I drove my 1957 Thunderbird across town to the Stater Bros. shopping center. Chad Tuggle had his independent insurance office squished between the Stater Bros. grocery store and Rapid Dry Cleaners. As I got out of my car, I looked down at my short black skirt that covered most of my thighs. Over my silk black camisole I had on a man’s white shirt tied at the waist. My calf high black suede boots added a little fun to the outfit.

    It had been a long time since I’d seen Chad. I was going on what Janie told me about him. Before I could think myself out of it, I walked up to the glass-fronted suite and pulled open the door.

    Sophie, Chad’s part time secretary, was not at her small desk facing the door so she had to be off today. Chad’s big cherry wood desk took up the right half of the office. It was a three-sided unit like a rectangle with one end left open. The big desk faced out to see people coming in the door. Chad’s computer sat on the small part of the desk lined up against a partition wall that separated the front and back of the office suite. Then against the far right wall was a credenza that had fancy office machines on the left side. The right side of the credenza had a bunch of soccer trophies. The three huge gold cup trophies on fat bases took center stage—the championship trophies.

    I didn’t recognize the set of stone bookends that had been cut and painted to resemble soccer balls. Those must be new, probably a gift from his latest championship team.

    The wall over the credenza had pictures of Chad with his teams, winning and appreciation plaques and framed newspaper articles. The championship-winning hero coach was not necessarily a humble coach.

    And where was the not-so-humble coach?

    "Sam—that you? I didn’t know anyone was out here. What brings you by?"

The loud voice yanked me from my thoughts. I’d forgotten about Chad’s tendency to talk loud. The years of yelling directions to kids in a soccer game over screaming, insane parents had left its mark. He came out from behind the divider wall carrying an Everybody Loves the Coach mug. Obviously Chad had been in the back getting some coffee in the little kitchenette behind the partition. "Chad, how are you? I just stopped by to chat about insurance if you’re not busy."

    "I’m never too busy for you, Sam. Come sit down and we’ll catch up. Then we’ll talk insurance."

    Chad walked around his desk with an easy, athletic grace. He wore dark gray slacks, a light blue short sleeved button down shirt and tie. His forearms were muscled and tanned. Lots of time out doors. Instead of fighting premature balding, he cut what hair he had into a buzz. With his light green eyes, he didn’t need hair. Hovering on the back end of his thirties, he kept himself in good shape.

    Chad set down his coffee cup on his desk blotter then said, "Hey, how about some coffee? I just made it."

    Sitting in the barrel chair facing the desk, I slid my purse to the ground and crossed my legs. My black skirt slid up. "Uh, not right now, thanks." I flashed him a smile, only to find him staring at my thighs.

    Finally, his gaze climbed to my face. "So, Sam, how’s business at the dating service?"

    "Well," I took a deep breath and pulled the tied ends of my white blouse down. "It takes time to build a client base. Word of mouth is helping us grow. In fact, I’m looking at getting a new computer program for bookkeeping."

    "Really? What program do you use now?"

    He was making this too easy. "Peach Tree."

    "Yeah, that’s good, but I like using the Excel Worksheet. Here let me show you." He turned in his chair and called up a computer program.

    I leaned across his desk, getting a whiff of coffee and strong spearmint. Did he have a lifetime supply of Altoids in his desk drawer? I had to fight a twitching smile at the mental picture of Chad popping Altoids for that minty fresh breath all bellowing coaches needed.

    Or was it cheating coaches?

    He turned his head. "Can you see from there? Come around and you can see better."

    Getting up, I looked down at my purse. The disk was in there. But first I had to get him to pull up the soccer program and think of a way to get him to leave for a few minutes. Up to now it had been easier than I expected. Luck like that wouldn’t hold for long. Leaving my purse on the floor, I walked around the desk and leaned over Chad’s right shoulder.

    "See, here’s the program." He opened files and described the functions.

    I only half listened while my mind spun. How could I get him to open the soccer books? Think! "Chad, can you keep accounts for two businesses on there? I mean like say your insurance business, then another enterprise of some sort?"

    He leaned back to look at me, accidentally brushing his face against my breasts.

    Resisting the urge to jump back, I forced myself to smile at him. I don’t remember Chad ever being this aggressively carnal. Guess I didn’t measure up to his cop-a-feel standards back in my team mom days.

    "Sure, I use the same program to keep the SCOLE books."

    Bingo! "You do? Could I see that?"

    He closed the files for his insurance records and opened the one for SCOLE while chatting away. "You know Sam, it might be fun for the two of us to go out to dinner sometime. Or maybe have drinks at Don Jose’s. Hey, after dinner I could show you my new digital camera. We could do some test shots and I’ll show you how it works…for your dating service. Or we could use my new camcorder. I even know how to download videos to the computer."

    And I bet you’d bring your spearmint Altoids or whatever was seeping out from his desk. "I thought you were dating--" I couldn’t think of her name. I could picture her—the soccer mom slut. Every team had one. The mom that came to every practice in short shorts and tank tops and schmoozed with the coach while the other moms sat in a lawn-chair circle and chatted. This one had succeeded in getting the coach away from his wife. What was her name? She had a belly button ring, which was too daring even for me. "Dara." That was her name.

    His neck turned red. "Sure we date, but it’s not exclusive or anything. Janie told some pretty ugly lies about Dara and me. Ah, here’s the files for SCOLE." They opened up on the screen.

