No matter how good a trip has been, there's just nothing that compares to that first breath of hometown air when you finally get back. That is unless it's the peaceful little moment right after you step out of your car, but before you face the reality of having to unpack. It was exactly this sort of moment that I was enjoying – standing in my driveway, eyes closed, letting the breeze blow through my hair. After five hectic days of travel, of meetings, of hotel food...it was the first time I had been able to relax in what felt like ages.

It didn't last.

From behind me came a frantic rush of footsteps. I turned just in time to see a flash of magenta and denim, and by then it was too late. My assailant was flying headlong toward me, and before I could react she caught me hard in the center of my chest. “Seth! You're back early!”

This wasn't the first time Candice had given me one of these impromptu tackles. It was probably her idea of revenge for all the Sunday afternoon football games I had forced her to watch. This habit might've become a problem, except that a girl who tips the scales at ninety-five pounds and five foot nothing in flats isn't much of a threat to take me down. Even if she DOES have the instincts of a linebacker.

“I wasn't expecting you for another couple hours,” she cooed, wrapping her arms around me and nuzzling my shoulder.

“The closing meeting let out earlier than excepted, and I caught a red-eye out of Sacramento,” I answered, giving her a quick peck on her button nose.

Candice took a step back and put her hands on her hips in mock sternness. “Well you should've called, mister! You might've ruined my surprise!”

“Oh really? If you mean your hair, 'surprise' is definitely an understatement.”

She posed for me, running her fingers through her curly locks. Candice had always struck me as something of a conservative girl, at least where her fashion sense was concerned. I would never have expected her to dye her hair, especially not the hot, Lamborghini pink color she had apparently chosen. “Do you like it? It was...ah...something of an accident.”

“It's cute, and super-girly. Fits you perfectly, I'd say.”

She stuck her tongue out at me, but her smile grew wider. “Wait, did you say it was an accident? How do you just ACCIDENTLY wind up with neon pink hair?”

“I'll tell you later. Come inside, I want to show you something.” With that Candice turned and sauntered toward the front door.

“But...my bags...I should....”

“Later!” she called, not looking back. I watched her go for a moment. That walk...I recognized that walk. The pendulum swing of her hips, the way her hair bounced with each step. She was wearing a low-cut white tank top and a faded pair of jeans. I mean, THE Jeans. The ones that she kept for special occasions...the ones that she took special care to hand wash so as not to stretch them out by even the tiniest bit. The ones that were so tight that it made it look as if her butt was covered not by fabric, but by a layer of bluish finger paint.

I took a deep breath, fought down the urge to run, and followed her into the house.

“So,” she said, closing the door behind me. “Do you notice anything...different? Other than the obvious?”

I looked around the living room. “Obvious. Hmm. That would include...your hair...the smell of what must be like twenty incense candles...the overturned furniture...the torn parchment all over the floor.... Have I left anything out?”

She rolled her eyes. “If we're just counting obvious things? Maybe the script I painted all over the walls.”

“Of course, my mistake. Where did you get all the red paint?”

“The slaughterhouse – it's lamb's blood. But yes, I mean other than that stuff.”

I sighed, rubbing my temples with the tips of my fingers, trying not to think about how much it was going to cost to clean all this up. “I give up Candice. What am I supposed to be looking for?”

She pursed her lips impishly, and folded her arms behind her head. “I'll give you two hints,” she purred, and looked down suggestively at her bosom.

The gall of that woman! The place was utterly trashed, and instead of an explanation, or, God forbid, an apology, she was going to try to seduce her way out of it. What was worse...this is exactly the kind of thing that works on me.

But after about two seconds of staring at her breasts, I completely forgot what I had been thinking. For reasons other than the usual ones. I know Candice's boobs like the back of my hand, and it didn't take me long to notice something out of place. They were...bigger! Rounder, fuller. Now that I looked closer, I noticed other tell-tale signs of change. The way her tank top was pulled extra tight in the area around her shoulders and underarms, the little bit of midriff that was exposed as her new assets lifted her shirt higher. Yes, there was no doubt about it – she had gone from a small B-cup to what looked like a large, perky C in less than a week.

“I thought that might shut you up,” she said, smirking at me in this way she does that is simultaneously infuriating and devastatingly sexy.

“Okay, hooray, you got implants,” I said, trying, and not quite succeeding, to pull my gaze away from her tits. “And they look good.”

“Thank you,” she replied, bowing slightly, showing off more cleavage.

“But that doesn't explain why you felt it necessary to go all Keith Moon on the place.”

She smirked again. “First of all, these are NOT implants. They're REAL. Second, I didn't mean for the room to get destroyed this way – it was a...side effect. And anyway, if you hadn't come home so early, I would've had it cleaned up.”

“Wait...are you trying to get me to believe that your recent 'developments' and the state of this room are somehow related?”

“They are, Seth. I promise you.” She looked up into my face, and seeing the disbelief in my eyes, shook her head sadly. “This is impossible, you're never going to believe me. I guess I'll have to stage a demonstration.”

And with that, she stood up on her tip toes, and kissed me seriously.