Weight Expectations: Cipher Office Book #1

by M. E. Carter

  She also had a not-so-secret love of pubescent boys singing in harmony. Truly, it was endearing.

  Leaning down to whisper in her ear, I said with mock accusation, “I call bullshit. I heard it last Thursday when you pulled your earbuds out.” I straightened and shook my head. “You’re going to go deaf if you keep listening at such a high volume. Aren’t you a doctor? Shouldn’t you know this stuff?”

  Elizabeth was an emergency room physician and tonight was a party celebrating her mentor’s retirement. Apparently, he was an excellent doctor and was held in high regard. She hadn’t wanted to attend the party alone, so she begged me sweetly and I gracefully acquiesced—because that’s the kind of friend I was.

  Giving.

  Supportive.

  Available… Always available.

  She needed me to be her plus-one tonight because her husband, Nico Manganiello, aka Nico Moretti, the famous comedian, was working out of town and couldn’t make it home in time to join her.

  A few years ago, my co-worker, Janie Sullivan (or rather, Janie Morris, as she’d been back then), introduced me to Elizabeth and Nico when I moved into the East Randolph Street building our boss owned. I hit it off immediately with the couple and found they were no hardship to know. Nico was not only hot as hellfire, he was one of the most friendly people I’d ever met. Plus, the hand-delivered homemade apple fritters he brought to me on Sundays meant he had my undying devotion.

  Never underestimate the power of fried dough, folks. Never.

  “Thanks again for coming with me,” Elizabeth said for the fortieth time. “It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  The party really was abysmally boring, but there was one true bright spot in the whole, dull shebang. Dr. Ken Miles.

  DKM, as I now referred to him, was by far the most entertaining person here. He was blond, blue-eyed, square-jawed, and dressed in a suit and tie, the cut of which accentuated his athletic build. The hue also paired nicely with his light coloring, which told me he knew how to dress himself for maximum effect. He was Handsome Level: Corn-Fed Meets Trust Fund.

  I smiled to myself at this label. I loved to assign people into arbitrary categories based on characteristics. It wasn’t a scientific or useful thing I did. It was simply fun. For instance, my boss at Cipher Systems, Quinn Sullivan, was Handsome Level: GQ Meets IQ. Once, in the early days, after a painful one-on-one limo ride, I assigned him a Personality Level: Mute Meets Rude. I respected the man, but after that display of moodiness, it was wholly deserved.

  Corn-Fed Meets Trust Fund was certainly appropriate for DKM. He had reached the level of handsome that was a turn-off. To the untrained eye, he appeared to be a calm and confident yuppie snob.

  But my eyes weren’t untrained. Oh no, I was a pro. I could spot a faker. I knew pretense when I saw it. He was only pretending to be relaxed. I could see it in the overly casual stance, the flashes of tightness around his mouth, the laugh that seemed forced.

  He glanced around the room, passing his gaze over me, only to clock back immediately when he noticed I was looking at him. I didn’t bother to avert my attention.

  His brows drew inward, and he acknowledged me with a brief lift of his chin. Then he immediately pulled his eyes away and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Just as I suspected. Totally uncomfortable.

  Everyone else was chatting quietly in little groups, but not him. He spent most of the time on the fringe, by himself until someone, an acquaintance or stranger, approached him with a handshake and a “how-do?” I noted that the only people he had deigned to approach so far were Elizabeth and Dr. Botstein. But that probably had more to do with the possibility that there weren’t many recognizable faces for him, rather than any anti-social tendencies.

  Earlier, when Elizabeth had spied him walk through the door, she’d stepped up on her tiptoes, elongated her neck for a better view and said, “Oh, there’s Dr. Ken Miles!” She’d given him a wave when he noticed her, and he made his way toward us.

  “Good lord, I must be desperate to see a familiar face in here if I’m happy to see him.”

  “My, my,” I said, arching an eyebrow. “Isn’t he a pretty thing.” And he was. So very, very pretty.

  When he approached, he slid his left hand into his pocket and gave Elizabeth a smirk. His indolent, relaxed stance came off as completely affected. I was repulsed and intrigued. The conversation that followed did not disappoint.

  Without any greeting, he said, “Dr. Finney, let me guess, your husband’s conspicuously out of town again? You should probably get a private investigator to look in on that.”

  Oooh, I thought. Ass. Hole. His satisfied smile displayed a row of perfectly aligned teeth. Teeth so vibrantly white, I suspected they were professionally bleached.

  Bleached Asshole, I amended.

  The implication that Elizabeth and Nico had marital troubles rankled and I felt the need to jump to her defense.

  “Yes, well, even with talent and a hot bod,” I said coolly. “It takes a lot of hard work to earn his level of success. And that just means I get the pleasure of being Elizabeth’s arm candy for the night.”

  I glanced down at Elizabeth and she gave me an approving smile, so I gave her a wink. The asshole, however, assessed me for a moment with a blank expression and pale blue eyes.

