One Size Fits All
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The Cinderella story takes on a fresh twist when told from the perspective of a slightly depressed glass slipper salesman. "One Size Fits All" is a breezy, modern romantic-comedy tale of love at first sight — and of realizing that it’s never too late to write the ending you want for your own fairy tale. More
The Cinderella story takes on a fresh twist when told from the perspective of a slightly depressed glass slipper salesman. One Size Fits All is a breezy, modern romantic-comedy tale of love at first sight — and of realizing that it’s never too late to write the ending you want for your own fairy tale.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gary Scott is a itinerant zen mendicant who dwells largely in the shadowy netherworld of other people's imaginations — particularly that of author, screenwriter, and editor Scott Fitzgerald Gray, for whom Gary is a nom de plume encompassing Scott's lighter writings and humor.
“Boy, if this is the kind of night life you’ve been leading on the sly, I owe you a serious apology.”
Roman looked sidelong at his father, not understanding his sudden appreciation for the upper end of the bourgeois lifestyle. And then with a sudden start, he noticed the incongruity in the crowd that had caught his father’s eye.
Everywhere except the dance floor, the mix and ratio of the guest list seemed to consist of a disproportionately high number of women. Young ones, attractive. Older ones, matronly. It was the latter group that had seized Malcolm’s attention with the strength of a bear trap. Roman followed his father’s gaze as he checked out the veritable smorgasbord of chaperones.
“If anybody asks,” Malcolm growled quietly, “I’m your prematurely grey older brother and don’t bloody forget it.” Before Roman could utter a word in response, Malcolm had waded headlong into the crowd, focused like a missile on the first older woman he saw. Pulling her from her young charge and onto the dance floor, he quickly whirled the astonished matron away.
Roman tried to get a grip but failed. He tried again, managing at least to move. He took a step into the ballroom. Then he froze, suddenly. Dead in his tracks, face gone ash-pale in an instant.
Very slowly, Roman walked backward a half-dozen steps. He looked up to the foyer behind him, the closest portrait looming above. And there, larger than life, hung a familiar face. Douglas. He was decked out in the attire of some last-last-century lord, shotgun and dead pheasant in hand. And even as Roman felt his face register the absolute horrific realization of whose party this was, he heard a familiar voice from behind him.
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