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Two brand-new stories in every volume…twice a month!
Duets Vol. #39
“Colleen Collins is a real find,” says Under the Covers, and there’s no doubt Colleen is one of the funniest authors around. Joining her in this volume is talented Darlene Gardner, an Intimate Moments writer making her Duets debut with a hilarious story!
Duets Vol. #40
According to Romantic Times, Cara Summers “thrills us with her fresh, exciting voice…rich characterization and spicy adventure.” Teaming up with Cara in this humorous Christmas volume is talented Lori Wilde, who has more than ten books to her credit.
Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes today!
She’s Got Mail!
Colleen Collins
Forget Me? Not
Darlene Gardner
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Contents
She’s Got Mail!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Forget Me? Not
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
She’s Got Mail!
Colleen Collins
Ben tapped Rosie on the shoulder. “Take a seat.”
Rosie looked around for the man she was to meet. The poor guy desperately needed a man-to-man talk with magazine columnist Mr. Real. Only he had no idea Mr. Real was really a Ms.
“The guy I’m meeting is late, too,” Ben said. “Do you want a coffee?”
“That would be great.” Rosie smiled in appreciation as she watched Ben walk away. He had a self-assured, confident gait. Confidence—she liked that in a man. Her gaze dropped. And he had one terrific butt—she liked that in a man, too!
A few minutes later Ben arrived with two cups of coffee. “I’m meeting someone from a local magazine. Real Men. Do you know it?” he asked.
Rosie nodded absently, but her heart was racing. Slowly pieces of a puzzle were starting to form a picture in her mind. She and Ben were both meeting someone at the same time, in the same place. He was meeting someone from her magazine. Ohmigod! Ben was there to meet her!
Dear Reader,
I’ve always loved those classic films that feature the theme of mistaken identity, especially when a man—by necessity—has to be disguised as a woman. (Remember Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot, or Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie?) The fun heats up when the guy becomes hopelessly smitten with a beautiful woman. But how’s he supposed to win his lady love when he’s busy being the girl’s best friend? Female friend, that is. Being a Duets author, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if I turned this scenario around.
In She’s Got Mail!, ambitious magazine writer Rosie Myers has to fill in for Real Men magazine’s “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column. The catch? She has to pretend to be a real man. So when she starts to get letters from the man of her dreams, she’s in trouble. Because Ben Taylor thinks he’s getting man-to-man advice—from the woman who’s turning his world upside down!
I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I did writing it. I’d love to hear what you think. Write to me at P.O. Box 12159, Denver, CO 80212.
Enjoy,
Colleen Collins
For my sister, Judy Collins. This one’s for you, Doots!
1
ROSALIND “ROSIE” MYERS’S mother always swore Rosie would be late to her own funeral. Rosie tried not to think such morbid thoughts as she skidded her Dodge Neon around a corner, bounced the front wheel over a curb, and careened down an alley.
Alanis Morissette might be wailing a woeful tune over the car radio, but Rosie felt calm. Thanks to her newly rented parking space—located in a primo spot next to the back entrance of her Chicago office building—she’d be on time to work this morning. Worst case scenario, she’d have to speed-walk to her desk. But she’d be there, copyediting, mere minutes after eight this fine June morning. Which should please her manager, Teresa, who didn’t care about the funeral, but just wanted Rosie to be punctual.
Brushing crumbs from her breakfast, a nutri-quasi-Twinkie bar she’d chomped between Michigan Avenue and State Street, Rosie checked the plastic digital watch face she’d taped to the console.
It was already mere minutes after eight.
Okay, maybe she’d be running, not speed-walking, to her desk, but she’d be gripping her pencil and inserting commas by a quarter after, at the latest.
Whomp. The car lurched over a speed bump, the back fender scraping its adieu. Cringing, Rosie listened for any telltale clanging behind her. None. Good! Her budget didn’t allow for another muffler pipe replacement.
Ahead, to the right, she spied the familiar concrete steps that led up to the back entrance of the posh Loop office building. Directly behind those steps was her coveted parking space. Like a little home away from home.
Home. Her insides twinged as she flashed on the family farm in Colby, Kansas, where she’d lived all of her life before moving to Chicago seven months ago. Through the crack in her windshield, she peered at the gray Chicago air and wondered where along the way the blue skies of Kansas turned dirty. Or at what point the breezes that rustled through wheat fields became winds whistling down streets filled with cars and pedestrians.
She passed the steps and turned into her space….
Screech.
And slammed on the brakes.
Or at what point some jerk pinched her parking space!
Blinking, she gripped the wheel, amazed she’d managed to miss rear-ending a sleek, black BMW that had taken up residence in her space. Her space! Shaking from the near accident and the gall of the intruder, Rosie shoved the gear into reverse and backed up a few feet. After setting the brake, she jumped out of the car.
Splash!
Her loafer-clad foot landed solidly in a pothole filled with dirty water. She looked down at the splotches of dark water on her white leggings. Some of the mud had also splashed onto the bottom of her brown corduroy skirt. Her co-workers would think she’d slogged through trenches to make it into work. Although she doubted any of the editorial staff at Real Men magazine would believe that excuse for her tardiness, especially Teresa. Now she’d have to park blocks away. Rather than mere minutes late, she’d be mega minutes late.
She glared at the splotchless BMW. Sidestepping the pothole, she moved closer—her feet making squishing sounds as she walked—to the offensive automobile and scrutinized the license plate. ILITIG8.
I litigate. “I’ll just bet you do,” she muttered, eyeing the upscale car.
Her eyes narrowed as she peered up at the bank of square windows along the third floor of her brick office building. Real Men magazine, her company, took the bottom two floors of this building. On the third floor were some stockbrokers, accountants, and if memory served her correctly, one lawyer.
“Now I’ve got you,” she said, pleased with her impromptu sleuthing. She was going to be substantially late to work now because it would take forever and a day to find a parking space. If I’m going to be mega-late anyway, after walking back, I’ll take a few extra minutes and pay a visit to the third floor before heading to my desk.
Honk!
Rosie turned and glared at a square yellow truck stopped behind her Dodge. A burly arm, covered with hair and tattoos, waved at her in a very unceremonious fashion.
“You own this alley, lady?” The truck driver’s voice sounded hairier than his arm.
Men. Couldn’t deal with a little inconvenience. Rosie brushed back a curl that had toppled over her right eye. “As a matter of fact, I do!” she retorted, seizing the opportunity to vent. Falling back on the coping mechanism that started in her teenage years when she had to deal with her four strong-willed, overprotective older brothers, she adopted the personality type of one of the Greek goddesses to give her strength.
