Virtually His. Gennita Low

      She picked up the envelope and slit it open with the knife. Settling back in her chair, one leg carelessly over the other, she began to read the instructions for the day. She laughed.

      The first line was: “It’s protein powder and some vitamins in the shake. Drink it up.”

      Picking up the glass, she gave the blinking camera a mocking toast. They had a sense of humor around here. She resumed reading.

      “Morning schedule. VR session. Lunch Break. Psychoanalysis session. Break. Pretest prep. Questions and Answers. Break. Use this time to mentally prepare yourself. Please have a good snack before your big session. Time of meeting will be given during Q and A. Good luck.”

      It sounded like a school schedule and the beginning of the old TV show Mission Impossible all mixed together. Of course, now that she had brought it up, the stupid TV tune was going to play in her head all day.

      Humming the ditty, Helen finished her breakfast. Today was the big day. She was the star of the show so she had better look good. She knew from scuttlebutt that some of the agencies were against the choice of a contract agent as the test candidate, and she was determined to prove them wrong. She loved challenges.

      By the time she stepped out of the elevator, she had half an hour to spare before her VR session. The Center had twelve levels, as far as she’d been able to count. She was allowed access to only six of them. It had taken a while to find her way around the place because the inside didn’t look anything like the building outside. Its interior was like an octopus, with different tentacles winging out. She had yet to find time to explore them all.

      Turning the corner, she bumped into Flyboy. He must have just finished training. Shirtless, with a towel hanging from his shoulders, he looked tan and luscious.

      “Hey there, gorgeous!” He whistled as he leaned a brown and muscular shoulder against the wall.

      That line should have been hers. The man was one beautiful specimen. He had the body of a gymnast, trim and well-balanced. Six feet of male musculature. Being a pilot, he wasn’t built like a fighter, but nothing about him was soft. Was there any part of him that was imperfect? She eyed the silver chain dangling just above his impressive chest, her gaze trailing down the well-defined washboard abs to the stringed sweatpants riding low on his slim hips. Her eyes slid back up to meet his. His sexy blue ones gleamed back invitingly.

      “You look like a walking soap commercial,” Helen drawled. The man knew his effect on women and didn’t try to hide it. She sniffed. “Unfortunately, you stink.”