Before I can hook it, however, the door falls open and the unexpected loss of cranial support sends me lurching clumsily off balance. Being (much to my mother’s chagrin) a ballet school dropout at the age of four, I naturally fail to find my footing and end up sprawled on the floor; cute ass in the air, embarrassing rug burn on my chin. If I had a personal video crew—or a stalker with a camera phone—I could become an Internet superstar: Presenting Dixie Flynn, the klutz on YouTube. After the initial shock, I can’t help but laugh. It’s either that or cry; at the moment I’m feeling too stupid to register one more bruise on top of the others. Pulling myself to my feet, I flick on the lights. Someone is sleeping on my couch. A blonde tuft of hair is curled on the sofa with a pillow covering her face. She is dressed in a low-cut, close-fitting lemon-yellow silk dress with matching shoes that makes my couch look even shabbier than normal.
