LITMIR.BIZ

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      CORINNE MCCOURT STOOD in front of the full-length mirror and checked out her naked twenty-eight-year-old body. At five-six—give or take a few inches—she wasn’t exactly statuesque, but had strong legs thanks to her morning runs and a compact behind thanks to genetics. She looked at her rounded breasts and wished her live-in fiancé Tony Borgeson felt thankful for them again. Once upon a time he’d called them his “luscious vanilla double scoops.” She tilted her head. “They still look scoopable,” she whispered, hating the question in her voice. What happened? Five years ago, when they first got involved, he couldn’t scoop enough. She’d nicknamed him Bulldozer.

      These days she was lucky if she got even a little dozer.

      Playing with the gold heart pendant around her neck, Corinne surveyed the full-length mirror she’d installed a month ago—one of her recent ploys to put some va-va-voom back into their relationship. She’d read in a women’s magazine where couples and mirrors could be a lethal libido combo that ignited the fires of love.

      Unfortunately, the only thing mirrors ignited in Tony was admiration for himself. Every morning, he preened in front of that mirror more than a pet parakeet she’d had as a kid, checking out everything from his stylish tie to his killer smile. She once reminded him that he sold computers. Who cared about his smile? Never breaking eye contact with his reflection, he’d announced that a sale was a sale—whether it was lawn mowers or laptops—and first impressions were everything.

      She looked down at her very unimpressive tummy. To think most women complained their stomachs weren’t flat enough! Not Corinne. What she’d give to have a round tummy. Round and full with child. Growing up as an only child, Corinne had dreamed of having a large family of her own. A family who stayed put, like Tony’s large Italian family who’d lived in this section of Denver for generations. Unlike Corinne, who—due to her mother’s various marriages and near-marriages—had moved six times by the time she was nineteen.

      She slid her fingers over her midriff, remembering her girlfriend Cheryl, when she’d been eight months pregnant, saying her baby was crowding her heart. “I want my heart crowded, too,” Corinne pleaded softly. Which meant she had to pin the wedding date—something Tony swore he wanted to do but never got around to—and rev his engine just the way he revved his precious Ferrari, which he’d nicknamed “Baby.”

      His choice of a nickname had always confused Corinne—didn’t he realize how much she wanted a baby? Their baby? But remembering her mother’s words (“If you want a man to do something, honey, show ’im. Don’t tell ’im.”), Corinne had kept her mouth shut. She’d never been as flamboyant as her mother, so showing

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