Read She's Out of Control for Free Online

entertain us on Saturday night. Do you think we might be free?”
    â€œWhy not? It’s about time I met this Hans, anyway. He sure is doing a lot for your company’s stock, and I’m anxious to see his plan for the long haul.”
    I’m anxious to see your plan for the long haul. I can’t help but smile. And I hope it’s set in platinum.

4
    A shley, did you lose this?” Seth, dressed in an Armani tuxedo, holds up a Marc Jacobs pump. It’s red-and-black striped. “It will fit you, won’t it?”
    Ashley is breathless with anticipation and nibbles on her lower lip to fight the bubbling pressure of the moment. “I . . . I don’t know. If it’s mine, I mean. Where did you find it?”
    â€œI found it on my steps last night. Try it, Ashley. There’s only one way for us to know . . .” Seth’s brilliant blue gaze meets hers, and Ashley swoons to the rich tapestry chaise behind her. “The woman who fits this shoe is meant to be mine. Somehow, I just know it.” In his other hand, Seth lifts a dazzling princess-cut canary diamond. “Will you marry me, Ashley?”
    Ashley can’t remove her eyes from the pump. “Where’s the other one?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Ashley?”
    â€œI mean, where’s the other shoe?”
    â€œThis pump is a Marc Jacobs original. Custom made for my wife! It’s just symbolic, not really meant for wear.”
    â€œSurely Marc didn’t make just one shoe. There must be another around here somewhere. Symbolic or not, one shoe just doesn’t make sense.” Ashley rises up from the chaise looking frantically about her.
    â€œThe ring, Ashley.” Seth holds the ring out toward her, but she places her foot into the size-9 pump and twists her ankle about. “So it is yours. Ashley, did you hear me? Will you—”
    â€œI want the other one, Seth! Where is the other shoe?”
    â€œI don’t know, Ashley. It doesn’t matter where the other shoe is. Do you want to be my wife, or don’t you?”
    â€œWell, I do. But I want this shoe, too! Is that so wrong?”
    â€œAshley, wake up! You’re having a nightmare.” Kay is shaking me. And I am aware, with distinct displeasure, that I’ve spent the night on the sofa with a spiked heel clutched tightly against my chest. I’m too old to spend the night on the sofa, and I feel every curvature, every imprint of the Pottery Barn special in my hindquarters, not to mention the little divot from the pump.
    â€œKay, what’s going on? What time is it?” I roll over and rub the kink out of my neck, tossing the shoe on the floor.
    â€œIt’s seven. You need to get up or you’ll be late for work.”
    My laptop is sitting open on the coffee table. “I worked all night,” I explain, as much for myself as Kay.
    â€œI hope your boss appreciates your hard work. I thought these hours went the way of the dot-com implosion.” Kay is setting out her Thanksgiving tchotchkes.
    There’s a new chill in the air, signaling that fall is here. But not really. Not until Kay brings out the ceramic turkeys, the wax, leaf-shaped candles, and the inevitable cornucopia filled with tiny, colorful gourds. Kay’s candles are really the only fall leaves we see in the Bay Area. This is California: evergreen country. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Your boss called this morning. Said you left your coat at the restaurant, and he’ll bring it to you at work.”
    â€œMy coat. I forgot all about it. That ought to tell you how the evening went.”
    â€œTruly. When you bought that coat, I thought you’d be buried in it, and for the price, you probably should be.” Kay smirks and crosses her arms for a brief moment. Kay and I couldn’t be more different. The last time she bought a coat was when those Michelin-man goose- down numbers were in, oh, about 1978 or so.