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

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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.

She did the same. They stared each other down. If Ben wasn’t so peeved at her bullheadedness, he would have found it amusing that they were both folding their arms while sitting in folding chairs. But he kept his mouth shut and calmly met her furious stare.

Without breaking eye contact with Ben, Rosie said evenly, “Mr. Potter, you’re going to have to be Judge Judy. Make a choice.”

With a weary sigh, Mr. Potter stood and retrieved a blue polyester jacket that had been hanging on the back of his chair. “I have a bathroom flooding on the third floor and a renter who, despite my degree in business management, thinks I’m a plumber. There’s an accountant on the same floor who swears the frigid air-conditioning has blasted away potential customers and frozen two of his prize tropical fish. Although I send in building maintenance people every day to adjust the temperature, the accountant thinks I’m also an air-conditioning specialist.”

As he shrugged into the jacket, he continued, “And then I have you two who view me as a middle-aged jurist with an attitude.” After adjusting the lapels, he leveled them a vexed look. “Okay, here’s my verdict. Neither of you gets the space.”

Both of their mouths dropped open.

“You can’t do that!” Rosie exclaimed, unfolding her arms.

“Watch me.” Mr. Potter reached for the keyboard.

“Wait a moment,” said Ben, trying to sound incensed, but secretly admiring the mild-mannered Mr. Potter for playing tyrant. Definitely a Mars man. Ben glanced at Rosie. “Let’s share the space until another one’s available. I’m sure Mr. Potter would agree to refund each of us half the rental fee, especially considering this mishap was the fault of the building office.”

Mr. Potter, obviously not wanting to tangle with a lawyer, nodded.

“How do we share the space?” Rosie asked edgily.

“Take alternate days?” Ben suggested.

She cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Potter. “Sounds fair,” she said sweetly, as a curl tumbled over the center of her forehead, reminding Ben again of the little girl who when she was good was very, very good, but when she was bad…But surely she had no intention of being “bad” over sharing a space, did she?

Rosie glanced at her watch. “I need to get ready for a meeting, so I must be going.” She turned a pair of dewy hazel eyes on Ben. “Shall we discuss the particulars of sharing this space later today?”

She was being too agreeable. Too sweet. He didn’t trust her for a millisecond. “I have to be in court the rest of this afternoon.”

“Tomorrow morning?” When he nodded in agreement, she added, “Good. I’ll drop by in the morning after I park. See you at seven-forty-five?” She stood.

He stood with her. “After you park—?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You got the space today, so I get it tomorrow. Alternate days, right?”

“Uh, right.”

“Good, good,” said Mr. Potter, waving them toward the door. “Situation resolved. You’ll both have partial refunds by the end of the week.”

After all three of them exited the office, Mr. Potter locked his office door. “Have a nice day,” he said blandly, his voice like human Muzak. Without another glance in their direction, he strode away purposefully. Ben figured Mr. Potter was on his way to stem a flood, thaw frozen fish, or maybe settle a TV court case.

Alone, Ben and Rosie stood awkwardly in the foyer. “Tomorrow morning,” said Ben, rocking back slightly on his heels. “Seven-forty-five, no later. I have a client showing up at eight.”

“Seven-forty-five,” she verified before walking away.

“Not seven-fifty-five,” he called out after her. “Seven-forty-five.” She’d been late for this meeting—he couldn’t afford that also happening tomorrow morning.

“I know the difference between forty and fifty,” she yelled before disappearing around a corner.

Difference. There was definitely that between Rosie and the other women he’d known. She didn’t wear makeup, but seemed to have an affinity for mud. Didn’t dress under normal conditions, but in front of a wind machine. Yet despite those quirks, her natural, fresh beauty shone through. He had the sense nothing could dull her inner sparkle and fire—just as nothing could dull the brilliance of an exquisite diamond.

Inner sparkle and fire? Diamond?

Forget the gem analogies—this lady is ruthless in battle. But this time around, so was Ben. After years of giving in and taking care of women, he was drawing a line in the sand—or in the asphalt—when it came to that damn parking space. No matter what “timely” excuses Rosie Myers used, she was not going to get that space every day, which he had a sneaking suspicion she’d bargain for. Or take.

The Muzak swelled into a heartrending love song.

Love.

Venus.

It was time for Ben to make a planetary move.

3

“HELLO,” Ben mumbled as he entered the reception area of his office. He was wiped, burned out, after a long, tedious afternoon in court. Meredith, back from some shopping expedition as indicated by an assortment of nearby bags, was busy measuring the alcove where the couch sat. She barely nodded a greeting. Heather, a phone nestled in the crook of her neck, talked while holding a hand mirror with one hand and applying lip gloss with the other. She waved the tube of gloss in Ben’s direction.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he muttered, trudging into his office. This was how he’d felt when he’d lived with each of these women. Barely more than a passing blip on the screens of their wall-measuring, lip-glossing lives. Sinking into the chair behind his desk, he looked wearily through the open door at his ex-wife as she measured a side wall with obsessive precision. That must be what happened to Dexter. He didn’t measure up. Sometimes Ben wondered if Meredith wasn’t looking for a great catch, but a man she could redo. A man who was…

“Outdated, lumpy and gauche,” announced Meredith, straightening. The metallic measuring tape flew back into its container with a zinging sound.

Yep, that was the kind. Someone she could redecorate for the rest of his lumpy, gauche life.

“He’s always going for that yucky blue color, too,” chimed in Heather.

Super-Ex is back to their favorite topic. Me. “Heather,” Ben called out, forcing himself to sound pleasant, “please refrain from discussing me while you’re still on the phone.”

She made a huffing noise that sounded oddly muted. Probably from lip gloss overdose. “It’s my friend, Carla Wright, not one of your clients.”

So speaketh Princess Bagel. “Carla or not, you’re at work. I’d like my reputation to remain solid whoever might overhear.” Solid? As if there was anything stable about life in Super-Ex-Ville. Absently, he played with a piece of blank paper lying on the desk.

“Gotta go, Carla,” Heather said with great fanfare, followed by a crisp click as she hung up the phone. “Better, Benny?”

Benny—he cringed—the nickname she’d bestowed on him soon after their fateful bagel meeting. Solid Benny rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, making a mental note to correct his will to read that Heather Krementz had zero rights when it came to any words engraved on his headstone. The last thing he wanted was Benny Taylor chiseled into a slab of granite. With his luck, the instructions would be misunderstood—probably because Heather was applying lip gloss while talking—and the engraver would accidentally write Bunny Taylor.