Although she was much better at running, she sashayed back to her Dodge with the grace of Artemis, a perfect choice for an alley goddess. After settling into the driver’s seat and easing the car down the lane, Rosie twiddled her fingers in a goodbye wave to the fuming trucker.
“GOOD MORNING!” A hand, wriggling bright orange-tipped fingernails, snaked around Benjamin Taylor’s office door.
Ben gripped his cup of coffee as his ex-wife’s head followed the hand. Meredith’s lips were the same color as her fingertips. He momentarily wondered if that was a real lipstick color…or if she’d been kissing those plastic pylons the city put on the streets. New lipstick. New nails. Maybe she’d just broken up with her latest boyfriend, Dexter-Something, and was turning to cones for attention and affection.
Or turning to her ex-husband, easygoing, always-there-for-you Ben.
“No good morning?” Meredith put on her best pout, which—to Ben’s still blurry precoffee vision—looked as though she’d condensed her cone-orange lips into a circle of glowing lava.
“Morning,” he barked, then quickly took a sip of hot coffee. Please, God, don’t let those lava lips feel the need to plant a kiss somewhere.
“That’s better,” she simpered. The rest of Meredith appeared in the doorway. He tried not to squint at the visual blast of bold orange, green and blue that comprised some satin kimono-robe-thing she was wearing. Typically when she dropped a boyfriend, or vice versa, Meredith also dropped her old look. The facts were stacking up that this new oriental theme was the result of a recent breakup with Hex…Lex…whatever his name was.
She eyed a lamp in the corner. “I saw the most to-die-for coatrack—black lacquer, faux mother-of-pearl inlay—that would look perfect there….”
Ben stiffened. Typically, when she took on a new theme, so did Ben’s office. That’s what happened when one’s ex-wife was an interior decorator who had enough money to indulge these whims. New themes weren’t a bad thing, except when the jobs were left incomplete. History had proven that she’d start redoing some wall or chair—or coatrack—in a to-die-for style, fall madly in love with some new man, and leave Ben’s office in mid-theme.
Ben had long ago decided that just as archeologists interpreted the lives of cavemen from the wall drawings, someone would someday track the love life of Meredith Taylor from the various decorating themes in Ben’s office.
“That lamp stays,” Ben warned.
It still irked him that she’d kept his last name. You’d think an ex-wife who’d been remarried and divorced since your divorce would keep husband number two’s last name. Or revert to her old, original name or use any name other than the name the two of you shared during a short, fitful marriage that, at best, was a millisecond of insanity in an eternal universe.
“All right, lamp stays.” She blinked her overmascaraed eyes at him. “You’ve never spoken to me in that tone of voice.”
His outburst had surprised even him. But one look at Meredith’s eyes told him to tread carefully—this was a brokenhearted woman on the redecorating rebound. “I plead not enough coffee.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Darling, sometimes you say the oddest things.”
“Lawyer talk.” Yep, she’d definitely broken up with Dexter-Whatever. She never called Ben darling when she was involved with someone.
“Like my hair?” she asked, gesturing toward it with those orange-tipped appendages.
He wondered when the hair question would raise its head. He tried not to frown as he checked out the hodgepodge of curls and what was sticking out… “What are those? Pick-Up Sticks?”
“Darling, they’re chopsticks!”
Chopsticks? “It’s so…Dharma.” The way bits of her hair stuck out, it also looked like a bird’s nest gone amok. But he had enough sense to keep that thought to himself.
Whether she was going through an oriental theme or a bird theme, he noted the slight stoop to her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes. Despite their tumultuous divorce, and the fact she always returned to Ben like a swallow to Capistrano, he didn’t have the heart to hurt her feelings further. It was so obvious that Meredith was in mourning.
“No, really, your hair looks…nice,” he murmured, making a mental note not to have Chinese for lunch.
“Nice—?” Her green eyes took on an expectant gleam that said, “Only one word? Nice?”
“Nice…and brown,” he amended.
Too little, too late. The gleam took on a sinister edge. She opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by a second high-pitched female voice.
“Mer-e-dith!” Heather, whose idea of year-around fashion, rain or shine, was a skimpy shift dress, wrapped her slim brown arms around his ex-wife’s shoulders. They gave each other air kisses. Heather pulled back and appraised Meredith’s new look. “You look cool! Dig your hair, too! That let-it-go look is so in these days.”
So much for the oriental versus bird themes. It was a let-it-go theme. Dread chilled Ben’s veins as he imagined Meredith redecorating his office—or part of it—in a let-it-go style. He gave his head a shake, trying to dislodge the images of chopsticks and bird’s nests adorning a corner wall.
Meredith smiled demurely, obviously mollified by the avalanche of Heather’s unsolicited compliments—a far better coup than Ben’s two-word response. She lightly fondled one of the chopsticks. “Thank you. Felt like trying something new.”
Heather’s blue eyes softened. “Broke up with Dexter, huh?”
Meredith’s cone lips quivered. She sniffled, loudly, before collapsing into Heather’s arms. Heather, her long blond hair spilling down the gaudy kimono, shot Ben a look. “Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked edgily.
“You’re late.”
Heather flashed him an impatient look. “Not to me, to Meredith.”
“Her hair looks nice and brown. But it’s almost nine and you’re late.”
Heather huffed something under her breath and continued cradling the distraught Meredith, who was blubbering about Dexter wanting ice cream back.
Ice cream?
Ben watched the two of them, his ex-wife and ex-fiancé, and realized he almost had enough exes to play tic-tac-toe. But at thirty-six, he was not in the market for another ex. Or even another current. If anything, he yearned for basic male companionship. Hell, a night of beer and bowling with the boys would suffice. Although, truth be told, he preferred wine, and chess—pastimes he once shared with his best buddy Matt before Matt fell in love and moved to California.
Since then, the closest Ben ever came to a man-to-man conversation, in a roundabout way, was when Heather would read out loud the “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column from her favorite magazine, Real Men, where men would ask about everything from the best fishing lines to the best pickup lines. When clients weren’t around, and Heather was out to lunch, Ben sometimes read the questions and answers himself, but he’d rather be caught dead than be seen reading a magazine whose covers were plastered with buffed males grinning smugly over articles like “Australia’s Great Barrier Hunks” and “Chicago’s Hottest Firefighters.”
When clients were present, he insisted Heather hide the magazine. After all, Ben specialized in employment law—he didn’t need an adversary spying magazines plastered with naked, sweaty males and accusing Ben of gender bias or sexual harassment.
