Read Online Fifty Shades of Thrifty (a Parody) by N.J. Harlow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: N.J. Harlow
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after a clandestine visit to the office's maintenance building and a
swan dive (five-point-nine from the Russian judge) into a few of those large
blue receptacles, I scored a pristine batch of coupons from last week's Sunday
paper.
On the way home I
dropped by a friend's apartment because I knew she was a coupon fanatic. After
telling her I had a one-on-one interview with the Coupon King (which caused her
to break out in a sweat), she happily lent me her dog-eared Entertainment
coupon book, which still had a few good two-for-one dinner tickets.
Got home, and
while drawing a bath I downloaded a few printable coupons from the Internet to
prove I leave no stone unturned when it comes to saving money.
Now I was ready
to meet the Coupon King. Most women head out on the prowl with a pack of
condoms and a toothbrush. I'm packing discounts all over town.
But they're
discounts with a purpose.
***
The Coupon King
did a double take as I walked into the supermarket and stood a few feet behind
the last few frumpy hausfraus who were
getting his autograph. Now most female print reporters look like they have a
lot of city miles on them; the attractive ones move to broadcasting, until they
develop what is known as a "good face for radio" and head back to
print. But there I was, resplendent in a turquoise halter top which showed off
my well-toned shoulders and a short black skirt designed to highlight my killer
Wal-Mart gams. The four-inch heels had me teetering at around six-foot-one. My
heart hit a speed bump as he locked eyes with me. I smiled, muttered,
"media" and he nodded and went back to signing books.
One eye on the
books, one on me.
Incredibly, I was
the only reporter who had showed up, so after signing for the last customer he
made a bee-line for me, looked right into my soul and stuck out his hand.
"Scott Farelli."
I shook his,
maintaining eye contact while trying to keep my voice from cracking as his Polo cologne filled my nostrils and pushed the leprechaun
to a back burner that wasn't even turned on. "Cassie Jenks. I'm the
lifestyle reporter for Stylistic Magazine." I lightly touched his forearm,
covered by a tapered turquoise long sleeved shirt that accented his broad
shoulders. "I see you got the memo."
"Excuse
me?"
I pointed at his
tight black jeans which nicely showed off his slim hips. "Black and
turquoise. Wardrobe for the day."
He gave me the
once-over, making a brief stop at my rack, and smiled. "Yeah, I guess we
do match."
"So, is
there someplace we could talk privately?"
"They've got
a back room set up. Right this way."
***
Thirty minutes
later I was done with the interview.
Of course, I had
to throw in some personal questions about his love life. (Being a reporter
gives you the license to do such things. Clever, huh?) Thankfully, he was
currently unattached, having been unceremoniously dumped by a Hollywood copper
top in favor of a ride on a producer's casting couch. Hence, he was in need of
a well-toned shoulder to cry on.
Now it was time
to set the hook. I used an old lawyer's trick, asking a question to which I
already knew the answer. "So, what's the next stop on your book
tour?"
"I've got
another signing across the street tomorrow," he said. "But this is
the last city on the tour. I'm taking the summer off."
"Oh, how
nice," I said. "I guess you've been living out of a suitcase for
awhile?"
"I can't
tell you how sick I am of hotel beds."
Well, I have a
brand new pillow-top that comes equipped with a redhead who will perfectly mold
herself to your body for a good night's rest. "Well,
just one more night won't be too bad. So, what's on tap for the rest of the
day?"
"Free
time," he said. "So I'll probably just hang out at the hotel. But
that gets old when you're in a town and don't know anyone."
"Well, now
you know me ," I said.
He smiled,
sending deep trenches into his cheeks and giving me a close look at America's
most famous dimples. "That I do."
I reached into my
purse. "And since you are
swan dive (five-point-nine from the Russian judge) into a few of those large
blue receptacles, I scored a pristine batch of coupons from last week's Sunday
paper.
On the way home I
dropped by a friend's apartment because I knew she was a coupon fanatic. After
telling her I had a one-on-one interview with the Coupon King (which caused her
to break out in a sweat), she happily lent me her dog-eared Entertainment
coupon book, which still had a few good two-for-one dinner tickets.
Got home, and
while drawing a bath I downloaded a few printable coupons from the Internet to
prove I leave no stone unturned when it comes to saving money.
Now I was ready
to meet the Coupon King. Most women head out on the prowl with a pack of
condoms and a toothbrush. I'm packing discounts all over town.
But they're
discounts with a purpose.
***
The Coupon King
did a double take as I walked into the supermarket and stood a few feet behind
the last few frumpy hausfraus who were
getting his autograph. Now most female print reporters look like they have a
lot of city miles on them; the attractive ones move to broadcasting, until they
develop what is known as a "good face for radio" and head back to
print. But there I was, resplendent in a turquoise halter top which showed off
my well-toned shoulders and a short black skirt designed to highlight my killer
Wal-Mart gams. The four-inch heels had me teetering at around six-foot-one. My
heart hit a speed bump as he locked eyes with me. I smiled, muttered,
"media" and he nodded and went back to signing books.
One eye on the
books, one on me.
Incredibly, I was
the only reporter who had showed up, so after signing for the last customer he
made a bee-line for me, looked right into my soul and stuck out his hand.
"Scott Farelli."
I shook his,
maintaining eye contact while trying to keep my voice from cracking as his Polo cologne filled my nostrils and pushed the leprechaun
to a back burner that wasn't even turned on. "Cassie Jenks. I'm the
lifestyle reporter for Stylistic Magazine." I lightly touched his forearm,
covered by a tapered turquoise long sleeved shirt that accented his broad
shoulders. "I see you got the memo."
"Excuse
me?"
I pointed at his
tight black jeans which nicely showed off his slim hips. "Black and
turquoise. Wardrobe for the day."
He gave me the
once-over, making a brief stop at my rack, and smiled. "Yeah, I guess we
do match."
"So, is
there someplace we could talk privately?"
"They've got
a back room set up. Right this way."
***
Thirty minutes
later I was done with the interview.
Of course, I had
to throw in some personal questions about his love life. (Being a reporter
gives you the license to do such things. Clever, huh?) Thankfully, he was
currently unattached, having been unceremoniously dumped by a Hollywood copper
top in favor of a ride on a producer's casting couch. Hence, he was in need of
a well-toned shoulder to cry on.
Now it was time
to set the hook. I used an old lawyer's trick, asking a question to which I
already knew the answer. "So, what's the next stop on your book
tour?"
"I've got
another signing across the street tomorrow," he said. "But this is
the last city on the tour. I'm taking the summer off."
"Oh, how
nice," I said. "I guess you've been living out of a suitcase for
awhile?"
"I can't
tell you how sick I am of hotel beds."
Well, I have a
brand new pillow-top that comes equipped with a redhead who will perfectly mold
herself to your body for a good night's rest. "Well,
just one more night won't be too bad. So, what's on tap for the rest of the
day?"
"Free
time," he said. "So I'll probably just hang out at the hotel. But
that gets old when you're in a town and don't know anyone."
"Well, now
you know me ," I said.
He smiled,
sending deep trenches into his cheeks and giving me a close look at America's
most famous dimples. "That I do."
I reached into my
purse. "And since you are
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