No, worse. With his luck, Meredith would insist she pick out the stone—which would reflect some recent boyfriend phase. So Ben would end up as Bunny Taylor on a slab that resembled a hockey puck or a Cuisinart.

“Better, Ben-n-ny?” repeated Heather.

“Better,” he mumbled, grabbing the nearest pen. He scribbled the day’s date at the top of the paper, then held the pen midair, pondering how to best reword his will.

“That yucky blue is called French blue,” Meredith said, referring to Heather’s previous comment. “It’s that blue-gray hue that positively dominates the landscape in Provence.”

His pen poised midair, Ben squeezed shut his eyes and hoped fervently Meredith wouldn’t launch into a story about their honeymoon ten years ago….

“On our honeymoon,” Meredith said, raising her voice, “Benjamin fell in love with French blue. He bought shirts, tablecloths, even a ceramic fish in that color.”

Ben opened his eyes and gazed longingly at the “yucky blue” ceramic fish on his desk. He wished he could become that fish and swim out of here, away from the ex reunion. Forget the will. He didn’t have time to think and contemplate. He needed to vent. On the paper, he scrawled, “I’m swimming in a yucky blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée….”

“He bought sheets in that color, too!” Heather chimed in. “It was like sleeping on Windex!”

He crossed out “yucky” and wrote above it “Windex.”

“Heather,” Meredith said, “first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll make arrangements for moving personnel to retrieve this couch. While they’re doing that, they can also pick up that coatrack in Benjamin’s office—”

“The coatrack stays!” Ben surged from his chair, stabbing the air with his pen, like some kind of deranged scribe hailing a taxi.

Meredith turned, those orange-cone lips forming a surprised “Oh!” as in “Oh, what reactionary behavior have we here?” A moment later, Heather peered into his office, her glossed lips forming a surprised “What?” as in “What?”

He knew them so well, he could decode their thoughts from a single spoken word.

He kept his pen poised, defying them to interrupt. After a quick glance at his wristwatch, he announced, “It’s four-thirty.” When they both stared back, expressionless, he leveled a look at Heather. “Although you were late this morning, no need to make up the time tonight. See you tomorrow.” He swerved his gaze to Meredith. “The couch is yours, but the coatrack is mine.” Yours, mine. It felt like their property settlement all over again—except that had been more like yours, yours, yours. “If those moving people move it even an inch, I’ll sue them.” He never threatened anyone—even during intense legal negotiations—but suddenly, Benjamin Lewis Taylor swore he’d snap if that coatrack moved a millimeter. Deep down, he knew his reaction was over more than just an old rack, but if Meredith could transfer her feelings to furniture, then dammit, so could he.

He sat back down and rolled his shoulders dramatically, mainly because he knew they were both still staring at him and a dramatic shoulder roll looked authoritative. Poising his pen over the paper, he wondered how many other men had to dismiss their exes. For that matter, how many men kept their exes?

It was awfully quiet in Ex-Ville. He slid his gaze toward the door.

They remained frozen, obviously taken aback at Ben-Benny-Benjamin’s outburst. Or maybe he’d stunned them with his shoulder roll. He tapped the face of his watch, indicating the time. Heather, with a toss of her head, clomped away in her platform shoes. Meredith, however, took several steps toward Ben’s door, stopped and cocked one imperious eyebrow. Like a geisha with a bad attitude. “The coatrack is dead, Benjamin,” she said in that low monotone she reserved for serious confrontations. “Let’s give it a burial and move on.”

Only Meredith gave interior decorating a life-and-death twist. “The coatrack lives,” Ben countered, dropping his voice a register. “So does the couch, but I sacrificed it to you in your hour of decorating need.”

Meredith’s green eyes glinted. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Hour of decorating need or that the couch lives?”

Those glinting green eyes narrowed until all the glint was gone. “The hour comment.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You need to decorate my office—or, more specifically some section of it—whenever a boyfriend era ends.” He scanned his office. “Let’s see…the cow-dotted landscapes were from your Cowboy Curtiss era—”

“Why do you always add the ‘Cowboy’ part? He was a master chef at a dude ranch—”

“The harp-shaped chairs were from your Antoine—or was it Beauchamp?—era, the fellow interior decorator.” Ben gestured toward another wall. “The Jimmy Stewart poster and matching Tinseltown cups were from your Rocky era—”

“Rock. No Y. Just Rock.”

“And those copper plates with the feathers and beads sticking out…what was his name? Thunder? Lightning?”

Meredith pursed her lips before speaking. “Storm.”

“Yep. He’s the one who should have had a y tacked onto his name because that relationship was storm-y. You didn’t care about the couch then. Remember? You had a desperate need to tear down a few walls.” Ben shuddered. “Fortunately, building management denied you a permit.”

Meredith brushed something off her kimono skirt. Putting on her noblest voice, she said, “I’m doing you a favor by removing that couch. Plus, French blue is passé.”

“So is Geisha orange.”

One of her chopsticks quivered.

Now he’d done it. Her face crumpled into that pitiful look of hurt he’d seen at the crash-and-burn ending of each boyfriend era. Now Ben felt like a cad. He’d glibly pointed out her past disastrous relationships. Mocked her decorator-recovery program. As recompense, he toyed with sacrificing the coatrack…but stopped himself.

That’s what I always do. He would offer some piece of his life to smooth things over. What would he do when he ran out of furniture? Offer a leg? An arm? A spark of anger flared within him. Yes, Meredith was hurting…but she needed to find a way through her hurt without literally dismantling Ben’s life. “Why can’t you swipe other people’s furniture?” he asked.

They stared each other down so long, Ben swore he’d lost feeling in his right eyelid. But he was tired of backing down. Refused to back down. Suddenly, he was ready to fight to the death over that couch.

Was that a tear in Meredith’s eye? Was her chin trembling?

He felt yanked back to his years growing up, being the built-in caretaker and mediator for his kid sister and mother. Good ol’ peacemaker Ben who could never stand to see a woman cry. Okay, he’d go the compromise route. “Let’s…re-cover the couch rather than replace it.”

Meredith sniffled. “It’s lumpy.”

“We’ll put it on a diet.”

Her orange-cone lips trembled as she smiled. He’d always liked it when she let down her guard. She looked younger, more relaxed. Ben would bet his coatrack that Dexter hadn’t seen enough of that smile.

“I’ll bring some swatches by tomorrow,” she said softly. “Some colors that will look darling, darling.”