Heather also read those Venus and Mars books, but Ben didn’t care if she left those on her desk. The covers were sensible. No naked bodies. Gender-fair titles—Venus for women, Mars for men. Sometimes Ben stared at those books, with titles ranging from Mars and Venus on a date to Mars and Venus in the bedroom, and he wondered if there’d ever be a book for men who had somehow landed on Venus but wanted to move to Mars. Because that’s how Ben’s personal life felt. Trapped on Venus, a world filled with former lovers and wives.
Heather, still cradling the weeping mound of kimono and chopsticks, mouthed, “She’s hurting.”
Ben mouthed back, “So am I. I need another planet.”
Two years ago, he’d met Heather at a local bagel shop. The boy behind the counter, enthralled with her beach babe look, waited slavishly on her while a disgruntled Ben bided his time. But when Heather turned those baby blues on him, and gave that head of shimmering blond hair a shake, he had the irrational wish to be her bagel slave, too.
Within a month, they were engaged and she was the receptionist in his one-man legal firm. But the beach babe was really an ice princess at heart. Six months later, he felt as though he were living with a frozen bagel. When they broke up, he helped her find another apartment, but when she had difficulty landing another job, he told her she could stay. He reasoned that she knew his clients and understood his work style. Besides her penchant for shifts, she was fine at her job.
He just hadn’t anticipated that his two exes would meld into one giant Super-Ex.
“Say something to her,” mouthed Heather over Meredith’s heaving shoulder.
He was a lawyer, dammit, not a heartbreak counselor. But if he had an Achilles heel, it was his heart. He couldn’t stand to purposely hurt someone, especially a female someone. It was undoubtedly the direct result of growing up as the man of the house and being protective of his mom and sis, a habit that spilled over into his other relationships with women.
He blew out an expanse of air. Say something. “Sorry he wanted that ice cream back.”
Meredith spun around so fast, he thought he was watching a remake of The Exorcist. “Ring!” she squealed. Her voice rose so high, he swore he heard the distant barking of dogs. “He wanted the ring back, not the ice cream!”
Heather, swishing back her straight blond hair with a shake of her head, glared at him accusingly. “How could you be so insensitive?”
Meredith, obviously on a self-pitying roll, added, “You never cared for me when we were married, either!”
As he stared at those two furious faces, scrunched into seething looks he’d seen a zillion times before, a third face appeared behind them. A heart-shaped face topped with a wild mop of brown curls, one of which spiraled down her forehead, like the little girl who, when she was good, was very, very good but when she was bad…
“Are you Benjamin Taylor, P.C.?” the good-bad girl asked.
No, I’m the insensitive, uncaring ex-husband-fiancé lout who doesn’t know the difference between an ice cream and a ring. “Yes.”
“I litigate?” she asked.
He paused. “I don’t know. Do you?”
He swore her curls quivered as her brown eyes narrowed. “Your license plate,” she said tightly. “Is it I-L-I-T-I-G-8?”
“Did somebody hit my car?” He shot out of his seat.
“No, but you were almost rear-ended,” she said, her voice dropping to an ominous register. “By me.” She leaned forward, her small point of a chin leading the way. “You stole my parking spot, you…you…thieving BMW litigating lummox.”
Litigating lummox?
Meredith and Heather glanced at the angry woman, then, as though by osmosis, seemed to absorb her animosity. Turning back, they intensified their glares at Ben, which created a triad of furious females blocking his doorway. What was it with women? If one went to the bathroom, they all went. If one hated you, they all did. Ben hadn’t even finished his morning cup of coffee, and he’d already pissed off three women…and one of whom he’d never seen before in his life!
It was the beginning of another glorious day in the life of Benjamin Taylor.
But confrontation was a lawyer’s middle name. Twisting the corners of his mouth into a professional smile, he said courteously, “Won’t you come in so we can discuss this?”
“Why should I—?”
“Not you, Heather. Our guest.” He cast his ex-fiancée, who knew when to back off, a warning look. With a shake of her head, she pivoted neatly on those oversize platform shoes and clomped back to her desk.
Ben crossed to the door. In an aside to Meredith, he whispered, “I’m sorry I misunderstood about the ring…. Why don’t you check out the couch?” He darted his gaze to the piece of furniture against the far wall in the reception area. A moment of peace was worth the couch sacrifice.
With the merest hint of a sniffle, Meredith swiveled and made a beeline to the object.
He turned his full attention to the curly-haired good girl. Bad girl. Mad girl. She wore an ill-fitting white blouse semitucked into a knee-length brown skirt, both of which reminded him of those chocolate-and-vanilla ice-cream bars he relished as a kid. But he didn’t dare voice that, now that he knew the evil connotation of the word ice cream. Ben gestured her inside. “Please come in, Miss—?”
“Myers. Rosie Myers.”
So it was Miss, not Mrs. Not that he cared. Maybe it was that wayward curl that intrigued him. Or the flash of lightning in those hazel eyes—which were now checking out the room as though a pervert had just invited her into the back seat of his car. “It’s a law office,” he said, “not a torture chamber. Please, have a seat.”
She shifted her gaze to his, giving him a we-are-not-amused look, before crossing to one of two wooden guest chairs, silhouettes of harps cut into their backs.
As she walked by, Ben noticed a spatter of mud in her hairline. And a chunk of mud on the toe of one of her sensible brown loafers. So it wasn’t a surprise she also wore mud-splattered tights. Didn’t she say she’d almost rear-ended his car? How? By running into it with her body? “Care for coffee? Tea?”
Rosie picked the chair farthest from Ben’s rectangular pine desk. “I’d kill for a coffee.”
He gave her a double take, hoping he didn’t have a homicidal rear-ending caffeine freak on his hands. “Heather, would you mind bringing—”
“I’m still helping Meredith!” she answered curtly from the other room.
With what? A stuck chopstick? Looking back at Rosie, he asked wearily, “Sugar? Cream?”
“Three teaspoons sugar. Plenty of milk.”
“That’s a milkshake, not a coffee,” Ben murmured as he headed to the coffee station in the reception area.
Rosie sat stiffly in the harp chair and checked out the inner sanctum of ILITIG8. She was already so late for work, what was another ten minutes? She hated disappointing Teresa, though, who was pretty cool when it came to bending rules. Unfortunately, Rosie had bent the tardy rule so far, she’d broken it, so Teresa had had to lay down the law: get into work on time or go on probation.
Although probation was not high on Rosie’s wish list, after stomping in a puddle, exchanging greetings with a trucker, and hiking six blocks into work, she needed a few extra minutes. And needed a few more to negotiate a parking space with a lawyer.
Considering what faced her, she also needed that free cup of coffee.
