I spent the next hour perched in that stiff-backed chair from hell, reading old issues of City Girl. I really enjoyed the article titled Breasts: To Buy or Not To Buy. My own were small. I often called them "the Wonders." (I wondered if they were even there.) Obviously after reading the article, I was leaning toward buying.

I only wish there'd been an article on BOTOX. I had already passed the dreaded three-oh and was beginning to notice fine lines. I'm too young for lines of any kind. And, I admit, I like to look my best at all times. I'm not vain or anything like that. It's just, when I first found out Richard had cheated on me, I'd felt so…ugly. So unwanted and unnecessary. So disposable. Like a filthy piece of garbage that smelled rotten and oozed disgusting black stuff.

I didn't like feeling that way-for obvious reasons-and still had to fight for every scrap of self-confidence I could get.

I shifted in my chair yet again.

Finally-thank you, Lord, finally-Elvira, Handmaiden of Lucifer, approached me. "Are you Naomi?" she asked, as if I hadn't already given her my name. Twice. When I didn't reply fast enough, she added snidely, "Well, are you?"

I knew she hadn't forgotten me so soon, so I stubbornly refused to answer.

She got the hint. "Your name isn't listed," she grumbled, her pale, matte-finished lips thin with irritation. "However, Mr. Powell will see you anyway."

It pained me to say, "Thank you," but I said it with a straight face. I even threw in, "I appreciate your efforts on my behalf," though it nearly killed me to utter the words in a civil tone.

I was striving so diligently to appear forgiving and professional because, as I mentioned earlier, I really needed this job. My bills were stacking up and I did not like the thought of losing my bottom-level apartment and having to move back in with my mom and stepdad. Especially since Jonathan enjoys psychoanalyzing my every action. Like I really need to know the reason I ran away from home at the age of sixteen was because my mom hadn't breast-fed me. I love the man, but please. I'd run away (for all of six hours) because my mom hadn't let me date Aarin Bower, the hottest boy to attend my high school. Duh.