She left so quickly, he still wasn’t sure which “darling” was the couch, which was him. As the main office door clicked shut, Ben breathed a mind-leveling sigh. Alone. Finally. No ex-wife. No ex-fiancée. Just he and several decorating themes…and the couch for which he’d been willing to fight to the death.

Although he’d never have gone to such an extreme, it felt good to feel passionate about something again. Even a couch! He hadn’t experienced a passion for anything—or anyone—in a long time. Forget passion. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had fun. Had to have been with his best pal, Matt, full-time lawyer and part-time rake, who fell hard for a beekeeper from Northern California. Almost a year ago, Matt quit his law firm and moved to California to help his wife-to-be with her bee farm. Matt had joked he’d gone from an A-type personality to a B-type.

It was funny, but also true. Matt turned from an uptight lawyer to a laid-back guy. Meanwhile, Ben remained in Chicago, an uptight lawyer who spent his days in court or in his office, Ex-ville. His only male bonding these days was with his dog, Max. But sharing a drink and swapping tales with a Brittany spaniel didn’t cut it. Plus, the conversations were awfully one-sided.

What were Ben’s options? He could hang out at the local bar, a watering hole for lawyers. But after a day of negotiating and mediating, it set his teeth on edge to hear more lawyer talk. Other options? Go to a strip club? Not Ben’s style. Take up fly fishing? He preferred chess.

“If I want male camaraderie, I first need to escape Venus and move to Mars,” he muttered, thinking again of those Venus-Mars books Heather was always reading. That author was making a mint telling women how to be Venus and men how to be Mars. Too bad Ben couldn’t drop him a line and get some shortcut directions to the manly planet.

Writing a big-buck author was far-fetched. But what about that columnist? The one in Real Men magazine, the periodical he made Heather hide. Ben tapped his fingers along the edge of his desk. Sure, buddy. What kind of man writes to “Mr. Real”?

From what Heather had read to him, men from all walks of life. Carpenters. Doctors. “Mr. Real” sounded sophisticated, but also gave some get-down, get-real advice on everything from predatory pricing to predatory dating.

Ben moved his fingers to his computer keyboard. It would be easy to search the net for Real Men magazine, find their e-mail address, type a note to Mr. Real. No. Heather had access to his e-mail, which was essential to his business. When he was off-site, he could call her, have her check his messages, write back to whomever. No, e-mailing Mr. Real was out of the question. Heather would read it, tell Meredith, and he’d never hear the end of it.

He glanced at the piece of paper he’d scrawled on earlier. I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.

Hmm. Sounded like the beginning of a note to Mr. Real.

“WHERE’S MR. REAL?” Seth, one of the mailroom gulchers, waved an envelope over William Clarington’s desk.

“Blue?” Rosie blurted, checking out Seth’s short-cropped hair. “I had just gotten accustomed to medicine red.”

“Medicine-cabinet red,” Seth corrected. Two weeks ago Seth had dyed his short-cropped blond hair a neonlike red, which he claimed was labeled Medicine-Cabinet Red on the bottle.

“Let me guess,” Rosie mused. “Blueberry-Box Blue?”

“Squad-car Blue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The flashing blue light on top of the cop car?”

“Very…urban.”

“And distinctive. Yellow blends. Blue commands attention.”

Rosie figured if she took a picture of Seth outside, his blue hair would blend right in with the sky and he’d look bald—defeating the whole commanding blue-hair experience. “Interesting policelike hue,” she murmured, not sure how one complimented someone with Squad-Car Blue hair.

“So, where’s the dude?” When she didn’t answer, Seth elaborated, “Mr. Real?”

Rosie sat a little straighter. “You’re talking to him.”

Seth scratched his blue head. “You’re the copy editor who sits—” he looked around, then waved the letter at her desk “—over there.”

Rosie swiped at a curl that toppled over her forehead. “I’ve been promoted. Well, for a few weeks. Until they hire a new Mr. Real, I’m…the dude.”

“Whoa!” Seth took a step back, tilting his head as though to see her better. “You? Mr. Real? Men ain’t gonna like this.”

“Men ain’t gonna know.”

Seth cocked an eyebrow, which looked oddly blond with his blue hair. “How they not gonna know? Girls write different than guys.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.” Rosie leaned back in Mr. Real’s ergonomic desk chair and crossed her arms.

Seth seemed stymied for a moment. He scratched his T-shirt, decorated with a picture of a red-white-and-blue cow. Along its flank was painted the skyline of Chicago. Underneath, the words Chi-Cow-Go. Cute.

Seth stopped scratching. “Chicks—ladies write more flowery. You know, they use words like pink and pretty.”

“I’ll avoid all P words. What else?”

“And they gush on and on.” Seth made a rolling motion with his hand as though she might not understand what gush meant. “And they use too many words. Sometimes big ones.”

“I’ll work on the gushing. Never hurts to trim prose. But I can’t promise not to use big words. After all, I’m a seasoned writer.” Rosie smiled, liking the sound of those words as they rolled off her tongue. “Anyway, I’ve sat so close to William for the past seven months, I’ve heard nine-tenths of his conversations. I’ve proofread hundreds of his articles. I know how he talks, how he writes. For the next two weeks, no one could possibly guess it’s a woman behind the man’s words.” Actually, a goddess behind the woman behind the man’s words. Rosie wasn’t sure yet if she’d don Athena or Artemis for the next two weeks—which she could do as long as no goddesslike words slipped into her Mr. Real answers.

“What if some dude sees you?” Seth had moved closer to her desk and was fiddling with a pile of thick, gold paper clips, remnants of William Clarington’s former life.

“What dude is going to march into the offices of Real Men magazine, sneak past the front office receptionist, and know where to find William’s former desk? Such a dude would need some serious built-in radar.” Rosie leaned forward. “And no one within the magazine offices would blab because blabbing means that person would spend eternity in the gulch.” That last point cinched any blue-haired men gabbing to the wrong dudes.

“The gulch sucks.” Seth made a face.

“Tell me about it. This is my chance to prove myself. Make the great leap to life beyond the gulch.”

Seth stopped playing with the paper clips and held his hand up, palm toward her. It took Rosie a moment to realize he was giving her a high five. She stood and slapped the palm of her hand against his.

“You’re a cool chick,” Seth said. “I mean, uh, you’re a cool woman to be impersonating a dude. This is sorta like that Robin Williams flick.”

“Mrs. Doubtfire?”

“Yeah.”