She scanned the room. Looked as though an interior decorator had had a breakdown in here. On one wall were several paintings of landscapes. Rosie fought a surge of homesickness as she scanned the images of rolling earth and sky, the type of world in which she’d spent most of her twenty-six years. She quickly shifted her gaze to another wall, where an arrangement of round brass thing-amajigs, covered with beads and feathers, hung. One of the round thingamajigs, on closer inspection, was a clock whose face was embedded in an old chrome steering wheel.
“Here’s your coffee,” Ben said pleasantly, handing her a steaming mug. He headed around the pine desk and sat in a high-backed swivel chair.
He had an ease about him, which surprised Rosie. And he wasn’t dressed in a stuffy suit—the way lawyers in the movies dressed—but in slacks and a light pullover. The sweater’s blue-and-smoke diamond pattern complemented his brown hair, a café au lait color, and his blue eyes. Maybe his office hadn’t settled on a style, but he definitely had one. And although she’d tried to ignore it, his style had a sexy edge. A slow, feverish heat tickled her insides.
“Thank you,” she croaked, wishing her voice would behave. Forget the voice—she wished her body would behave! She quickly diverted her attention to the graphic on the cup and stared at James Dean, a cigarette dangling from his lips, slouched in front of the marquee Rebel Without a Cause. Did Ben Taylor think the image of some studly movie star would mollify her? At the very least, he should have picked her a cup that didn’t have cars drag racing in the background. If she looked closely enough, she’d probably find one of the cars sneaking up on a parking space, too.
“My, uh, interior decorator got me these,” he explained, catching her reaction. “It’s a set of mugs called the Golden Age of Hollywood…from my, uh, decorator’s Tinseltown theme era. I prefer to use my china for guests, but it appears my receptionist took them home for a party….” His voice trailed off as he cast a tired gaze around the room, stopping on a framed poster of Jimmy Stewart under the title Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.
He seemed preoccupied with Jimmy Stewart, so Rosie took a sip of James Dean, nearly groaning as the sweet hot liquid warmed her mouth. That was one of the problems of being perpetually late. She never had the time to savor something as toe-tinglingly delightful as a great cup of java. She closed her eyes, inhaling the roasted scent, savoring the moment. “This is delicious,” she murmured.
When she opened her eyes, Ben was staring at her with a twinkle in his. “Appreciate your enjoyment,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky register.
Their gazes locked for a long moment. Rosie’s heart hammered so hard, she swore the sound must be echoing off the walls. She gripped the cup, not wanting it to slip out of her suddenly moist palms. Minutes ago, he’d simply been ILITIG8. Now he was a powerful, exciting presence that unnerved her body and ignited her libido.
She wanted to kick herself. She wasn’t here to enjoy herself, but to be angry. To demand her rights! “Is that what you lawyers do?” she began, breaking the charged silence. At least her voice was behaving better—it wasn’t croaking anymore. “Do you wear people down with coffee and movie stars so they forget what they’re fighting for?”
“Movie stars?” He looked perplexed. “What are they fighting for?”
She casually wiped one moistened palm against her skirt. “You stole my parking space.”
“Stole it?” he repeated. He motioned in the general direction of north. “The space behind the stairs, next to the back entrance?”
She leveled him her sternest look. “Right.”
“Wrong.” Cocking an eyebrow, he took a swig from his mug, decorated with a sloe-eyed Marlene Dietrich in a top hat. Lowering his drink, she swore he flinched when he looked at the movie title over Marlene’s head, Blonde Venus. He plunked down the mug, too hard, and opened his desk drawer. “Yesterday I paid the monthly rental fee for the space my car is currently occupying.”
She blinked, surprised. “Yesterday? So did I.”
“Perhaps you paid for another parking space,” he suggested, rummaging through the drawer.
“No, that’s my space.”
He held up a piece of paper. “Here’s my receipt. Do you have yours?”
“Somewhere. At home.” Probably in the pile of paper on the edge of her dresser. Or maybe in the pile of paper in the fruit basket that hung in her kitchen. “Yes,” she said. In some pile.
He handed her the piece of paper. “I believe this has all the pertinent information.”
Pertinent. Trust a lawyer to not simply say “information.” As though “pertinent information” gave it an extra distinction. She read the handwritten receipt, upon which was typed his name, yesterday’s date and the number C1001.
“C1001. Maybe that’s another pertinent space,” she said, handing back the paper.
He gave her an odd look before responding. “According to their chart, the Cs are the spaces behind the stairs.”
This was getting nowhere. She didn’t have her receipt. She didn’t know C spaces from Z ones. And she really didn’t want to do the six-block trek again tomorrow morning. She wanted back her space, free and clear, today. For that matter, she wanted back her common sense—to not let some Michael J. Fox look-alike with a killer Harrison Ford grin get the better of her. She cleared her throat. “The building office has copies of our receipts. I suggest we discuss this with them at lunchtime. Shall we meet there at…noon?”
He opened his appointment book. A few strands of his straight hair, parted neatly on the side, fell forward as he bent his head to scan a page. Looking up, he said pleasantly, “Noon’s fine.”
“Noon, then,” she said. He had a receipt, an appointment book, two secretaries it appeared, matching mugs, a BMW, and a sweater with the same cornsilk blue as his eyes. Rosie, the mud-sloshed misfit, felt as though she had nothing, not even the space she came in here to get. To make up for it she irrationally vowed to have the last word, before she left.
She downed another gulp of coffee, which she’d barely swallowed when she realized Ben was standing. She meant to set her cup on the carved coffee table next to her chair, but the bottom of the mug hit the table edge, causing the coffee to splatter onto her stockings and the carpet.
Ben lunged forward, grasping the cup the same time as she stabilized it. They hunched together in the center of the room, like two coffee cup worshipers, Ben’s hands encircling hers. Rosie tried not to notice the warmth of his fingers. Or the musky scent of his cologne. Or the rising heat within her that had nothing to do with the hot coffee.
“You spilled coffee on your tights,” Ben murmured, the tender roughness in his voice sending a delicious shiver down her spine.
Belatedly, she felt the warm liquid on her legs. Looking down, though, it was difficult to decipher which splotches were mud and which were coffee. She sure knew how to make an impression.
Ignoring her tights, she straightened. “See you at noon.”
Ben, dropping his hands, stood with her. He had to be six feet to her five-three. “That’s right. Noon.”
“Yes, noon.” She turned and headed toward the reception area.
“I’ll be in the building office at noon,” he called out.
Rosie stopped. He had to get in the last word, didn’t he? Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Yes. Noon.” There. He wouldn’t dare out-noon her again.
“I was talking to Heather.”
“Oh.” Rosie did a modified speed-walk through the reception area, passed the two women who were staring at the couch, and went out the door. Only when Rosie was in the hallway did she realize she was still clutching James Dean.
