Blushing Pink by Jill Winters Page A

reduced the treadmill setting to "remedial." Ah... much better. Now she could breathe while she walked. Oxygen was good; it helped her think.
    She was probably too young to be so cynical about love. But was it her fault that her last serious boyfriend, Pete, had masqueraded as the One, only to announce out of the blue that he was moving to South America to teach underprivileged kids how to read? Sometimes she really couldn't get over Pete's nerve. Albeit, those were very shortsighted, selfish times, but still. Wasn't she a little entitled? Especially after the man she'd thought she'd marry had traded a life with her for a shack in Caracas.
    When the treadmill flashed 1.5 miles across its display screen, Reese hit "cooldown." Good enough. As her legs slowed with the machine, a throbbing kind of relief flooded them, making the muscles feel heavy and full. She vaguely recognized the feeling, and knew enough to know it was a good thing.
    Soon the walking belt had slowed to a dead crawl, then finally to a full stop. Reese remained standing, leaning her elbows on the display screen, and staring out the windows into the blackness of the night.
    Her mind was still swirling with thoughts of Brian and Kenneth and Pete. Men, she thought futilely and unoriginally, as she stepped off the treadmill, left the sunroom, and climbed the stairs to bed.
    * * *
    If she kept listening to that song, she'd swear she'd cry. And since an emotional breakdown didn't scream competent financial analyst, crying wasn't an option at the moment.
    So Angela reached over and pressed "stop" on her CD-ROM. She released a sigh that felt nothing like a release. Her chest only got tighter, and she felt even more bereft of hope—if that were possible.
    Suddenly her intercom buzzed. "Yes, Cyn," she said, struggling to keep her voice neutral—and restraining herself from unloading all her sadness, unsolicited, on her assistant.
    "Bryer's on line two."
    "Oh—"
    "Sorry, I was using line one."
    "No problem. Um..." The thought of going over "the numbers" with Bryer right now made her physically ill. Or maybe it was the thirty-two-ounce black coffee she'd had for breakfast to keep her awake, because she'd been up all night, thinking, sulking, and— surprise, surprise— crying. "Could you tell him I went to a meeting?"
    "Okay," Cyn said, "I'll tell him you'll call him this afternoon."
    "Make it tomorrow. Actually, next week."
    Cyn paused and said, "Okay. Is everything all right?"
    "Yeah, fine," Angela lied, feeling fresh tears sting the backs of her eyes. No, she would not give in; she would not break down bawling to her assistant just because she was a friendly face, a pleasant person, and a fellow woman. No, she couldn't.
    "Thanks, Cyn," she said quickly, before she could change her mind, and pressed "off."
    She spun in her chair to face her monitor, and stared at it, loathing everything she saw. It was a good job—in a prestigious, money-making sort of way. But it also filled her with dread every morning.
    She didn't know exactly when the dread had started. After she'd graduated from college she had been an enthusiastic, capitalistic hopeful, like every other finance major. And with every promotion she'd achieved over the years, she had become only more committed to her work—to numbers.
    Oh, brother. She was thirty years old, her personal life had frozen to lifelessness, and at work, it was numbers. How pathetic. Hell, if she was already depressed, she might as well turn her music back on.
    She hit "play," and as soon as Angela heard Torising, "You're right next to me, but I need an airplane," a tear rolled down her cheek, because it reminded her of the night before.
    She and Drew had gotten home from dinner with the family and said about ten words to each other before they'd changed for bed. And then things really took a nosedive.
    "Do you like this new lampshade?" Angela had asked, sliding under the comforter and into bed beside him. (A decadent king-size bed,