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about six foot two and had the perfect smattering of dark blonde hair on its chest.
    Carrie walked to the bathroom and threw some cold water on her face. She was losing her mind! Losing it completely! Actually considering the notion....
    Now, for a vacation, maybe.
    Carrie smiled into the mirror at visions of her and a very oiled up Mike Davis stretched out on a white-sand beach.
    But that idea was ludicrous, too! She and Mike didn’t stand a prayer of a chance starting out the way they had. Besides, the two of them had made a pact. And, despite his occasional flirtation which Carrie assumed was second nature to a man like him, he truthfully didn’t seem interested in being more than just friends. All Mike was after was a way to impress his old high school buddies. But returning to the full-length mirror and studying her silhouette once again, Carrie was uncertain why he imagined she could do the trick. Though Carrie considered herself reasonably attractive, she was well-aware she had what the magazines called “figure flaws."   Flaws that Wilson had occasionally been unkind enough to point out -- in his own teasing way. A way which Carrie hadn’t found the least bit amusing.
    Maybe she’d just slip on the denim shorts and stroll on down to the pool. It would look odd if she failed to show completely. And she certainly didn’t want Mike thinking she was nervous about facing him. Though she was. Utterly nervous. Mostly because, when she saw the man half-nude, her thoughts ran wild. Straight into the “Mike, Tarzan; Carrie, Jane” jungle! And now that she figured him to be a nice guy on top of the way he looked... Well, Carrie wasn’t quite sure she could trust her own reaction.
    She’d heard of people on the rebound. The rampant bed-hopping that sometimes went on when one wounded partner was getting over the other. But Carrie had never figured herself to be the bed-hopping type. In fact, before Wilson, there’d really only been one other man. The first one she’d thought she would marry and, soon after their break-up, had started referring to as “old what’s his name.”
    But even “old what’s his name,” her first lover ever, hadn’t stirred her half as much as Mike Davis. But maybe that’s what she got for comparing twenty-two-year-old apples to thirty-something-year-old oranges. Very ripe, very succulent oranges. Crimminy!
    Carrie sighed and hunted for a belt that would do her waistline justice -- meaning suck it in just a tad more than its natural state. Though, of course, a friend wouldn’t notice her waistline one way or another, she told herself, sweeping her hair into a ponytail and arranging her tresses in the mirror. Friends didn’t care what friends looked like, just as long as they kept their word.

     
    Mike’s eyes popped open when he heard the clack of sandal heels on the pavement. Carrie St. John headed down the path in strappy black sandals a form-fitting “T” and cuffed denim shorts. She certainly was revealing a lot more flesh than she had been earlier, but not nearly enough for Mike’s satisfaction, he thought, sitting up to disguise his reaction that would have been otherwise quite evident through his swim shorts.
    “You’re not swimming?”
    “Can’t,” she said, with a congenial smile. “Still got lots of telephone calls.”
    A buzz of panic shot to Mike’s brain. “But I thought we --”
    “Oh yes... I mean, no."   She blew a soft breath that sent a lose tendril spiraling.   “I’m not backing out of our deal or anything like that.”
    Mike sat back against the lounge chair, relieved. He’d actually been looking forward to playing Carrie’s fiancé. Especially, he thought eying her well-formed bosom through her unforgiving cotton top, once he’d learned about that touchy-feely part.
    “It’s just that I’ve still got a lot of calls to make, and I want to try to catch the businesses while they’re still open.”
    Mike raised his eyebrows.
    “Flower shops,