person or through telephone calls, text messages, or candy-grams.
He was persona non grata, as far as she was concerned, and could go fuck himself, right along with his trail of willing bimbettes.
But because her attitude these days was somewhat less than perky and she had more important things on her mind-like how to torture and kill a man without leaving a trace-her hair and nails had pretty much fallen to the very bottom of her list of concerns.
Ironically, it was Zack’s big, slobbery, pain-in-the-ass dog that had kept her sane and was starting to help her climb out of her deep, dark pit of despair.
Oh, Zack was still very much at risk of having an armed mercenary cut off the protruding parts of his body. She’d actually gone so far as picking up a copy of one of those magazines-Mercenary Monthly or some such-at a newsstand on her way home from work in hopes of finding a classified ad that read, Will kill your cheating ex for cash.
But before she’d had a chance to thumb through it, dumb old Bruiser had ambled up to the side of the bed, nudged her in the thigh, then hefted his way up to sleep next to her, his giant head and floppy, drool-covered lips resting in her lap. For the first ten seconds, she’d scowled and tried to push him away. Tried to figure out how to roll him off the bed and out of her room so she could lock the door.
She didn’t even like the stupid Saint Bernard. She’d only brought him home with her because she knew it would kill Zack to find him missing. Even now, she imagined Mr. Hump-Anything-That-Moves pacing, tearing at his hair, bemoaning the fact that his beloved behemoth had been taken by his furious, and very possibly homicidal, ex-girlfriend.
It had taken only one glance from Bruiser’s wide brown eyes to win her over, though. Well, that, and a deep, contented sigh and a long swipe of his wet tongue along her cheek. He’d done that, and she’d melted into a puddle of doggy-loving goo right along with the pint of Chunky Monkey resting on her bedside table.
She’d spent the rest of the evening cuddling with the big bag of fur under her favorite comforter while they’d both finished the ice cream and watched Fatal Attraction twice in a row. Of course, she’d had the presence of mind to cover Bruiser’s eyes during the boiling bunny scene. Being a dog, he would probably eat a rabbit if given half a chance-heck, he ate socks, sneakers, and tennis balls on a regular basis-but she didn’t want him to think she endorsed animal abuse of any kind.
The next morning, when she’d awakened with Bruiser still snuggled beside her, filling one side of the bed the way Zack used to, she’d suffered a brief moment of sadness. Most women, she supposed, would prefer to share their beds with a six-foot-six blond Adonis of a professional hockey player rather than a two-hundred-pound brown and white Saint Bernard with a drool stain the size of Jenna’s Volkswagen under his right jowl.
Despite the damage to her fifteen-hundred thread count Egyptian-cotton sheets, there was something extremely comforting about having Bruiser there. His steady breathing, his soft fur, his radiating warmth. She’d wrapped her arms around him, given him a hard hug, and decided that life couldn’t be all that bad if the sight of Zack’s dumb dog could bring a smile to her face.
That name, though-Bruiser-would have to go. It reminded her too much of Zack, in a way that the Saint Bernard himself didn’t. And she suspected a trip to the veterinarian was in their very near future. Breath that noxious simply could not be healthy.
So she would make an appointment to have her hair done. Maybe even her nails. And she would find a place that could do the same for Jethro.
Or Roscoe.
Or Chompers.
Well, she’d come up with something.
Grabbing her purse and knitting tote, she opened the driver’s side door of her silver Lexus and headed for the front of The Yarn Barn. At the back of the store, she greeted her Wednesday-night knitting group and plopped down in the empty seat Jenna and Ronnie had saved for her.
Everyone else already had their projects out, needles clicking away as they knit and chatted and sipped lemonade from the small sidebar the store had provided for gatherings just like this.
Jenna was knitting yet another of her trademark boas. The feathery purple yarn ran through her fingers like water as she worked the set of large, plastic needles almost faster than the eye could see. She probably had two hundred boas in her own collection by now, but because she loved making them so much, she often gave bunches of them to her aunt Charlotte to sell at her craft booth-and this week, on the road. And they apparently went well, because Jenna was forever knitting them, and Charlotte was forever asking for more.
Ronnie, however, was using much smaller needles and a much sturdier yarn for the sleeve of a dark, smoky-blue sweater she was knitting for Dylan to wear during the coming winter.
“You’re late,” Ronnie said from her spot in the armchair to Grace’s left. “Is everything all right?”
A stab of guilt speared her at the concern in her friend’s voice. She knew Ronnie was worried about her. If their situations had been reversed and she’d been the one to witness Ronnie taking a baseball bat to Dylan’s car and tearing apart his apartment, then crawling into her own bed to rail and wail for a day and a half, she’d have been concerned, too.
Frankly, Grace was lucky her friends hadn’t called the men in white coats. Not that a few hours in a strait-jacket and room with padded walls wouldn’t have done her some good.
“Everything’s fine,” she reassured them. “Work has just been a little hectic lately, and my producer stopped me on my way out to argue about some upcoming show topics.” The men-are-evil-and-must-be-shot segments, which she still maintained were timely and necessary to the fate of womankind.
Reaching into her bag, Grace removed a giant wad of thin, delicate white yarn already knit into several complicated pieces. Parts of what was supposed to have been her wedding dress. She’d been so excited about making it herself, instilling that love and excitement into every stitch.
On several occasions, Jenna and Ronnie had both offered to help, seeing how complicated the pattern was and fearing Grace wouldn’t be able to complete it in time by herself. But Grace had declined. She’d wanted to do it all herself, to wear her own creation down the aisle.