Rosie tried to dismiss the image of Mrs. Doubtfire beating out a fire on her breasts. There would be no crises for the next two weeks, whether Rosie was a dude or a woman…or a goddess. “I get to wear my own clothes, fortunately.”

“Cool.” He tossed the letter onto the desk. “Can I have one of those?” He pointed to the gold paper clips.

Mr. Real was gone. Forever. Why not? “Sure.”

Seth picked up a clip and attached it to his belt. He adjusted it one way, then another. Seemingly pleased with the impromptu accessory, he walked away with his signature swagger. “Good luck, Mr. Real,” he called over his shoulder.

Rosie watched him leave, wondering what her oldest brother, Dillon, who’d never left the family farm in Colby, would say if he saw a man with blue hair. Nothing. He’d be speechless, thinking Seth was from another planet.

“Planet Chi-Cow-Go,” she murmured, chuckling to herself as she picked up the envelope and read “To Mr. Real” printed in black ink on the outside. Her eyes were tired of perusing William’s computer screen, reading the gazillion e-mails addressed to realman@realmag.com. No wonder the real Mr. Real ran off with Boom Boom the bongo player. After telling hundreds of men how to live their lives, Mr. Real probably decided to get his own.

She flashed on William and Boom Boom cavorting in the Bahamas or some other tropical paradise. Rosie sighed as images filled her head. Brilliant sunsets. Crashing waves. Two naked, sand-coated bodies writhing on a beach. But these bodies weren’t William and Boom Boom…

…they were Ben and Rosie.

Me and Ben? Writhing nakedly? She shut her eyes, her tummy clutching in anticipation of such a sensual encounter. The exploration of each other’s bodies, the discovery of each other’s pleasures…their inner world more fiery and exotic than the outside one.

She opened her eyes. “It’s this desk,” she whispered hoarsely, running her fingers over the smooth polished oak. “I’m picking up Boom Boom vibes. Better to pick up the letter opener.” Rosie snatched the silver opener and glanced at the words engraved on its handle: Old Men Ought to Be Explorers.—T. S. Eliot.

Why would someone engrave that on a letter opener? Perhaps a gift from Boom Boom? Rosie’s mind reeled with images of a bongo-playing stripper quoting T. S. Eliot. What a killer combo. Great beater, great reader.

Okay, she got what William saw in Boom Boom, but what did a stripper see in an uptight, persnickety columnist who ate a bran muffin at 8:10 sharp every morning?

Old men ought to be explorers. Maybe Mr. Real wasn’t as old or unadventurous as Rosie had labeled him. Maybe Boom saw the real Mr. Real—saw that he was, at heart, a globe-trotting tiger. An old fantasy resurrected in Rosie’s mind, one where she was Isak Dinesen, the writer Meryl Streep had portrayed in the movie Out of Africa. Isak was a woman ahead of her time. A multifaceted adventurer who ran a farm in Africa, maintained a long-term, torrid love affair and wrote memorable stories.

With more flair than she knew she had, Rosie blithely zipped open the envelope, the tip of the blade barely missing her other hand. She paused, staring at the reflection of fluorescent light off the gleaming silver blade. “Stay focused, Rosie,” she whispered. “If you cut off your pinkie, you won’t be able to write back to Mr. Real’s readers.” That’s when she knew which goddess she needed for this job. Wise, coolheaded Athena. Rosie cooly laid the silver opener aside and eased the letter from its envelope.

The date at the top of the letter had been so hurriedly scrawled, it was difficult to decipher it was today’s date. Rosie glanced at the rest of the letter. No, the guy just had horrendous handwriting. Or maybe he wrote it in a frenzied hurry?

Thinking back to the crazed speed at which she drove into work most days, Rosie could relate to that. Already empathizing, Rosie read on.

“Mr. Real, I’m swimming in a Windex-blue sea of exes…an ex-wife, an ex-fiancée.”

Rosie paused, wondering why the word blue seemed to predominate the past few minutes of her life. Maybe there was some cosmic, mythical meaning behind this color? Nah. More likely, this man was simply blue. Depressed. She looked down at the scrawling handwriting and its terse loops and dips. Or angry? She continued reading.

Why are women so needy? Growing up, I was the built-in mediator, cook and limo service for my mother and sister. That was sixteen years ago, but not a damn thing has changed. These days, I’m still a nice guy to an ex-fiancée who wants me to be her caretaker and an ex-wife who has a deranged need to redecorate my office with busted love affair themes. And get this—some strange woman also wants my space!

My ex-fiancée has access to my e-mail, so respond to the P.O. box on the envelope.

Signed,

Wishing to move from Venus to Mars

He liked the Roman gods and goddesses while she stuck with the Greeks. But, hey, same thing. “He’s obviously one very together, insightful male,” Rosie murmured. “If anyone ever needed a goddess’s guidance, it’s this lucky man.”

Rosie quickly looked up. Good. No one heard that last comment.

4

AT 8:30 P.M., after a business dinner meeting, Ben eased his BMW up the driveway of his house in the outskirts of Chicago. Home sweet ranch-style home. The one place in the world where he could walk in and—except for his dog, Max—be alone. No ex-fiancées. No ex-wives. And no space nabbers nabbing his space.

He punched a button above the rearview mirror. The electric garage door opened and he drove inside. The back of the garage was lined with tool-filled shelves. Mixed in with the saws, drills and toolboxes were remnants of abandoned hobbies: a baseball mitt, a pair of inline skates, a battered trumpet case.

He got out and pressed the button on a side wall. As the garage door creaked closed, he looked up at the ceiling from which hung a kayak, an abandoned hobby he’d often dreamed of resurrecting. At one time—Nine years ago? Ten?—he’d loved kayaking down rivers. Feeling the heat of the sun on his skin. Hearing the slap of water against the hull—a hull now covered with dust. He’d even fantasized about kayaking in some exotic locale—like New Guinea or Africa—and taking photographs. Fitting a key into the door lock, he wondered where unused dreams went. Milwaukee?

The door opened into his kitchen, which was filled with the soothing strains of classical music. He always left the radio playing for his dog. Late afternoon, various lights also turned on automatically. “Max?” he called out, looking across the kitchen at the nearly closed sliding door that led into the living room. Through the narrow opening, his Brittany spaniel would stick its nose, nudging and sniffing the air, anxious to greet his master.

But tonight, no nose greeted Ben.

“Max?” he called again, checking the blinking light on the phone. Clients. More legal problems, questions, issues. They could wait. Right now he needed to unwind, chat with Max, do anything but play lawyer.

Still no nose.

