The Devil Served Desire by Shirley Jump Page A

thought come from? Dante was so not her type. He was Mamma's type, i.e., available, Italian, Catholic and breathing. Maria's standards were a little more exacting. For one, she didn't want a man who made a living with food. It was hard enough working in the gift basket shop all day. Temptation ran rampant in the boxes of truffles and delicate handmade chocolates.
    Being with a man who could actually cook would be her undoing. Then she'd have him at her disposal three meals a day. And snacks.
    She could just see the scale, the arrow waving between her goal weight and cow weight like a seesaw with two chunky kids battling for control.
    The Chubby Chums continued tossing advice and rhymes at each other. An impromptu group hug sprung up, encircling Arnold with lots of Chubby Chum love. Only Maria and Bert refrained.
    "You all are the best friends a teddy bear could ever have," Arnold said.
    "Oh, we love you, too, Arnold," the crowd said in unison.
    Love. That was Maria's whole problem. Too many people telling her she needed to fall in love, like a relationship would bring world peace and predictability to her Friday nights.
    She shifted in her seat and realized what the biggest problem was with Dante. He made her feel off-kilter. Out of control. Maria Pagliano was a woman who always had the upper hand when it came to men and relationships.
    She called the shots. She tossed them out when they were jerks, like Commodus with his downward thumb at the gladiator fights. That way, her heart remained unbroken.
    She'd learned that particular lesson from David the Gyno, thank-that-bastard-very-much. When she'd caught him with Bambi the Stripper on their dining room table— the one she'd sweated over, sanding and polyurethaning it for three straight days while David babbled on and on about their future as a couple—she'd felt her heart shatter like ice falling off a roof.
    Never again. No man would get that close, or get his butt near her eating area again.
    "Okay, group, let's talk about our goals," Stephanie said, dispersing the group hug like a cop kicking the pigeons on Boston Common out of his way. "Remember, make them realistic. If you put the moon too high in the sky—"
    "You'll only end up chomping pie," the group chanted back.
    Stephanie put up a thumb. "That's right. Now, let's share our visions for the week ahead. Close your eyes, picture yourself and tell the group where you'll be in a week."
    If miracles were possible, Maria would be in a size eight and swimming au naturel with Antonio.
    "I've got it!" Arnold said. "I've got my vision!"
    "Go ahead and share, Arnold."
    "In a week, I see myself surrounded by all my friends here, feeling the love." He clutched his chest for emphasis.
    "Yeah and still feeling like a damned whale," Bert muttered. "Love don't make anybody skinny."
    Damn straight, Bert, Maria wanted to say, but didn't. Arnold was, after all, having an emotional moment.
    Arnold cast Bert a little look of horror, then shrugged off the comment. "Words don't have any calories, so they can't hurt me," he said. "Or my waistline."
    She'd have to remember that one. Finally, a tip she could use. Audrey was busy writing it down, her pencil scratching across her notepad fester than Paul Pierce blazing down the Team Green court.
    "Bert, what's your goal for next week?" Stephanie asked.
    "To buy some freakin' Twinkies." He got to his feet and scratched at his belly. "You got me cravin' them now. Anyone want to make a run to Cumberland Farms with me?"
    Audrey was on her feet in a second, joined by three other Chubby Chum diet defectors. "Do they sell apples there, too?" she asked, tucking her notepad away.
    "Dunno. I never make it past the snack foods." Bert loped off toward the door, the others following behind like a gaggle of hungry baby geese.
    "This is a support group!" Stephanie cried. "You can't walk out in the middle of a meeting."
    "Sure we can," Bert said. "We're supporting each other's need for some freakin' junk