2
“MR. REAL RAN OFF with a woman named Boom Boom?” asked an incredulous Rosie, who had barely sat down before her best pal, Pam, rushed into the editorial department to tell her the office gossip.
As Pam leaned closer, Rosie caught the familiar scent of her friend’s patchouli perfume. “Hold on,” Pam whispered, “it gets better. Boom Boom is a bongo-playing stripper.” Pam mimed playing bongos, a mischievous twinkle in her chocolate-brown eyes. At the end of her impromptu performance, she said, “I was dying to tell you the moment I heard, but you were awfully late….” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Had to park six blocks away. Has Teresa been looking for me?”
“Nope. She got pulled into a powwow. Bigwigs are brainstorming how to replace Mr. Real overnight.”
Rosie’s mind reeled as the facts fully sank in. She didn’t know what was more shocking—that the graying, habit-driven Real Men magazine columnist known as Mr. Real had thrown his career into the air, or that Boom Boom could bongo while boom-booming. Back in Colby, the most scandalous occurrence of the past ten years was when Bobby-Joe Reed mooned ol’ Mrs. Ferguson, who hadn’t been able to talk for weeks afterward—a condition her doctor called post-traumatic stress.
Perched on the edge of Rosie’s desk, Pam kicked one sandaled foot back and forth. “Six blocks away? Thought you rented a parking spot yesterday.”
“A lawyer filched it,” Rosie murmured, focusing on the sleek oak desk in the corner. That’s where William Clarington, aka Mr. Real, had plied his trade writing the immensely popular “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column.
As she’d speed-walked to her desk a few minutes ago, she’d wondered where William, never Bill, was. Every morning he arrived promptly at 8:10, carrying a latte and a bran muffin to his desk. Slightly stooped, with a pencil-thin mustache William referred to as his “cookie duster,” it astounded Rosie that he even knew anyone named Boom Boom, much less ran away with her. The thought of them jetting off to some exotic locale, where they were probably feverishly playing bongos and dusting cookies, unleashed within Rosie an unexpected, wild rush of yearning.
“What’re you thinking about, Rosie?” Pam asked.
Rosie met Pam’s concerned gaze. “The wildest thing I’ve ever done is fly to Chicago. Prior to that, I once tipped a cow.”
“I hope not more than fifteen percent. Cows are notorious for bad service.”
“No, in Kansas ‘tipping a cow’ is literally tipping it.” Rosie made a pushing motion with her hands.
Pam stared at Rosie’s hands. “If that’s what you did for fun,” she said with a chuckle, “good thing you moved to Chicago, and better yet, became pals with me.” Pam was city savvy and had helped Rosie survive the culture shock of moving from a small-town farm to a metropolis apartment. Pam leaned over and helped herself to a tissue on a neighboring desk. “Please don’t tell me you were tipping this morning, though.”
“Why?”
“Because you have mud on your forehead.” She brushed at Rosie’s right temple. “All gone.”
Rosie groaned. “I had mud on my face?”
“Better than egg.” Pam tossed the tissue into the metal trash can next to Rosie’s desk.
Rosie dropped her head into her hands. In a woebegone voice, she said, “I strode, full steam, into a lawyer’s office and called him a thief. If I’d known my face was covered with a mud pack—”
“Mud speck—”
“I’d have wiped it off!” She rolled her eyes. “Mud on my face. No wonder he gave me those odd looks.” And she’d hoped those had been looks of heated interest. Maybe if she dated more often, she’d know the difference between a heated look and an odd one.
Pam’s gaze dropped. “Dirt on your legs, too. Good lord, girl! What’d you do before work? Practice mud wrestling?”
“Mud sloshing. That’s when you step grandly into a pothole filled with mud and gunk. After that, I argued with a trucker, confronted a lawyer and stole a coffee mug.”
Pam nodded slowly, fighting a smile. “Okay, I’ll accept everything but the theft. Stooping a little low, aren’t we, to steal a coffee mug?”
“I accidentally walked away with it, but I was so flustered at the time….” She sighed. Nothing had gone right with Benjamin Taylor, P.C. She’d felt so in control—so self-righteous—when she’d barged into his office. But she’d left with a seriously unbalanced libido, receiptless, and worse, after accusing him of being a thief, a thief herself. “You’d think,” she said, looking at the family portrait that sat on her desk, “that after growing up with four brothers, I’d know how to handle a man.”
“Honey, we all know how to handle a man. Worrying about that right now, however, is not the proper channel for your energy.” With a wink, Pam picked up a miniature windup dinosaur, dressed in a cheerleader skirt and holding tiny pom-poms, from Rosie’s desk. It had been a going-away gift from one of her brothers, who’d said to remember he was always with her in spirit, cheering her on in her new life. Winding the toy, Pam shot Rosie a knowing look. “Wonder who’s going to fill in for Mr. Real?”
Rosie got Pam’s drift. They were both assistants at Real Men magazine—Pam in Marketing, Rosie in Editorial—jobs that were one step above the mail room. They’d made pacts to escape “assistant gulch” before the end of the calendar year, which meant they needed to move fast on any job opportunities.
“My last, uh, volunteer efforts didn’t go so well,” she reminded Pam. “I think I need a dose of your big-city, big-office wisdom. Want to come over to dinner tonight? I think I have some leftovers.”
“Sure. We’ll brainstorm while eating. And as to your past volunteer efforts—” Pam made a no-big-deal gesture, her beaded bracelet jangling with the movement “—you were green. Didn’t know the ropes. That was months ago, anyway. Nobody’s going to remember.” She arched one eyebrow. “By the way, have I mentioned you’re looking thinner?”
It was a line they tossed at each other when one or the other needed an ego boost. It was silly, but it always coaxed a smile. Grinning, Rosie checked her leather-banded watch, a going-away gift from another brother, the misguided one attending law school. “Paige is probably still in that powwow….”
“Paige? Our indomitable managing editor? Now there’s a woman who knows how to channel her energy properly.” Still clutching the dinosaur, Pam lifted the telephone receiver. “Jerome’s extension is four-three-three. I’ll dial.” She tapped in the number for Jerome, Paige’s assistant.
Before a stunned Rosie could say “I’m still in mud-and-mug recovery,” Pam was handing her the receiver. Swallowing hard, Rosie accepted it. Raising it to her ear, she said cautiously, “Jerome?”
“Yeah.”
He always copped a tough-guy attitude when Paige was out of the office. Like a Johnny Depp wanna-be. But when Paige was in, he became Mr. Sweet-and-Light himself, a young Prince Harry. It was like dealing with Jekyll and Hyde—except with Jerome, it was Johnny and Harry.