Ben crossed the linoleum floor and slid open the door. “Maxwell?”

But instead of the scrabble of dog toenails on the living room hardwood floor, he heard the sharp click click of high heels.

“Not Maxwell, darling. Meredith.” His ex-wife halted in the living room, center stage, and smiled so broadly, the white rectangles of her teeth looked eerily like the white wood-paneled blinds behind her.

“How’d you get in?” Ben looked around. In her deranged postaffair state, maybe she’d cut a hole in a window with that mega-ice-cream-diamond ring Dexter wanted back.

“No hello?” Those blindingly white teeth disappeared behind a pout.

“Hello,” he snapped, scanning the room. “Did you break in to steal another couch?”

Meredith threw her head back and laughed. Ben flinched as one of her hairdo chopsticks came precariously close to getting tangled in his ficus tree. As he debated whether to make a mad lunge to save the tree, she raised her head and propped her hands on her kimono-clad hips. “Darling, darling. I’m not stealing a couch. Or a chair. Or any coatracks.” She opened her arms so wide, he feared she’d break into a song from The Sound of Music. “I’m—” she paused dramatically “—re-modeling your bathroom!”

He stared at her so long, he felt that same eyelid start to go numb.

“Say something!” Meredith gushed, her arms still open.

“You broke into my house to remodel my bathroom?” This had to be a first. A thief who doesn’t steal, but remodels.

She dropped her arms, which fell with a soft fwop against the silky kimono getup. “I didn’t break in,” she said peevishly. “I used the key hidden under the brick.”

“The brick?”

“The third one—the loose one—on the outside of the brick patio. We wrapped the house keys in a plastic bag and stuck it under there…remember?”

He’d almost forgotten. Which was easy to do considering his backyard patio was a sea of bricks. A big, round brickred sea. Something Meredith had had installed as a good-will gift after their ill-willed divorce…the divorce where she got to keep the house, the car, the antiques. But worst of all, she’d insisted—and pleaded and cried—that she wanted to keep their golden retriever, Bogie.

That was a painful trot down memory lane.

Ben had only been bitter over losing Bogie. That dog had been his pal, his kayaking buddy, his confidante. Newly single and worse, Bogie-less, Ben had crashed on his friend Matt’s couch for several months until Ben found this small, affordable ranch home in suburban Chicago. Meredith, knowing Ben loved the massive brick fireplace at their old home, took it upon herself to bestow him with a brick patio. He had thought it a gracious gift until Ben discovered Meredith had just broken up with a bricklayer.

He still wondered what their sex life had been like.

At that moment, Max trotted into the living room, his short tail wagging double time. Max rarely got anxious. Had to be Meredith’s impromptu visit.

“How’d you think I got in?” she said, obviously more miffed that she’d been accused of breaking in than dismantling someone’s bathroom.

“Through the doggy door.”

“Doggy—? Hardly!” Meredith smoothed her hand over her dress. “My hips would get stuck.”

An image that filled Ben with a moment of deliciously perverse pleasure. Meredith, stuck in the doggy door. He’d take his sweet time calling for help. Feign deafness to her calls for assistance as he popped open a beer, sat in his favorite chair and, with Max leaning against him, read the paper for, oh, thirty, forty minutes before calling the fire department.

“What are you thinking about?” Meredith said testily.

“Doggy doors. Fire departments.” Time to stop dawdling in day dreams and put a stopper on Meredith’s newest redecorating urge. He’d deal with little issues like breaking and entering later. “Leave my bathroom alone, Meredith,” he said in his best he-man no-nonsense tone. “A bathroom is a man’s castle.”

Max’s tail thumped against the floor, like an exclamation point to Ben’s statement.

Meredith dipped her head, barely missing the ficus tree again. “Well, as of today, your castle needs a new commode.”

He had to ponder that for a moment. “Toilet? Why? What happened—”

“And your castle also needs a new shower,” she said speedily, ignoring his question. “That blue-and-gold-speckled tile and grimy sliding-door look is passé.”

“To hell with passé. What happened to my toilet?”

“Well,” Meredith raised her eyebrows so high, they nearly blended in with her hairline. “After the moving men undid the bolts—”

“What were moving men doing in my bathroom?”

“How was I supposed to get a plumber at this hour?”

This logic was giving him a headache. He raised a warning finger when she started to speak. “Forget whoever was in my bathroom, just explain why they removed—” Forget asking. He made a beeline for his castle. The scrabbling of Max’s nails and the clicking of Meredith’s heels followed him down the hallway.

Right before he reached the bathroom, Meredith said, “I forgot to mention something. After that little explosion, we had to turn off the water….”

ROSIE, more than a little cranky from having to double-park her Neon in a spot barely large enough for a cow, shoved open her apartment door. After stepping inside, she closed the door, turned the lock and shoved the bolt. “Home Sweet Fortress,” she murmured. Back in Colby, they never locked doors. But in Chicago, she’d been counseled by her friend Pam to always lock her door. Any door. Car, apartment, whatever. “You get in and you lock it,” Pam had lectured with a dead-on And-I’m-not-kidding-around look.

Rosie tossed her keys into an upside down helmet on a coffee table. It had been her dad’s, from when he served in Vietnam. Years ago, he’d given her brothers mementos from that war—but nothing to her. She’d complained. Said even if she was a girl, she too wanted something that held meaning for him, something that got him through the war and back home. A few days later, he quietly walked into her bedroom and handed her his helmet. Obviously, he’d worn it, but she never knew he’d also used it as a food and water bowl for a German Shepherd war dog, an animal that had once saved his life.

Rosie now stared at the helmet, taking a moment to remember her dad’s stories. The husky timbre of his voice. The way he’d squint one eye when he wanted to drive home a point. The way he’d lightly tap her on the head, an unspoken I-love-you gesture. Typically, she tossed the keys into the helmet, which jangled and clattered as they hit bottom. If she didn’t toss the keys into the hat first thing upon getting home, she’d never find them again in the morning. But tonight, she gently placed them inside before settling onto the futon love seat and stretching out her five-three frame.

Silence.

This was always the toughest part of the day. These first few minutes of stony quiet after coming home. Because no matter how hard she listened, she wouldn’t hear her family’s voices, watch their comings and goings. At this point in the day, her heart always shrank a little as she yearned for how it used to be. She’d slam open the screen door, hear her mom’s voice, “Don’t slam…” Rosie, tossing a coat or book on a side table, would apologize for the slamming while waving hello to her dad. He’d be in his overalls, sitting in his favorite armchair, reading the paper while watching the news. Sometimes he’d catch a discrepancy in what he read and what he heard and loudly announce the difference, whether anyone was around to hear or not.

