Christmas In High Heels Read Online Free PDF

days.”
    “And you called me before noon for that? Honey, three days is nothing.”
    “Dana, I’ve never been three days late before.”
    “Lucky for you, I’ve got an emergency preggers test at home. I have one more class then we’ll go to my place and make a pitcher of margaritas while you pee on a stick. It’ll be fun, okay?”
    “No. No margaritas, Dana. I can’t drink that stuff, I might be pregnant.”
    At this, Dana actually abandoned her aerobics, standing perfectly still. She stared at me, her pert little mouth hanging open. “You’re not actually thinking of having a baby are you?”
    Was I?
    “No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do if I… if… you know.”
    “We see a pink line?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Fine. No margaritas for now. But you are so peeing tonight.”

    * * *

    Luckily I convinced Dana that peeing on a stick was a solo mission and left her to her Kickboxing for Seniors class. I did stop by the drugstore and picked up a test, the most embarrassing purchase of my entire life including the first time I ever bought condoms and accidentally grabbed super ribbed for her pleasure. I also purchased a Big Gulp, so by the time I pulled into the driveway of my second-story studio in Santa Monica, I was ready to pee. Physically that was. Mentally, I was a wreck.
    I locked my Jeep, climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment, and let myself in, dropping the drugstore package on the kitchen counter. Despite the fact I had to pee like a racehorse, I couldn’t quite get up the courage to take the pregnancy test into the bathroom with me. Somehow now that I was faced with an entire array of IF’s, that test had become scarier than a Wes Craven movie. I mean, what if it did turn pink? Did I really want a baby? I looked around my cozy (translation: dinky) studio apartment, filled to max capacity with a fold out-futon and my sketch table. Where the hell would I even put a baby?
    I guessed I’d always assumed I’d have kids someday. But even though I was closing in on thirty (and I refuse to say just how closely) someday still seemed far, far into the future. When I was more settled, domestic. Married. Oh God, would Richard think I wanted him to marry me? Did I?
    I think I was hyperventilating again.
    I went to the bathroom, sans stick, then checked my answering machine. No messages. Namely, no Richard. I picked up the receiver and dialed his number, waiting as it rang on the other end. His machine kicked in and I left what I thought was a relatively breezy message, considering the circumstances.
    I plopped myself down on the sofa and clicked on the TV, settling for Seinfeld reruns while I waited for Richard to return my call. By Letterman , I still hadn’t heard from him. Which was annoying and also a little worrisome. He had said he’d call me tonight. And it wasn’t like Richard to ignore my messages. I tried not to freak out, instead promising myself I’d take the pregnancy test just as soon as I heard from Richard.
    A promise that would soon come back to haunt me.

    SPYING IN HIGH HEELS
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