  “So, are you her new bodyguard or something?” he asked, and Elizabeth huffed.

  The idea that I was her security detail was pretty funny, given that my body mass was well below the average guard’s, but aside from that, I still thought it was a strange question. She did have a security escort tonight, but he was most likely patrolling the perimeter of the banquet hall. He wouldn’t be mingling in the party with her.

  “Dr. Ken Miles,” she began, making an obviously begrudging introduction. “This is my friend, Steven Thompson.” She swept an arm down along my torso as if presenting a prize on a game show. “Steven, this is Dr. Ken Miles.” To him, she simply issues a slight flick of her finger.

  Still expressionless, and with his free hand, the doctor reached out for a firm-but-sweaty handshake.

  “Be careful with this one,” he said to me, releasing my hand. “Could be dangerous and I didn’t think to bring a six-shooter with me.”

  Elizabeth tsked in disgust as he dropped his mask and issued her a triumphant smirk. “Enjoy the party.”

  The bizarre exchange seemed to have ended with some victory for the man—one I clearly didn’t understand—but as he walked away, I saw him smooth his hair and straighten his (already straight) tie in a nervous gesture. I knew the exchange had made him uncomfortable.

  Not long after he left us, he was forced to circle back, as it was announced that dinner was being served, and the seating arrangement put him directly across from us at the large table.

  Throughout dinner, Elizabeth and I chatted between bites and I kept one eye on the young doctor. He ate his meal with a bored, vacant expression, only altering it when someone spoke to him or he clandestinely checked his watch. For a brief moment, his lip would curl, and his nostril would flare as he discovered how excruciatingly slow time was progressing. Same, bro. Same. If he would have bothered to glance in my direction, I would have given him a comical look that conveyed an understanding and kinship in our shared boredom. But he didn’t look across at us. Not once. His avoidance of us—or Elizabeth—seemed pointed and deliberate.

  His avoidance was perfectly fine with me, as it freed me up to watch him as closely as I wanted to. Considering how dull the party was, and how fascinating he was, it made the time pass pleasantly.

  And now, I found myself curious. Dismissing Elizabeth’s reassurances and talk of pop music, I broached the topic of the intriguing and strange DKM. “Never mind that,” I waved my hand impatiently. “I’m watching your buddy over there. And I think there’s something off about him.”

  She snorted. “Ya think? He’s an ass, that’s what he is. I knew he’d make some crack about Nico. He never misses an opportunity.”


  “Oh, he’s an ass, no doubt about that,” I agreed. “But what I want to know is, what’s all that weird six-shooter talk about?”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows lifted. “He’s Dr. Ken Miles.” The emphasis clearly indicated that I was supposed to get her meaning, but I didn’t.

  “Yeeeaahh, that part was clear,” I tilted my head and gave her my squinty-eye scrutiny. “But what does it mean?”

  “You know how before you and I met, Nico’s stalker attacked me in the hosp—”

  “He shot Fancy Nancy!” I gasped.

  “Fancy Stalker,” she corrected. “That’s how I refer to her, but, yeah, he did.”

  “And the plot thickens,” I murmured. I’d heard the story in bits and pieces over the years and knew the doctor who had interrupted and ultimately stopped an attack on Elizabeth by a crazed, jealous fan of Nico’s, was the same guy who had been making a play for her when Nico was.

  It all made so much sense to me. The snide comments about Nico, the jibe about guards and guns. He was the hero of the scenario and still came out the loser. Poor, Corn-Fed Hottie.

  “I guess I can’t blame the guy for being bitter about getting dumped by an amazing woman for the Hotshot Italian Stallion,” I reasoned.

  She gave a half-hearted chuckle but was quick to correct me. “We never dated. We talked about it, made plans to…meet up,” her blue eyes darted away from mine for a moment before returning. She smiled widely as she continued, “But Nico happened. Nico obliterated everything. My fears, my plans. I couldn’t date Ken when Nico was taking over my heart and mind.”

  “Oh, aren’t you just disgustingly cute?” I teased. “But really, back to DKM. Is it stress-related, do you think?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look.” Using the hand holding my wine glass, I extended my finger in what I hoped was a subtle point in the doctor’s vicinity. He was standing next to a wall, underneath a sconce that shone down and made a golden halo around his already light curls. The effect was startling, and like a flame seducing a moth, his visage had lured in a pretty brunette.

  “Okay, I’m looking,” Elizabeth replied, unimpressed. “He’s talking to someone who I think works in administrations at Chicago General. I don’t know her name.”

  “He is trying so hard to be Mr. Suave—excuse me—Dr. Suave,” I quipped. Elizabeth was not arrogant in the least about her degrees, but I still liked to tease. “He looks like he’s trying on poses for a modeling shoot.”

  “He does,” she agreed, as we watched him first lean one forearm at shoulder-level on the paneling of the wall, then quickly straighten to push one side of his coat back to slide a hand in his pocket, then decide abruptly to cross his arms over his chest. He lifted one hand to scrub his jaw while he nodded at something the woman said, then he smoothed his hair.