Scents of chicken or beef wafted from the kitchen, where her mother was making dinner. The meals were basic fare. Chicken and potatoes. Meat loaf and potatoes. Spam and potatoes. But every few weeks the dreaded meal appeared on the table. Everything Stew. A combination of chicken, meatloaf, Spam, potatoes and anything else that caught Mom’s eye. Once a piece of apple pie slid accidentally into the stew—which her mother proudly announced at the dinner table as though whoever bit into a piece of apple got a prize.

Rosie never dreamed she’d miss Everything Stew. But what she’d give right now to be sitting at the thick oak table, seeing the cast-iron pot appear, and suppressing her groan along with her father and her brothers. They’d exchange glances as they picked at the stew’s contents, watching as one or the other identified a fragment of a former meal.

Br-ring. Br-ring.

Jerked out of stew memories, Rosie listened for the source of the sound. Was it buried under that pile of magazines? Wedged under that pillow?

Br-ring. Br-ring.

“I’ve got to remember to put the phone in the same spot,” she muttered, tossing aside a pillow. Nothing. If the phone fit, she’d have kept it in the helmet along with her keys—then she’d never be in this predicament again! Shoving aside some magazines, her fingers hit something hard. The receiver! She yanked it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Rosie Posey?”

Recognizing her oldest brother’s voice, Rosie grinned. “Dillon!” She fell back onto the couch. “What’s up?”

“How’s our big-city girl?”

“Missing Mom’s Everything Stew.”

“Is food that awful in Chicago?”

“No.” Rosie giggled. “Just got a bad case of the lonelies.”

“Mom’s Everything Stew could give you a bad case of something else. Li’l sis, if you miss it that much, we’ll gladly send you a batch. The entire batch.”

Rosie laughed. “No thanks. It was a weak moment, not a special request. So what’s up? Usually you call on Saturday mornings.” Every Saturday morning, to be exact. Seven-thirty sharp. Rosie had an inkling it was her brother’s way to ensure she was safe. Not staying out too late—or worse, not coming home. Actually, it wasn’t just Dillon who called. All four of her brothers called, each taking a turn as though she wouldn’t catch on they were keeping tabs that way. But she didn’t mind. Such over-protectiveness meant they loved her. Wanted to watch over her. After all, she was the baby sister in a family of four boys.

“Thought you’d like a friendly reminder that this Sunday is Father’s Day,” Dillon said. “Pops checked the mailbox at lunch, then again before dinner.”

Dillon didn’t need to explain further. Her dad was looking for a card from Rosie. Her father was a big, rough-handed farmer with an even bigger, sensitive heart. More than once she’d caught her father brushing aside a tear while watching a sunset or listening to the church choir.

“It’ll be in the mail tomorrow. Promise.”

“That’s my Rosie Posey. How’s everythin’ going?”

She sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the workday. “Busy. Got a promotion. Temporary, but at least I get to write for a while.”

“Write? You’re one of them magazine writers now?” Dillon, unlike her other brothers, had never pursued an education beyond high school. He loved the farm, which everyone knew he’d take over when her father couldn’t manage the land or care for the stock any longer. As her other brothers had their own careers, no one minded that Dillon would take over the family farm.

“Yes, I’m one of the magazine writers.” A minor exaggeration. But it didn’t seem necessary to admit she was actually the columnist filling in for Mr. Real.

“Writing articles about big-city life?”

“Sort of.” Didn’t seem necessary, either, to admit she was writing man-to-man advice on how to fend off ex-wives and ex-fiancées and space-nabbing women. Remembering her own space-nabbing adventure this morning, she stared at the splotches of dried mud on her skirt. That litigating lummox.

“Life treating you good?”

“Except for a certain guy, yes.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “What guy?”

She brushed at a stubborn splotch of dirt. “A jerk.” She’d only worn this skirt once, but now she’d have to take it back to the dry cleaners. Forget that he heated her imagination with fantasies of naked writhing; that jerk was costing her money!

“Jerk?”

“Yes, a jerk who’s trying to invade my space.”

“What happened?” Dillon asked gravely. “He still botherin’ you?”

“He’s going to bother me until he gets his way, that space-barging, space-stealing—” she was running out of space words “—mud-splattering jerko.” She glanced up at the clock and gasped. “It’s almost seven! Damn—” She squeezed shut her eyes. “I mean, darn. I forgot about Pam coming over. I told her I’d fix dinner and I haven’t done a thing.” There was some leftover chicken, a jar of pickles, and a half-eaten piece of cherry pie in the fridge. Suddenly she understood the reasoning behind her mother’s Everything Stew.

“Invaded your space? Bothering you until he gets his way?”

“Dillon, gotta go! A card will be in the mail to Dad tomorrow. I love you!”

She waited for his murmured “Love you, too” before she hung up.

THE SOOTHING STRAINS of a violin woke Ben up from a dream filled with moving men dressed like geishas, who were carrying orange cones, couches and commodes. He blinked sleepily at the clock radio and turned up the volume. Brandenburg Concerto no. 1. He smiled to himself. Was there a better way than Bach to get up in the morning? For a fleeting moment, he thought about waking up with Rosie, her warm body nestled against his. Those sleepy hazel eyes blinking at him, those luscious lips whispering, “Good morning.”

That definitely beat Bach as a better way to wake up.

Trying to ignore the hard jolt that seized his groin, Ben slid out of bed. He had to get up, get to work, not fantasize about that territorial, strong-willed—okay, and titillatingly attractive—woman. He headed across the carpeting to the bathroom, flipped the light switch and halted.

Something was different.

He rubbed his eyes, then scanned the white walls, white porcelain sink, the white—

“She stole my commode!” he barked, staring at the hole in the floor left by Meredith the Bathroom Marauder. His gaze swerved to the left. “And the shower door!” Shuffling from one foot to another on the cold tile floor, he recalled the cold facts from the night before.

He’d marched into the bathroom and first noticed the water. On the walls, the floor. While Max thumped his tail madly, Meredith had hurriedly explained something about the movers unbolting the commode, but forgetting to dismantle the main water pipe. With water spewing everywhere, they’d had to turn off the main water valve to the house.

But Meredith had promised everything would be better than new. She promised a plumber would fix the main pipe today. She’d left a case of bottled water. And she’d promised to show Ben some pictures of new commodes.

