Читать книгу She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not - Darlene Gardner, Colleen Collins - Страница 10

“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.