One

Twenty-five days earlier…

No point packing the vibrator. Tess Wakefield had zero interest in sex. She'd been doing without it for the better part of a year, and that year had been better, thank you. No more bikini waxing unless she felt like it, no more inspecting her backside for unsightly blemishes or plucking the odd hair from the knuckle of her big toe, which hurt like hell.

No more penises or anything that was attached to them. Men were high maintenance. Well, most of them anyway. They needed all that ego-stroking and fawning, and they didn't even care if you lied about how wonderful they were. They'd rather you fake orgasms than admit to not having them. Think about it.

And they were wimps, too, when it came to the important things in life. Squeamish about a little honest emotion. Terrified of giving up their freedom. They weren't looking for partners in life. They wanted groupies. Wannabe pop stars, all of them, in search of an adoring audience. And all that pretending to love football when you were freezing to death and had to pee but didn't want to risk hepatitis in the event bathroom.

Well, this groupie had turned in her backstage pass.

She tossed the vibrator into one of the boxes that would go into temporary storage and turned back to the array of clothing on her bed that still had to be sorted and packed. Thank goodness her new employer, Pratt-Summers, was handling most of the move to New York for her, which included the generous offer to use one of their corporate apartments until she could find a place of her own. She'd been offered the prestigious creative director position, and she had to look professional. That meant black, and lots of it. On the other hand, this was an advertising agency and they tended to be casual. It was also February, which meant jeans and sweaters, except for client visitation days when everybody wore suits like big boys and girls.

Tess knew a little something about ad agency protocol. She'd been with Renaissance Marketing in L.A. for the past eight years, doing everything from answering the phones to running the creative department to pitching and winning multimillion-dollar campaigns. Now, finally, it felt as if all the hard work and long hours had paid off. She'd given it her all, and maybe too much, considering how everything else in her life was withering from neglect.

She picked up her off-the-shoulder jersey sheath, briefly tempted by the thought of the New York club scene, then relegated it to the storage box. The dress was too red, too tight. It shouted take me off—and a couple other things that ended with off.

Her conversion to celibacy had come immediately after the breakup with Dillon, her let's-wait-until-the-perfect-moment-to-announce-our-engagement fiancé. That perfect moment was never, of course. Too late Tess had discovered that Dillon was involved with another woman, his mother. She steamed the wrinkles from his boxer shorts and enzymatically cleaned his contact lenses for him, while Tess could barely handle the instructions on a box of laundry detergent. The fact that Dillon had made his mother break off the engagement with Tess confirmed her suspicions about him. He was high maintenance and a commitment-phobe.

That had seemed obvious to Tess, but her always brutally frank friend, Meredith, had disagreed. "You're the CP," she'd told Tess, who'd protested, "How could I be the commitment-phobe? I'm the one getting dumped." And then it had hit her. Maybe she was choosing CPs so that she didn't have to commit.

She knelt to pull the plug on her clock radio and saw the time. "Ten? It can't be." She'd been up since 6:00 a.m. How did it get that late?

Pratt-Summers had arranged for a car to take her to the airport, and a moving van to pick up the last of her boxes. The van was due in thirty minutes, and not only did she have to finish packing, she had to get the apartment presentable. She was subletting her one-bedroom place furnished, and the tenant had agreed to a month-by-month arrangement, just in case Tess found herself packing for a flight back.

Not that Tess expected anything to go wrong. She was eminently qualified for the job, according to Erica Summers, the CEO at Pratt-Summers, who'd interviewed her personally just three weeks ago. But how often did a creative directorship of a large Madison Avenue ad agency come along?

"To most thirty-two-year-old ad execs? Never," she said, aware of the flutter in her voice. God, she was nervous.

This job was huge. New York City was huge.

Maybe she wanted to miss the flight. She couldn't even seem to make up her mind what clothes to take with her, and there was no time to call her brutally frank friend to discuss it. Meredith, voice of clarity in a jumbled world, steadfast shoulder, mother confessor and occasional scolding conscience. Were there any Merediths in New York?

Tess's spirits sank with her shoulders. She looked around the place, marveling at the chaos. It could have been declared a disaster area. Fortunately, she saw the problem immediately.

She wasn't dealing with Bank of America's automated voice-mail system. She only had three options to worry about. Get rid of the crotchless day-of-the-week panties that Dillon gave her, obviously without his mother's knowledge. Toss out anything else that brought the word hot to mind. Then pack the rest and go.

One week later…

"The best way to open the mind is to open the body. If one is closed, the other cannot be open. Breathe through the soles of your feet. Listen with your fingertips."

Tess spoke in low, modulated tones to the five men and women lying on their backs on gym mats, arranged in a circle and forming rudimentary U shapes with their bodies. Their arms and legs were straight up in the air, reaching toward the ceiling, some steadier than others.

"Can you feel the energy flowing and your mind expanding?" Tess asked. "Focus on the base of your spine. Is it tingling?"

"Something's tingling." Carlotta Clark giggled.

Copyright © 2006 by Suzanne Forster.