He hadn’t asked—hadn’t wanted to know—further particulars. It had been one hell of a day. He’d told Meredith, her orange-cone lips quivering, to fix things ASAP. Then he’d fixed Max’s dinner, fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks, then gone to bed, setting the alarm thirty minutes early so he could get to work early and shower, shave and dress in the exercise club located in his work building’s basement.

He glanced at a wall clock. Six-thirty. He had to step on it. After throwing on a pair of sweats and tennis shoes, Ben conversed with his dog while fixing his food. “Your master’s first wife—and God help me, last—wasn’t satisfied re-covering my office couch,” Ben grumbled, setting the dog’s bowl on the floor. “No, that woman had a demented need to tear apart my bathroom as well.” Ben gave Max a male-bonding pat on the head. “Take my advice, buddy. Don’t get married. And if you do, marry a dog who doesn’t need to control or redecorate you. This is your castle. Stand up for your rights.”

Max licked Ben’s face before chowing down.

Ben ran back upstairs and grabbed his workout bag—which he’d packed the night before with work clothes and bathroom supplies—then raced through the kitchen, stopping only to turn on the kitchen radio to keep Max company. Moments later, Ben backed out the driveway while wisps of orange and pink threaded the eastern sky. He could be at work by seven-fifteen, park, shower and dress, then move his car before Rosie showed up.

Twenty minutes later Ben careened down Clark before swerving sharply down an alley. After his car sailed over a bump, Ben cut the wheel sharply to the right…

“Wha-a-a-?” He slammed on the brakes, his front bumper nearly kissing the rear end of a tacky green economy car. Gripping the steering wheel, Ben glared through the windshield at the offending vehicle.

“What in the hell is this car doing here?” he yelled. How many people was Archibald Potter renting that space to?

Seething, Ben quickly went over the facts. At yesterday’s meeting, Potter had checked his computer records. The space had been rented to only two people. Which meant…

“That tacky green Neon belongs to Rosie,” Ben muttered ominously. Forget the earlier waking-up-in-bed fantasies, this was reality! “What is it with the women in my life? They’re either redecorating or invading my space!”

Ben slammed the gear into park and hopped out of the car.

Splash.

He blew out an exasperated breath before looking down. His sockless, sneaker-clad feet were standing in a pothole of muddy water. “Now I know where her mud-splattered look came from.” He stepped out of the hole. “But before I repark, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” He sloshed his way to the back doors of the building.

Minutes later, Ben returned to his car to find a square yellow truck halted behind his BMW. Even in the early-morning haze, he could clearly see the scowl on the truck driver’s face.

“Hey!” the guy yelled out his window, jabbing a cigarette at Ben. “Just ’cause you drive a Beemer, you think you can block traffic?”

Ben shrugged. “I had to use the men’s room.”

“What?”

Ben didn’t want to repeat the reason—the last thing he wanted was his entire office building to hear him yelling that he’d had to take a leak. But the slovenly, burly truck driver looked as though he’d kill if he didn’t get a valid excuse. Ben cleared his throat. Raising his voice, he repeated, “I had to use the men’s room.”

The driver blinked with great exaggeration. “How unusual—like the rest of us don’t.” He took an angry puff off a cigarette, letting the smoke stream out of his nostrils while he continued talking. “Other guys take leaks without causing traffic jams. You’re costing me time and money!”

“You’re right,” Ben answered, putting on his best mediating voice while putting his hand on the door handle. “I’m leaving.”

“Make it snappy!”

That did it. Ben, always the peacemaker, the good guy, snapped on the “snappy” comment. Enough was enough. If he wanted to park crooked—all right, and also block an alley—for ten lousy minutes, well by damn, he’d park crooked and not have to explain he was in the men’s room.

His face growing hot, he turned slowly and faced down the driver. “I said, ‘you’re right.’ So what’s the beef, Dog Breath?”

Ben’s mind raced. In horror, he wondered where he’d come up with the death wish to insult a guy who was twice—maybe three times—his size. And worse, he called him Dog Breath, a label he never used with anyone, even his dog Max. As these thoughts crowded Ben’s mind, Dog Breath threw open his door, jumped to the ground and marched right at him.

Ben prayed the mud hole—strategically placed between him and the trucker—would hinder the one-man death march.

No such luck.

Dog Breath stepped in and out of the hole as though it were a mere dent in the road. The death march continued, unabated. Next thing Ben knew, a big jowly face was inches from his own. He fought the urge to cough at the stench of cigarette smoke.

“My beef, Mr. Beemer, is that people like you think they own the road.”

Holding his breath, Ben stared at the man’s chest, which was a blur of plaid. He raised his gaze to the man’s beady eyes, which were difficult to see through the folds of fat. But Ben didn’t want to back down. Hell, he’d backed down long enough…to Meredith, to Heather, to Ms. Parking Space.

“If I’m costing you time and money,” Ben said, “why are you arguing with me, preventing me from getting in my car and moving out of your way?”

Dog Breath snatched a handful of Ben’s sweatshirt and jerked him closer. “I’m not arguin’,” he growled.

Ben would have growled back, but the tightly pulled sweatshirt was like a noose around his throat. “Physical violence,” he rasped, “never solved anything.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“All da better.”

The last thing Ben remembered was a chicken-size fist obliterating his vision.

ROSIE STARED at the flaxen-haired receptionist, who was studiously applying mascara with one hand while holding a small hand mirror with the other.

“If Benny said he’d meet you at seven-forty-five,” the receptionist said, her eyes never wavering from the hand mirror, “he’ll be here any minute. He’s very punctured.”

Rosie paused. “You mean punctual?”

“Yes,” the woman answered absently, adroitly twirling the mascara wand along her lashes.

Makeup. Rosie never understood why women took such pains to slather on that stuff. Rather than stare at the eyelash-thickening procedure, she checked out a painting over the receptionist’s head. It was a tropical beach under moonlight. Rosie eyed the pearly crest of waves along a dark beach, the spiked silhouette of palm trees, the man-in-the-moon face which was also…a clock? Rosie leaned forward. The moon was definitely a clock. What kind of office had a tropical painting with a clock for a moon? Lawyers. No sense of decor.

Rosie compared moon-time with her wristwatch. Both read 7:55. She crossed her arms under her chest. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly always on time herself, but hadn’t Mr. ILITIG8 said, “Not seven-fifty-five—seven-forty-five”?

Uh-huh. Real punctured.

The clattering of a dropped hand mirror interrupted Rosie’s thoughts.

“Benny!” The receptionist stood up, her voice rising with her. “Did you get mugged?”