“This is Ro—” She cleared the frog from her suddenly clogged throat. “Rosie—Rosalind—Myers. I’d like to set up a meeting with Ms. Leighton today.”
“She’s booked.”
It was obvious he hadn’t even checked her appointment book—or computer form or whatever medium Superwoman used to schedule her life. Rosie exaggerated a sneer to Pam, indicating Jerome was being less than cooperative. Pam held up the dinosaur and made it dance in the air, cheering Rosie on.
“Perhaps she has a few minutes available between appointments?” Rosie suggested, sweetening her voice with even more sugar than she’d put in her coffee.
“Nah.”
Rosie made a “gr-r-r” face to Pam, who picked up a stray quarter on the desk and waved it.
“Can I give you a quarter?” Rosie said into the receiver.
Pam mouthed a big “no” and mimicked eating.
Smiling, Rosie nodded vigorously. “Can I give you some food?”
Shuddering dramatically, Pam grabbed a ballpoint pen off Rosie’s desk and scribbled “lunch” at the top of Rosie’s week-at-a-glance calendar.
“I meant lunch,” Rosie quickly corrected “Can I treat you to lunch?”
Pam punched the air with a big thumbs-up.
“You’re in luck,” Jerome answered, his voice oozing sweetness and light. “She just got out of a meeting. If you hurry, you can catch her before she leaves for her ten o’clock. And I like Focaccio’s.”
“Great,” answered Rosie. “I’ll be right there. And we’ll set up a lunch at Furca—Forcha—whatever. Bye.” She quickly hung up the phone.
“You got an appointment with She Who Rules?” asked an elated Pam.
Rosie brushed a curl out of her eyes. “Yes. And in the too near future, I’m buying lunch for He Who Blackmails.”
“I knew that’d work with Jerome. But it’s a small price, girlfriend. Wish I wasn’t tied up with meetings the rest of the day—I’ll be dying to know how your Paige encounter went. Tonight, over dinner, you’ll have to spill all.”
“Deal.” Rosie stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “How do I look?”
“Take off those stockings in the ladies’ room. Otherwise, you look…like Mr. Real.” With a wink, Pam set down the dinosaur, which rattled a path across the desk, the pom-poms rising and falling.
ROSIE STOPPED at the women’s bathroom down the hallway from Paige Leighton’s office. Slipping inside, she scrambled out of her splattered leggings and started to stuff them into her skirt pocket, then changed her mind. She didn’t want to look as though had a lump on her thigh—not in the elegant Paige Leighton’s inner sanctum. Rosie tossed the hose behind the trash can to retrieve later. I really should carry a purse instead of relying on pockets.
She closed her eyes and told herself to relax, to breathe. Opening her eyes, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She had an eerie blueish glow, which she hoped was due to the fluorescent lights. Maybe her mother was right—maybe she should wear makeup.
Poking at the chaos of curls that framed her face, she scrutinized her overall presence. To combat the blue and the anxiousness in her eyes, it was time to adopt a goddess. I’ll stick with Artemis. Goddess of the Hunt, Artemis always aimed for her target, knowing her arrows unerringly reached their mark.
Like me, aiming to be Mr. Real.
She didn’t have to strain any brain cells to know they wanted a man in the job. After all, it would be false advertising if the “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column was written by a woman. But an interim Mr. Real would be a coup—an opportunity for her to escape the gulch and prove she could write. Otherwise, she’d be stuck proofing and copyediting until her brown curls grew gray, her last dying moment spent crossing out an errant comma.
She checked her watch. Goddess time!
A few moments later, Rosie passed Jerome, who smiled slyly at her as she walked into Paige’s office. He’d always made her uncomfortable the way he eyeballed women. Worse, she’d soon have to sit across from those eyeballs at lunch. That Focha-whatever place would probably cost Rosie a month’s worth of her favorite nutri-quasi Twinkie bars.
Her footsteps slowed as she stepped onto the plush egg-white carpeting that cushioned the floor of the vast office. Paige, who could be a stand-in for Lauren Bacall, sat behind a metal-and-glass desk. Seeing Rosie, she pulled off her reading glasses and set them aside. Folding her hands in front of her, she smiled without crinkling her eyes. “Jerome told me you had something important to discuss. I have only a few minutes….”
A few? Rosie dove in. “The ‘A Real Man Answers Real Questions’ column is currently without a columnist.”
Paige blinked, then nodded, not one iota of emotion flickering across her powdered face. “And—?”
“I would like the…opportunity to be the interim columnist until you find another Mr. Real.” Her brother the salesman always said to hit hard and hit fast when you wanted something. Well, thanks to Artemis, she’d just done that. Rosie eased in a slow breath, waiting for Paige’s reaction.
“Rosie,” Paige began, elongating the O in Rosie. “Didn’t you have several previous ‘opportunities’?” One shapely eyebrow raised slightly, emphasizing the question in her voice.
“Uh, yes.” Ugh. So even Paige Leighton, the managing editor high priestess, had heard about those first two writing assignments that Rosie had mangled.
“I seem to recall,” Paige continued, “that Sophia Weston needed an article on ‘Women Who Need to Please’ and you wrote about…”
Rosie cringed inwardly. Persephone, the goddess of the underworld who expresses a woman’s tendency toward passivity and a need to please. Rosie had thought, at the time, she was being brilliant. But Sophia Weston, senior features editor, was so irked, Rosie worried for two solid days that she would be the next goddess of the underworld for her rampant creativity. Rosie forced a smile. “I misinterpreted Ms. Weston’s guidelines.”
Paige tapped one pink-polished nail against the glass desk. “And I believe there was another incident?”
Incident? When had writing assignments become incidents? “Well, yes, there was a second, small writing assignment. Very small.” She debated whether to call it infinitesimal, but decided that might be pushing it. “Ad copy.”
“Bridal ad, I believe.”
Sheesh. Paige might be old enough to have dated Humphrey Bogart, but she had a young memory. What did she do? Binge on ginkgo biloba? “Yes,” Rosie admitted. “It was a bridal ad.”
“One of our best advertisers, as I recall. Seemed they found a rather…unsightly typo?”
“Hera,” Rosie admitted. She might as well hit hard and hit fast with the truth, too, and put a stop to this trip down memory lane. “I changed ‘Her beauty’ to ‘Hera beauty.”’
“Right. Hera beauty. I remember now.” Paige leaned forward, her gray-blue eyes nearly matching her mauve earrings. “How did that happen?”
Double ugh. Now she had to explain the “Hera Incident.” “I thought it would…enhance the ad to use the name Hera, the goddess of marriage.” And, oh boy, did she enhance it. Only because the head of sales had pacified the irate customer by offering free ad space for six months was Rosie able to keep her job.
