Sweet Little Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

it in my mind, wondering what I missed, what I should have seen, what I should have done differently.
    Because of my two previous serious-relationship disasters, I took dating very casually. It took a long time for me to agree to a second and then a third date. It took twice as long for me to get physical. If there is a speed between slow and a full standstill, that’s the speed at which I allowed the relationship between me and Jay /David to progress. I checked his background. I met his parents, his friends, his coworkers. I had a key to his house and knew what was in every nook and cranny. There had not been a single clue that pointed to Jay/David’s being the lying, treacherous, two-timing dog I had planned to marry and spend the rest of my life with.
    That shook me more than anything else. Now, not onlywould I have to learn to trust men again (not likely), I had to regain my trust in my own judgment. I clearly had to have missed something along the way. Right?
    “Hey, Christina!” Jeri called out from down the hallway, waving happily. Jeri was tall and thin with a razor-cut bob and pale, pale skin. She was all sharp angles and lines with the exception of huge green eyes, which she lined heavily. Though she didn’t look it, Jeri was the corporate cheerleader, bless her heart. I tabled my introspection for later … after I survived the shark tank that was an editorial meeting at Valiant. I pulled my shoulders back, pasted on my best it’s-all-good smile, and headed toward the conference room.
    The New York Valiant office was designed like an old-school newspaper office but sleeker: rows of desks with low glass separators, offices along the walls with glass enclosures, open pit areas at each end.The color scheme was very simplistic, all primary colors with emphasis on blue. I followed the low-pile navy carpet through rows of cubes, smiling at co-workers as I walked through.
    “Hey, Jeri,” I said cheerfully as I paused to drop my suitcase and carry-on in the visitors’ office. I nodded and waved at a couple of staff members before I stepped into the conference room.There were six women and two men gathered around the table. They all looked at me with varying degrees of curiosity.
    “How are you?” Janet asked in that tentative, super-concerned tone people use when they suspect someone is suffering from post-traumatic stress. Janet was blond, sleek, and always looked like someone from
Vogue
styled her every morning.
    Jeri, Janet, and Jennifer formed a semicircle at the head of the table. Jennifer was a light-skinned sister who resembled Vanessa Williams but dressed conservatively like Condoleezza Rice. Lisa sat to her left. Lisa had some sort of mixed-race heritage, was slightly overweight, wore her long wavy hair in aponytail every day, and dressed straight out of the Banana Republic catalog.
    Our Web designer/IT guy, Thomas, sat next to her. He was short, perpetually orange from the self-tanning lotion he was clearly addicted to, which clashed terribly with his shock of orangish red hair and light blue eyes. Next was our advertising operations manager, my girl, Carey. Carey had that cool, earthy sister vibe about her. Only slightly taller than me, she had the same complexion, long natural hair, dangly earrings, and loose, flowing clothes. Carey and I had attended Berkeley together (so many years ago) and had met outside the football players’ dorm waiting on the same guy.We both dumped him and had been friends ever since.
    Across from Carey was our research editor, Brandon. Given half a minute, Brandon would explain why he was the answer to every single sister’s prayers. Brandon was a Morehouse alum and self-proclaimed chic geek.To his credit, he was a tall, fine brother but always admired himself before anyone else got a chance to. Staring at him adoringly was young Rita, perpetually tanned and talkative, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes and the figure only girls under twenty-five have with no effort. Rita