Rosie turned to look.

If she’d run into this man on the street, she’d never have recognized him as the nattily dressed lawyer she’d met yesterday. Today he wore a soiled gray sweat suit that looked oddly stretched out around the neckline. His tennis shoes were caked with mud. His hair, which yesterday had been neatly parted on the side, stuck out in tufts that reminded her of the baby chickens back home. One hand clutched the handle of a workout bag—the other held a wadded white napkin to his chin.

Ben started to speak, but his voice was muffled behind the napkin. He moved it from his lips. “I wasn’t mugged,” he said gruffly, “I was slugged.”

“Is that a Starbucks napkin?” the receptionist asked, making Rosie wonder if this woman was more caught up with brands than injuries. “That’s why I prefer decaffeinated,” the receptionist said, jabbing her wand into the air for emphasis. “Too much caffeine makes people do weird things.”

Ben heaved a weighted sigh. “Heather, it has nothing to do with caffeine. A kindly convenience store cashier offered me this napkin filled with ice.”

“Wow,” Rosie said softly. “You can get everything at convenience stories these days. Even medical help.”

Ben flashed her a disbelieving look. In a low growl, he said, “It’s you.”

She straightened. “We had an appointment at seven-forty-five.” When his blue eyes narrowed, she bit her tongue, wishing she hadn’t blurted the appointment thing. The man obviously had a very good reason for being late.

“Sorry,” he said, sounding about as unsorry as anyone she’d ever met. “I would have been here on time, showered, dressed appropriately, and unslugged if somebody had gotten into work at a reasonable time, not some nocturnal predawn hour. Otherwise, I could have briefly used the shared space.” He clenched his jaw muscle, then winced. Adjusting the napkin, he glanced at Heather. “You’re early.”

“I was late yesterday, so I’m early today,” she said, adjusting a strap on her shift before sitting back down. “Making up for that hour.”

“Making up, all right,” he murmured, glancing at the mascara wand. “I’d love a Scotch,” Ben said to no one in particular, “but all I need is early-morning booze breath to complete this gone-to-hell look. After picking myself up from the alley asphalt, I had to park four blocks away. Do you believe on the way back, somebody mistook me for a vagrant and slipped me a quarter?” He gave his head a shake, then winced again. “But all’s not lost. Maybe Meredith can use this down-and-dirty, slugged look as a new theme when she breaks up with her next boyfriend.” He headed toward his office. “Would you be a pal and get me a cup of coffee? Black.” He disappeared through the doorway. “Like my heart.”

“Oh, I almost forgot! Your eight o’clock will be a few minutes late!” The receptionist brushed her hair back with her mascara-wand-free hand. “I’ve never seen him like this!” she whispered urgently to Rosie. “Even the time that Christmas tree fell on him and we had to call 911.”

“Christmas tree?” Rosie repeated, blinking. But the receptionist was engrossed in putting away the mascara and digging around in a little polka-dot bag from which she extracted various tubes and bottles. “I’ll get the coffee,” Rosie murmured, unsure who exactly Ben had called “pal,” considering he seemed a bit peeved with both of them.

Okay, maybe a little extra peeved with Rosie, but considering they had to negotiate sharing the parking space, she decided it was best if she were his pal. That’s what Athena, the goddess who joined men as an equal, would do. Yes! Athena was the perfect goddess persona to adopt for this encounter.

Rosie-Athena headed to an arrangement of coffee stuff on a corner metal table. Reaching it, she scanned the pot, sugar and cream containers, and the collection of Hollywood mugs. Rosie felt a mild surge of guilt as she recalled that the James Dean cup still sat on her desk. Well, she’d return it later. For now, should she pick the mug with the movie title Singin’ in the Rain? No. There might be sunshine outside, but Ben looked as though he were having a rainy day. And he definitely didn’t look as though he wanted to sing. Nix that one.

Blonde Venus? No. He’d visibly flinched when he’d glanced at that yesterday. My Fair Lady? Hmm. Some Like it Hot? Hot coffee. He’d like it. Yes!

Rosie poured the steaming liquid into the cup, checking out its picture of Marilyn Monroe wearing some clingy dress and playing a ukulele. Did Benjamin Taylor like that kind of big-breasted, blond-bombshell type? An uncomfortable feeling skittered around Rosie’s stomach. Maybe she’d quaffed her nutri-quasi-Twinkie bar too quickly. Still staring at Marilyn’s red lips, fluffy blond hair and killer curves, Rosie realized the skittering wasn’t indigestion—it was…emotion.

Jealousy?

Impossible. So what if Benjamin Taylor is impossibly cute, even with that chicken-tuft hair and a swollen jaw, how can I possibly be jealous about a slugged lawyer and a dead movie star? Even as these thoughts tumbled through her mind, some internal voice offered an answer. Because Marilyn Monroe represents everything you aren’t—she’s sensual, sexy, and has a body that could stop a herd of stampeding cattle.

Rosie put the pot aside and grabbed the My Fair Lady mug for herself. Audrey Hepburn—as Eliza Doolittle—wore an ill-fitting jacket, a wrinkled skirt and a smudge of soot on her nose. Is that how I look to men? Rosie tried to forget the clump of mud that had stuck to her forehead yesterday. She turned the mug and stared at another picture of Audrey Hepburn as the suave, refurbished Eliza Doolittle—an elegant, classy lady who eventually wooed her man.

Rosie stared longingly at the image. Maybe if Mom hadn’t been so busy helping run a farm and raising five kids—four of them boys—I might have learned the secrets of being feminine and elegant. Rosie slid a glance at the receptionist, who was carefully outlining her lips with some sort of pink-leaded pencil. I could never draw a straight line, much less outline my mouth. I’d slip, skid off my top lip and end up drawing a big wobbly circle around my nose.

As Rosie poured coffee into the My Fair Lady mug, a yearning filled her. A yearning to be a new Rosie. Not a lip-lining, movie-star Rosie. But an adventurous Rosie whose dreams were bigger than the gulch, bigger than Real Men magazine. Isn’t that what Boom Boom and Mr. Real had done? Escaped from humdrum to bongo drum?

Picking up the mugs, Rosie grinned. Too bad there wasn’t a goddess named Boom Boom, who inspired women to bongo their way from a mediocre life to an exciting one. Rosie paused. Just as she stirred sugar and milk into her coffee, why couldn’t she also stir a little Boom Boom into her Athena?

With an extra oomph to her step, Rosie strutted into Ben’s office.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.