  To anyone else, he probably looked like he was trying to maneuver himself into the most flattering position for this attractive woman he was talking to. But I saw agitation. Discomfort.

  The woman said something to him that made him break out his megawatt smile. When she walked away, he watched her for a moment, then let his smile slip.

  What happened next, shocked me. It shocked me and confirmed my suspicion that he was one odd duck.

  DKM started to turn his body in toward the wall, obscuring his front from my view.

  But he wasn’t quick enough, because I saw. I saw what he did.

  Slowly, I turned to Elizabeth, a gleeful horror radiating through me. “Did I just see that? Did he really just do that?”

  “Yes, you did,” she answered flatly. “Yes, he did. Dr. Ken Miles is a nose-miner.”

  **End Sneak Peek **

  Read Sticking to the Script now!

  Sneak Peek: Getting a Grip

  By. M.E. Carter

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Stop looking at yourself like that.”

  I glance from the mirror to my BFF sitting in the corner chair of the dressing room. She’s scrolling through her Facebook page on her newest iPhone. The iPhone she didn’t want but her husband got her anyway, because he has to have all the latest upgrades. Every time. No matter how expensive.

  We can’t have a conversation anymore without that damn thing distracting her in one way or another.

  “I’m looking at the clothes I’m trying on,” I say, yanking a horizontal-striped dress over my head and tugging it around my hips.

  Horizontal stripes? Who am I kidding? I don’t have the figure for this anymore.

  Callie huffs and locks the screen of her phone, dropping it into her purse.

  “Don’t give me that shit,” she rebuts, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?” I feign ignorance, twirling around and pretending to care about the cut or fit of the umpteenth dress I’ve tried on in the last ten minutes.

  She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Glaring at yourself and all those so-called imperfections that douche of an ex threw in your face. That’s what.”

  I sigh and yank the offending dress over my head. She’s right. Ever since James critiqued almost every square inch of my body as an excuse for trading me in for a younger model, I can’t look at myself the same way.

  Your hips are so wide now.

  Those stretch marks kind of gross me out.

  Your stomach wasn’t that flabby when I met you.

  It wouldn’t kill you to have a boob lift to take care of some of the sag.

  I’m just not… turned on by you anymore.

  It’s like small daggers in my gut every time I think about those remarks.

  “This one is a no.” I throw the dress at Callie’s head. She catches it one-handed and starts putting it on the hanger so I don’t have to do it later, and she will make me do it later. Callie used to work in retail. She’s a strong believer in cleaning up after ourselves when we shop.

  “Yeah, I hate that horizontal stripes are in style.”

  Oh good, I think to myself, we’re moving onto a new topic.

  “Seriously, Elena…”

  Or not.

  “You need to stop letting him get to you.”

  I grab my shoes, praying I can get out of this dressing room sooner rather than later so the racks of clothing will distract her. I’m hoping to distract myself as well.

  When it comes to my body, I’ve always been my own worst critic. Aren’t we all? But eighteen months ago, it got exponentially worse. That’s when my husband of fifteen years informed me he was having an affair with his secretary. I was blindsided. I have no idea how I missed the signs. Maybe it’s because I was busy raising our three young girls, but I had no clue he was getting a piece of ass on the side.

  Before I could even wrap my brain around the information, he dropped another bomb… it wasn’t only sex. He was in love with her and wanted a divorce.

  I tried to talk some sense into him, but he decided his best defense was to add insult to injury. He threw every insecurity I had in my face and used them as his reasons for not wanting me anymore. Because according to him, it was all my fault.

  I’ve come to realize, over time, what an asshole he was, and continues to be. But that doesn’t mean I’ve gotten a grip on the damage he left behind. I still struggle with the fact that he got married again so quickly, ironically. But mostly, I still struggle with body self-loathing. While I recognize shopping is a necessary evil, it’s still a big trigger for me. Even when Callie reminds me of all the reasons I’m being irrational.

  “First of all, he was trying to make you feel guilty for him cheating, which is ridiculous. Second, he’s no looker himself. And third, none of it is true. You’ve had three babies for God’s sake. And you’re like, a thousand pounds smaller than me.”

  I snort and roll my eyes. “Poundage doesn’t mean anything when you have a husband who adores your body and wants to work it out on a regular basis,” I reply, grabbing a handful of clothes from the “no” pile and turn to leave.


  “I would be perfectly happy if he didn’t want my body,” she says while following me to the exit. “It’s hard to get off when the last thing he says before sexy time is how lazy I am for not cleaning the kitchen after work.”

  “He said that?” I whip around to look at her. “Even after the therapist told him to back off?”

  She purses her lips at me. “Elena, it’s going to take more than a few therapy sessions to fix the problems in my husband. Sometimes I envy you for getting two hundred pounds of narcissistic asshole out of your life.”

  ** End Sneak Peek **

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