“Oh-h-h.”
Rosie wondered if Paige always elongated her O’s.
Paige tapped her fingernail again. “You seem to have a thing for goddesses.”
If Rosie admitted that at this very moment she was Artemis, she could kiss off being Mr. Real. Instead, she offered a half smile, not wanting to explain how she had to be a goddess to survive her four brothers’ antics.
“Mr. Real isn’t a goddess,” Paige said drolly.
“No, he’s not.” But he’d make a great Athena.
“And this is a job for a seasoned writer. Which you’re not. And for someone with a good track record. Which you don’t have.”
Think Artemis. Be strong. “I am a seasoned writer,” Rosie began, hoping Paige Leighton didn’t hear the quaver in her voice. “I worked for two years on the high school newspaper, the last year as its editor. After that, I graduated from college with a degree in journalism. I worked on the town paper, starting as gofer and working my way up to copy editor, then reporter. That’s ten years of writing—if that’s not seasoned, I’d like to know what you view as bland.”
That last comment sneaked out. This was Paige Leighton she was talking to. Rosie had to watch her tongue, something her mother had warned her of repeatedly.
Rosie quickly pushed ahead. “And it’s true I made those four paws—” From the look on Paige’s face, Rosie knew she’d butchered that French term. Darn. Why did she attempt to speak French when at best she knew a few sentences in Spanish? Because Paige was cultured classy, and owned that summer home in Provence.
“Four what?”
“Mistakes,” Rosie explained softly, wishing she’d dated that high school foreign exchange student, Guillaume, when she’d had the chance. She might have learned a few key French phrases. But no. Competitive Rosie opted to beat him at tennis instead of getting to know him over dinner.
“Oh.” Paige nodded slightly. “Faux pas.”
“Right. That’s what I meant.” Now that she’d bludgeoned French, Rosie decided to go for the hard-core truth—in English. “I wanted desperately to prove myself, and fell back on a favorite theme, goddesses,” she admitted quickly. “I know I blew those jobs. But after that, I dug in and studied the magazine, the readership and the corporate expectations. Real Men has a circulation that rivals larger, more established magazines such as Architectural Digest. Eighty-five percent of our readership is women, most of whom are in their late twenties, which is my age bracket. Which means I’m better qualified to write for that particular audience.”
Rosie let that sink in before continuing. She had definitely overstayed her “few minutes” but Paige hadn’t kicked her out…yet.
“Of course, there’s the small issue that I’m not a man—”
Paige arched one eyebrow in response.
“—but I sat only ten feet from William Clarington these past seven months. I heard everything he said, proofed much of what he wrote, both of which give me an edge to fill in for him until, of course, the magazine hires a man.” If Rosie wasn’t mistaken, Paige looked interested.
Paige stood, smoothed her silk jacket, then walked around the desk. Leaning back against it, she crossed her arms and leveled Rosie a look. “You’re hungry. I like that. And you put your nose to the grindstone and learned from your past mistakes. Like that even better. I’ll make a deal with you. You can be the interim Mr. Real on two conditions. One, not a single goddesslike word can touch that column, you understand?”
Rosie nodded.
“Two. It’s imperative the column’s tone sound like William, Mr. Real. We don’t want our readers—especially the growing number of men who write to Mr. Real—to ever suspect that he’s a woman. I think maybe you can pull off playing Mr. Real for a few weeks…if you agree to those two terms.”
Agree? She’d name her firstborn Paige if that’s what it took. “Yes,” Rosie whispered, not trusting her voice to behave.
Paige gave her a small smile as she headed back around the desk to her chair. Sitting down, she put her reading glasses back on. “Your few minutes are up.”
Rosie floated across the carpeting, past Jerome and down the hallway. She’d talked her way into being the interim Mr. Real! Goodbye gulchdom, hello writerville.
BEN SAT in the building office foyer, wondering if Rosie Myers remembered they’d agreed to meet here at noon, which was ten minutes ago. Except for the piped-in Muzak, he didn’t mind waiting. It was a relief to escape his office, where Meredith had spent the rest of the morning analyzing his couch, which should be a first in Freudian psychology.
Although considering Rosie was late, he should have asked her where she worked or how he might reach her. All he knew was her name, that she had an abnormal desire to possess his parking space, and that she favored the mud-splattered look.
He smiled, recalling the little spot of mud nestled in her hairline. Most women fretted if a hair was out of place or if their lipstick wasn’t on straight. At the other end of the spectrum was Rosie, who looked as though she’d just polished off a mud pie.
At that moment, Rosie charged into the foyer. Seeing Ben, she halted and heaved a few deep breaths. “Sorry I’m…late,” she said between pants. “I lost…track of time.”
She wet her lips, making him wonder if that was a nervous gesture because she was late—or if it was because of him. “That’s all right. I enjoyed the reprieve from Super-Ex.”
Frowning, Rosie swiped a curl off her forehead. “Super what?”
“Never mind,” he said, flipping his wrist to check the time. “The building manager has been waiting at least fifteen minutes. Shall we?” He gestured toward an open wooden door, upon which was stenciled in white block letters Archibald Potter, Building Manager.
Nodding, Rosie did a quick adjustment to her blouse, which was once again partially tucked into her skirt waistband. She must live alone, Ben surmised, because no one with a heart would let her leave the house looking as though she’d dressed in front of a wind machine.
After rectifying her wayward blouse, Rosie cocked her head and frowned. “Is that an orchestra playing the Rolling Stones?”
Ben glanced at one of the speakers embedded into the ceiling. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’?”
“Okay, but first let’s talk to Mr. Potter.” Ben avoided her eyes as he motioned her toward the office door. He shouldn’t have said that, but the urge to ruffle Ms. Mud Pie was too great.
She huffed indignantly, although he noticed circles of pink staining her cheeks. So she liked the idea of spending the night together?
“I meant the song title!” As she sailed passed him, he noticed the mud along her hairline had been removed. Also gone were the stockings that looked like a Rorschach test.
As they entered Mr. Potter’s office, Ben mused how Meredith would have a field day in here. It had no style, unless there was such a thing as a price-saver-office-supply theme. The room’s furnishings consisted of a fake ficus tree, a Write ’N Wipe calendar scribbled with illegible notes, two folding chairs, and a metal desk with a faux wood front. Behind the desk sat a spectacled Mr. Potter, wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Besides the emerald-green leaves on the ficus, the only other piece of color in the room was Mr. Potter’s flaming red hair.
