First Kiss Read Online Free PDF Page A

meet you."
    "Kiki and I were just mugged by one of those tabloid photographers," Tom explained.
    Kirsten gave him a strange look.
    "I'll tell you later," he said, laughing and waving off the joke at the same time.
    Kirsten glanced at Kiki's selection and raised her perfectly waxed eyebrows. "That's nice. Don't you just love all of her stuff?"
    "I do!" Kiki said. A bit too enthusiastically. But this was Kirsten Brock talking to her about fashion. The excitement level was off the charts. Possible comparison: a political junkie getting the chance to talk shop with Bill Clinton.
    "Don't even think about trusting a dry cleaner with that," Kirsten said. "I hand wash all my couture. It's a chore, yes, but it's the only way."
    "Oh, I agree," Kiki lied. "Totally." The truth was, she had never hand washed so much as a delicate wineglass. If it shattered in the dishwasher, then it just wasn't meant to be. And then Kiki stood there, overjoyed. To be on the receiving end of confidential information from Kirsten Brock! It was a major social coup. Lesser events have ended up as items in "Page Six," the gossip column in the New York Post that everybody reads. "A friend of mine saw you riding a Vespa on Fifth/' Kiki said, racking her brain for anything to extend the conversation. "I'm thinking about getting one."
    "Oh, you should," Kirsten encouraged her. "It's great freedom, and they're easy to ride."
    Suddenly, Kiki was distracted again by the discovery of Tom Brock's less-than-sparkling-white teeth even more so by Kirsten's complicit role in the matter. Why was she dragging her feet on the issue? If Tom were Kiki's husband, then she would've just pushed him through the doors of BriteSmile and been done with it. At the very least, Kirsten should refuse the man blow jobs until he used those over-the-counter Crest Whitestrips.
    The shopgirl appeared and gave Kiki a cool appraisal that translated You don't belong here .
    That's when Kirsten piped up with a friendly, "You look so familiar, Kiki. Where have I seen you before?"
    Kiki shot the bitchy shopgirl a look of triumph. "Well, I've done some"
    "Wait a minute!" Kirsten interjected, reaching out to claim Kiki's wrist in her excitement. "You're Jean-nette from All My Children* ."
    "Actually, I was Jeannette," Kiki corrected. "I got pushed off a cruise ship, remember?"
    Kirsten shrugged. "I haven't watched a single episode since the baby was born."
    "I've seen pictures," Kiki said. "She's beautiful."
    "Thank you." Kirsten glanced at her watch (a sleek little Dolce & Gabbana number). "It makes me crazy to be away from her for even this long." She turned imploringly to Tom. "Do you mind if we skip the bakery? I'm anxious to get back. Music didn't poop before we left, and I'm worried."
    Kiki blanched. Talking about bowel movements in a Stella McCartney boutique well, that should get you arrested for public indecency. Okay, one free pass for New Mother Syndrome.
    Tom's sigh was equal parts exasperation and uxo-riousness. He patted his stomach, generally firm but not necessarily in fighting shape. "I guess it won't kill me to go without a few cupcakes."
    Kirsten laughed at him. "A few? You always eat at least half a dozen." She gave Kiki a little smile, as if in confidence. "He's completely obsessed with the cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. It's on Bleecker. Have you had them?"
    " Yes ," Kiki answered dramatically. "That frosting is addictive. There should be a surgeon general's warning on those things."
    The shopgirl lingered, waiting for direction from Kirsten, glowering at Kiki.
    "Could you have everything I tried on sent to my apartment?" Kirsten asked.
    "Of course," the shopgirl said, practically tripping over her own words as she no doubt factored out the killer commission that came with such requests.
    "Great. Thank you. If I don't get home to my baby right away, I think I might explode." Kirsten offered Kiki a demure wave. "Nice to meet you." With a conspiratorial wink, she pointed to the blouse