Irresistible?

She winced. Twenty-nine and dating wasn’t so bad. But twenty-nine without a prospect in sight was downright depressing.

The bell on the door tinkled, announcing another customer. A stiff gust of unusually warm May air rushed over Ellie’s table, lifted the page she’d been reading and wrapped it around her head. She clawed at the sheet with her hands, battling the breeze. After a few seconds of flailing, she tore her way clear, sneaking a glimpse at the person who’d just entered.

Her pulse jumped in appreciation of his profile. His dark head was down, alternately consulting his watch and a day calendar spread on his palm as he joined the long line snaking toward the counter. Ellie frowned at the expensive drape of the olive-colored Italian suit and turned back to her mangled paper.

Why do the cute ones always look as if they were just stamped out with a Donald Trump cookie cutter? Give me a great-looking guy who doesn’t own a beeper and I’ll give him lots of imperfect little kids. Where are all the good men, anyway?

A sudden jolt to Ellie’s elbow sent her cola flying, dousing the paper, her salad and her lap. The icy liquid sluiced down her legs, stealing her breath. Ellie raised her arms, helplessly watching bubbly pools gather and run over the sides of the tiny cafe table to plip-plop onto the white tile floor. She squeezed her eyes shut and mourned the short life of the white linen skirt she’d scrimped for two months to buy. Then she stood and furiously spun to face the klutz who had ruined her lunch and her outfit.

Mr. Italian Suit had wedged himself between her table and another one, presumably to take a cellular phone call in peace, away from the din at the counter. He held one finger to his ear and stood with his back to Ellie. The big palooka hadn’t even noticed his errant rump had wreaked so much havoc. Or worse, he didn’t care.

“Hey!” Ellie yelled, reaching up to poke the man none too gently on his shoulder blade.

The man was just ending the call and turned toward her, his chocolate-colored eyebrows lifted in question. Ellie caught her breath. Mamma mia. He was gorgeous. Light brown hair, with green eyes framed by those wonderful dark, dark eyebrows and lashes.

“Yes?” he asked, apparently still unaware of the soda puddling around Ellie’s shoes.

Ellie opened her mouth to speak, and the phone started ringing again. The man muttered, “Excuse me,” then flipped down the mouthpiece and said, “Hello? Yeah, Ray, what’s up?” He glanced at Ellie and shrugged apologetically. Ellie stood, arms akimbo, and glared.

Of all the nerve! A few diners around her tittered and shook their heads. The hunky guy in the apron cast worried glances toward the spill. Well, Armani-man had picked the wrong day to mess with Ellie Sutherland.

She marched around to face him and jerked the phone from his unsuspecting hand. “Ray,” Ellie spoke into the phone, “he’ll have to call you back, sweetie.” She snapped the mouthpiece closed, but held the phone out of reach when the red-faced man lunged for it.

“What are you, some kind of lunatic?” he thundered. “That was my boss—give me my phone!”

“No,” Ellie said sweetly. “Not until you pay me for damages.”

“Damages?” Confusion cluttered his handsome face. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Ellie swept her arm down dramatically to indicate her skirt.

The man stared blankly. “You’re saying I did that?”

“That’s right.” Ellie smiled tightly. “And I have witnesses,” she added, gesturing to the diners close by.

The man looked flustered, then sighed, withdrew a gold business-card holder, flicked out a card and extended it to her. “Send me the cleaning bill.”

Ellie pushed his hand away. “No cleaning bill, mister. A new skirt. You can’t get cola out of white linen.”

The man looked briefly at her skirt and made a sound as if he didn’t deem the garment worth saving. He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously out of his element dealing with a pint-size irate woman. “How much?” he asked finally, taking out his money clip.

Ellie couldn’t help doing a double take at the wad of bills stacked there. “Geez, mister, what are you doing carrying that much cash around? You got a mugging fantasy?”

Every eye in the diner turned to the money in his hand. The man looked around, then shook his head and leaned forward. “Great,” he whispered angrily in Ellie’s face. “That’s just great! Why don’t you go out and tell everyone on the sidewalk, too?”

Ellie balked and swallowed. “Sorry.”

“How much?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Let’s see...” Ellie frowned. “The skirt was brand-new. This is the first time I’ve worn it.”

“How much?” he demanded, counting off bills. “Fifty?”

“Well, then there’s my salad and drink.”

“Sixty?”

“And my panty hose are sticky.”

The man inhaled a mighty breath and expelled it noisily. “Here’s seventy-five, and we’re even, okay?”

“Okay.” She took the money, grinning. “Thanks.”

“Do you think I could possibly have my phone back now?”

“Oh, sure,” she conceded with a generous smile, handing him the unit.

He snatched the phone out of her hand and gave her a final glare, then strode out of the deli without ordering. Immediately, he began punching numbers as he walked by the window and out of sight.

“Yuppie scum,” Ellie murmured, counting the bills. “What a waste of good looks,” she continued to herself, stuffing the bills into her wallet. She mopped up the table and herself as much as possible, ordered another soda, then begrudgingly turned to the want ads.

Jobs were plentiful on the north side of town, in Alpharetta. But Ellie didn’t own a car and public transportation hadn’t yet caught up with the economic explosion in that area. She narrowed her job search to the few-mile radius surrounding her Little Five Points apartment. She could ride her bike if necessary, or take the train. The pickings were slim, and the artistic opportunities were nil. She had resigned herself to the waitressing section, when a blocked ad caught her eye.

Wanted: Single women of any age with no current romantic attachments to take part in a four-week clinical study. Minimal time commitment. Above-average compensation. Must be willing to keep daily journal.

Ellie frowned. No current romantic attachment. She scanned the bottom of the ad to see if she was mentioned specifically by name. No, but it looked, sounded and smelled like her. She wondered briefly if it could be a scam to target unsuspecting women, but she recognized the address as a reputable clinic. Shrugging, she circled the ad with a red felt-tip pen. It was worth a phone call. A glance at her watch told her she’d be better off to make the call from her desk.

The rest of the afternoon passed mercifully fast. Everyone had heard Ellie would be leaving, so in between expressing their heartfelt regret, co-workers piled last-minute remedial tasks on her desk. Somehow between photocopying, filing, and delivering mail, she managed to call the clinic to obtain a few vague details about the study.

The woman who answered prescreened her with several lengthy general questions. Ellie had to interrupt the interviewer twice to answer other calls. After paging Joan over the intercom, Ellie feverishly punched a button to retrieve the woman she’d been talking to.

“Sorry—I’m back. Now, where were we?”

“Are you heterosexual, bisexual or homosexual?”

“Hetero.”

“And are you currently romantically involved with anyone?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you had sexual relations with a man?”

Ellie coughed. “Um. about a year.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Ellie sighed. “Fourteen months, five days, and—” she checked her watch “—two hours.”