“Hello, hello,” Mr. Potter said, motioning them toward the folding chairs. “I told Mr. Taylor to bring you in when you arrived,” he said to Rosie.
They all three sat at once, the creaking of the chairs sounding like a metallic chorus.
When the creaking stopped, Mr. Potter pushed the bridge of his frames up his nose. Placing his elbows on his desk, he steepled his fingers and looked at them. “Mr. Taylor said there’s some issue over a parking space?”
“Yes,” Rosie answered matter-of-factly. “He stole mine.”
She makes cutting to the chase seem like a detour, thought Ben. But he kept his mouth closed because Rosie was off and running, explaining the entire ILITIG8, rear-ending adventure to an astonished-looking Mr. Potter, who probably heard few such colorful stories in his beige life.
Sitting close enough to rub elbows, Ben had his first real opportunity to look more closely at his parking-space nemesis. She had a clear, glowing complexion—the kind that looked as though it had been scrubbed with soap and water. Impossible. Didn’t all women buy expensive creams and bottles of gooey stuff to slather on their faces? It was a throwback to another era for a woman to simply wash her face and call it clean.
Simple. Efficient. He liked that.
Plus, the fresh pink of Rosie’s skin nicely set off the dark mound of curls that framed her face like a wiry halo. Halo? He almost laughed out loud at the thought of the parking space fanatic being an angel. Maybe a recent fall to earth accounted for all those muddy slosh marks he’d seen earlier.
He tuned in to the Earth Angel’s animated monologue.
“Then, after trudging eight long city blocks from the only other parking spot I could find, I visited Mr. Taylor in his office—”
“Eight?” Ben interrupted. “I don’t recall your saying ‘eight’ before.” Earth Angel might simply wash her face with soap and water, but it appeared she got elaborate when it came to words.
She smiled demurely. “You’re right. It was actually ten….”
And she was off and running again. Quite the storyteller. But rather than correct her, Ben leaned back in his chair. He’d wait until she wound down—after all, he had a receipt.
From behind his desk this morning, he’d have thought she wore makeup. This close, he saw the most she wore was a dab of lipstick. Her lashes, thick and dark, complemented her mink-brown hair and hazel eyes. And beneath that pug nose were lips that naturally puckered, as though ready for a kiss. Reminded him of his favorite Manet oil, Portrait of a Woman. A painting of an alluring, dark-haired woman with luscious lips poised for a smile…or a kiss.
Amazing. Rosie’s lips kept their delicious shape even when she talked, which at this moment she was doing at quite a clip. He imagined how those lips would feel against his. Pliant, soft. She’d taste sweet and hot, like sugar and coffee….
“Mr. Taylor?” Even through Mr. Potter’s thick lenses, Ben caught a beady-eyed look that was half confused, half annoyed. It reminded Ben of the innumerable times in school he’d been caught fantasizing about some girl, the teacher looking at him in much the same way as Mr. Potter was now. And Ben would have to rapidly piece together whatever the heck was under discussion—or simply wing it. Fortunately, he was brilliant at winging it. No wonder he ended up a lawyer.
And considering his appreciation of women’s beauty, no wonder he ended up on Venus.
“Mr. Taylor?” Mr. Potter was looking more and more confused. “Is that true? You stole her parking space?”
Her parking space? She’d obviously done an outstanding job presenting her side of the argument. “My space,” Ben corrected. “I rented it yesterday and have the receipt with me.” He fished in his pants pocket, feeling mildly idiotic that he’d let a pair of lips sidetrack him from the topic under discussion. “Here it is,” he said, trying to sound extraordinarily professional as he handed over the slip of paper.
Mr. Potter read it, nodded to himself, then gave that confused look to Rosie. “C1001. That’s the space we’re talking about…and it clearly says right here that it’s Mr. Taylor’s space.”
Her face flushed. “That’s impossible.” She tapped her loafered foot against the floor. “Could you please look up my transaction from yesterday? I left my receipt at home.”
Mr. Potter swiveled, typed something on his keyboard, then scrutinized the computer screen. He made a tuneless humming sound, probably one of his side effects from listening to Muzak all day long. “Well, well,” he finally said in a surprised tone. “Looks as though you were also rented C1001.”
“The space next to the stairs in the back of the building,” Rosie clarified.
“The same.” Mr. Potter leaned a little closer to the computer screen as though his eyeglasses couldn’t be trusted one hundred percent. “Yes, you were definitely rented C1001.” He leaned back and blinked at the two of them. “Appears my office assistant rented the same space to both of you.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Rosie shot a meaningful glance at Ben as though it were time for him to metamorphose into Super Lawyer. Interesting how she expected him to jump to her defense after trying to put him on the defensive.
But he also liked her needing him. Had always liked it when an attractive woman needed him. He’d never leave Venus if he didn’t come to his senses. “Perhaps,” Ben said, “it should belong to whoever paid for it first.”
Mr. Potter stuck out his bottom lip, thought for a moment, then shook his head no. “Sometimes my assistant will go into a file and add missing information, which changes its time stamp.”
“Meaning, the time stamp on a file doesn’t necessarily reflect the actual time of transaction,” Ben said.
“Yes, yes. Correct.” Mr. Potter typed something on his keyboard, after which the screen blipped to gray. “I am sorry. This is clearly our error. Unfortunately, there are no other available spaces to rent at this time.”
“You need to fix this,” Rosie said, scooting forward to the edge of her seat.
Mr. Potter steepled his fingers again. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “I’m not Judge Judy. I can’t just say one of you is right, the other wrong. Someone needs to back out of the space, so to speak.”
“I think Mr. Taylor should back out,” Rosie suggested.
Ben, still taken aback at the Judge Judy reference, gave her a belated double take. “Why?”
“Because I need that space. It ensures that I’m on time.”
“So if your car were parked in that space, you would have been on time to this meeting?”
She huffed something unintelligible. “In the mornings it helps me get into work on time. You own your business, so you can come and go as you please. I, on the other hand, must be to work by a certain time, so I need to park close to my office.”
This mumbo jumbo logic was rubbing him all the wrong way, reminding him of variations of every conversation he’d had with his exes, even before they were exes. Good ol’ reliable, dependable Ben should give or abstain or forgo so the woman could have whatever she needed—or thought she needed. Well, he was tired of being the caretaker for planet Venus, which now had a new member, a Miss Rosie Myers.
“I also require that space, for both myself and my clients. Do you have clients?” She opened those luscious lips to say something, but Ben kept talking. “My clients get irritated if they can’t park nearby. And if I lose my clients, I lose my business. So if that space means either you’ll be on time for work or I lose my business, I should retain the space.” He folded his arms for effect.
Darmowy fragment się skończył.
