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disregard for reality, not to mention the satisfying conceit of viewing the world through the eyes of heroes and heroines who were larger than life—cooler, smarter, stronger, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound—and who always won in the game of life.
    Ah—sweet fantasy. She flipped over a clean page in her sketch pad and reached over to the box of pencils she kept at the ready for her young customers who came to the store to learn how to draw.
    Two quick strokes and a pair of shoulders took form; another sweep of her hand and one side of a lean torso appeared in a graceful, supple curve. A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her hand moved feverishly over the page, adding arms, hands, legs, feet, face, hair. Should she put clothes on? She grinned.
    Nah.
    She may not be able to have her chocolate cake in person, but right now, she could have him any way she wanted.
----
FIVE

     

    SHE WAS IN THE KITCHEN FINISHING A LATE supper when she heard a knock on her front door. Because her friends knew enough to come around to the back of the house, she hesitated—not in the mood to deal with a customer who chose to disregard the prominently displayed store hours. She didn't want to see anyone anyway, looking like this. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail, and she'd changed into sweats and a T-shirt to watch the fireworks from her porch.
    "Hey Stella! Your lights are on!"
    That voice instantly turned on a couple other things as well, and she wondered if she could do a complete makeover in thirty seconds or, better yet, have a fairy godmother transform her into an instant Cinderella. Even her bare feet were dirty like Cinderella's; she'd picked raspberries for supper out in the backyard.
    But this was one of those occasions when, liabilities aside, intellect lost out big time to pure, irrepressible, pedal-to-the-metal emotion. "I'll be right down!" she shouted, grabbing the kitchen towel to wipe her feet. Seconds later, she pulled her scrunchy free, ran her fingers through her hair, straightened her less-than-pristine T-shirt sprinkled with raspberry stains, and sprinted down the stairs to the store.
    Taking a deep breath at the wide-shouldered silhouette visible through the glass-paned upper half of her door, she slowly exhaled, reminded herself that men like Danny Rees were only familiar with assent, and, throwing caution to the wind, opened the door anyway.
    "I know you have your rules, but after a couple drinks at Caesar's, I thought, what the hell." He lifted a sweating Cristal champagne bottle—a very expensive bottle—the kind celebrities drank, according to the
National Enquirer
and
People
magazine. "Care to watch the fireworks with me?"
    This probably wasn't the time to say she had fireworks of her own going off in various and sundry portions of her body. "I don't know—I shouldn't."
    "Why not? It's just fireworks."
    He didn't have to sound so adult and reasonable. He didn't have to look so luscious. She tried to shut down her dancing nerve endings and assume an equally blase facade. "I guess—how can it hurt."
    "I guarantee you it won't hurt."
    "Cute. Are you telling me you're good?"
    He grinned. "Are you asking?"
    "Hell no. I'm staying on message. I don't date customers."
    "Suit yourself. Do you want to watch from here or from somewhere else?"
    The way he said it, or perhaps the way she interpreted the ambiguity in his question in terms of her own personal preferences for
something
else,
somewhere
else caused her to hesitate.
    His grin broadened as though he could read her mind. "I meant should we watch the fireworks from your porch or down by the river."
    "Because I'm not exactly dressed for company"—she shrugged—"let's do it here."
    An abrupt silence fell.
    He looked at her.
    She looked at him.
    Flushing with embarrassment, she stammered, "Pull up… the chairs—I'll find… some glasses." Spinning around before she said something she'd really regret like, "Let's forget about the