Her cool sexy demeanor betrays nothing, but twenty-nine-year-old Heather Hurley suffers from major anxiety attacks -- her life in L.A. isn't going exactly as planned. Now, in a bar near her hometown on the Jersey shore, her future is about to change forever.... "Your panic is your friend. It loves you and it's just trying to protect you. The man who spoke to her was gorgeous: long dusky hair, faded jeans and a black motorcycle jacket. And before Heather could brush him off, his arm touched hers and the result was electric: she felt her fear and anxiety drop away. Who was this guy? "I am who you think I am." Oh, God. "That's very good. It's about time we straightened out a few things in your life." His voice was like a sanctuary, a safe and lovely haven, and she felt enveloped by a cloud of serenity. So begins Heather's journey toward discovering her life as it was meant to be: filled with the true meaning of love and the magic of realizing her dreams. For every woman who longs to embrace her true self, heaven in high gear is proof that you can always find your way, as long as you trust your heart. John Gray, Ph.D., author of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus "This is a wonderful story guaranteed to warm your heart and make you feel good." Joan Brady is the author of God on a Harley and I Don't Need a Baby to Be Who I Am, available from Pocket Books. A registered nurse and a former lifeguard, she lives in California. Chapter One In spite of the fact that I was back in New Jersey, I had two things going for me: it was summer and I was down at the shore. If you absolutely have to be in Jersey for any reason whatsoever, it's always a good idea to avoid those brutal winter months. You definitely don't want to be cooped up with a bunch of people who haven't seen the sun for five straight months and who are all suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder. Of course they're all in a state of denial about their condition and won't admit to it. I should know. I grew up there and I used to be one of them. I had just flown in from LA the night before (or "La-La Land," as they like to call it here) for my biannual visit to the old home front. It's a ritual I endure in order to keep them from flying out to visit me. The way I see it, my life is my own and nobody from my "growing up years" needs to know that I make my living as a stripper. In contrast to my sixteen peers who work alongside me at the Pink Pussycat in LA, I'm the only one who doesn't try to sugarcoat the facts by calling herself an "exotic dancer" or a "performer." Whom do they think they're kidding? Taking off your clothes, even if you dance around while doing it, is still stripping in my book. Unlike the rest of them, I'm not the least bit ashamed of what I do. If I don't strip, I don't eat. For that matter, if I didn't strip, I wouldn't be driving my coveted BMW or living in Brentwood either. It's as simple as that. Besides, I don't see anybody else paying the mortgage on my condo or making my car payments, so whatever I do to survive is my business, right? Of course, if you saw me when I had my clothes on , you would have quite a different opinion of me. The way I see it, I don't get to wear clothes often enough, so when I do, I wear only the best. I know good things, and I don't hesitate to buy them for myself. I must admit, I'm the only one of the bunch who looks like she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth instead of in her nose. Drugs, that's one thing I never got into, and that's what separates me from all those losers who work and hang out at the Pink Pussycat. I work too hard for this perfect body to ever consider handing it over to the demon of drugs. No, sir. Instead, I prefer to spend my money adorning it with Chanel suits, eighteen-karat-gold jewelry, and Ferragamo shoes. Speaking of Ferragamo shoes, I looked down at the one I was dangling a bit seductively from my perfectly pedicured foot as I waited at the bar for my ever-tardy friends. I suppose you can take the girl out of the strip joint, but you can't necessarily take the strip joint out of the girl. I slipped the shoe back on my foot in spite of the admiring glances I was getting from three guys at a nearby table. I had to clean up my act and remember that I was back in my hometown now. Temporarily, thank God. It was a little past midnight here on the East Coast, but my body clock said it was only nine, so I wasn't even close to peaking yet. Three of my girlfriends were supposed to meet me here in this beachfront dive for a little "welcome home" get together, but as usual, they were extremely late. That left me only one choice: to sit alone at the bar, sipping my white wine and thinking about my life and how it measured up against the lives of my cronies. To begin with, we are an unlikely group of friends. We have very distinct personalities and interests, and we all grew up in different towns. About the only thing we have in common is that we all