    Lies my ass. But I had a job to do here. And I was going to need money to promote Heart Mates and pay my bills. Then there was Blaine’s salary. Plus, I really wanted to help Janie get a little revenge. "Yes, I see. You’re very good at this stuff. Did you take classes? Go to college?"

    His shoulders puffed up. "I taught myself. I can teach you how to do this, Sam."

    Liar liar pants on fire. I knew for a fact that Janie took night classes to learn about bookkeeping and this program when she had been the treasurer. She taught Chad. "That’s awfully nice of you, Chad." I leaned closer, brushing against his shoulder to study the files while I tried to think of how to get him out of the office for a few minutes. Or at least in the back. I saw his cup of coffee sitting on his blotter. "You know, maybe I will have something to drink."

    He tilted his head back. "Coffee?"

    There was a donut shop across the parking lot. "Actually, I’d love some hot chocolate." Would he be dumb enough to run to the donut shop and get me hot chocolate?

    "I have hot chocolate in the back. Won’t take a minute to nuke some water and make it for you." He reached toward the keyboard.

    I laid my hand on his bare forearm.

    His gaze snapped up to mine.

    "Could I look at this while you make the hot chocolate?" Would that give me enough time?

    "Sure. Look all you want and I’ll explain how to use the software when I come back." He got up from the chair.

    There wasn’t much room inside the three-sided desk. I backed up to the credenza. Chad brushed so close to me that his spicy cologne mixed with my passion fruit lotion.

    "It sure is nice to see you again, Sam. We’ve missed you in the soccer circles." His gaze dropped down to my breasts. "You’re looking good these days. Real good."

    I wanted to throw a drool cloth over my bust. It was a struggle to arrange my face into a simpering expression. "Uh, yeah, you too, Chad."

    His grin radiated self-assurance as he reached up to touch my hair. "So is it true, do blondes really have more fun?"

    I hear better lines at my dating service. "They get more thirsty," I said pointedly, to get him to leave.

    He turned and headed around the desk.

    Relief spread through me, but I had no time to enjoy it. Once Chad disappeared around the partition, I raced to my purse, dug out the disk and went back to the computer. I would make a copy of the SCOLE books and then leave before Chad got back out with the hot chocolate. I’d claim I got a call on my cell phone, or another excuse. Jamming the disk into the proper-sized hole, I guided the mouse through the clicks to save the file to the ‘A’ drive.

    The computer groaned and hissed. A little rectangle graph popped up, slowly filling with blue as it saved to the disk.

    The blue stretched to the quarter mark. "Come on," I begged. From the back, I heard a short slam, like a microwave door, then beeps as Chad set the timer to heat water for the hot chocolate.

    The graph hit the halfway mark. I squirmed on the chair. "Faster."

    "Hey Sam, did I tell you that Mark made JV on the soccer team at school?" Chad’s loud voice carried over the room divider.

    Three quarters done. The microwave beeped and I heard the microwave door pulled open. Answer him! "That’s terrific, Chad. Mark’s a great kid and a talented soccer player." Almost there. The blue stripe hovered only a millimeter away from the finish line.

    Clinks and other sounds came from the back, followed by Chad’s voice. "I really think he’ll get a college scholarship. I’ve hired him a private soccer coach."

    The blue line filled up the rectangle. Done! I yanked the disk out and heard more movement from the back. Was Chad coming out? Damn, no time to get to my purse. I whirled around to the credenza and the slim disk flew out of my fingers. It clattered against the glass front of a team picture then landed on the credenza behind the fax machine.

    Heat burned up my face and prickled under my arms. I heard Chad moving around, so he must still be doing something in the kitchen. I had seconds. I leaned over a machine to reach behind the fax and get the disk.

    Just as my fingers closed around the disk I heard the whirring of a machine starting up.

    Freezing, I thought, What the hell was that? But I had no time to worry about it. I shoved the disk into the built in bra of my black camisole. I had to get out of here.

    But that noise kept going. A grinding. Suddenly I realized I was being pulled down.

    The paper shredder! Ohmigod, the tied shirttails of my white top were caught in the shredder. The machine was eating my shirt! Full-blown panic blossomed into fight or flight. I grabbed the knot in my shirt and yanked.

    The shredder wouldn’t let go. It was set flush into the credenza and kept pulling me forward. Cripes, now what?

    Wait, there had to be a cut off switch. I leaned forward, looking around the face of the machine. I couldn’t find a switch. And worse, the plastic disk in my bra was slipping.

    The grinding noise began to sputter in anger. The knot! The shredder was sucking in the tied lump, fraction by fraction, separating it and consuming it. I had to get out of the shirt or the machine was going to yank me down into its grinding blades.

    "Sam! What…"

    I turned my head to see Chad materialize next to me, holding a can of whipped cream and looking confused. "It attacked me!"

    His face cleared. "Hold on," he said, then crouched down and put a hand on my leg to move me over. He opened a cupboard door and reached inside.

    The machine stopped.

    I let out a huge breath in relief and did a little test tug on my shirt.

    The silent shredder held on tight. I could see tears running up from the mangled knot like runs in a pair of pantyhose. The disk slipped a fraction more in my bra. I blinked and hysterical laughter tickled my throat. Oh yeah, some slick private investigator I was—exposed by a paper shredder!