

#

Second Chance Rose

and other stories

Terry Odell

Copyright © 2014 by Terry Odell

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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# Dedication

To Mom and Dad and all those Sundays at the museums and the rose garden.

# Contents

Dedication

Hurricane Breeze

Romancing the Geek

Relationships

Out of Sight

Second Chance Rose

♥ ♥ ♥

A Note From The Author

Acknowledgments

About The Author

More by Terry Odell

#  Hurricane Breeze

Carter Worthington the fourth is the kind of man whose schedule is laid out in fifteen minute increments, while Tiffany wouldn't know what to do with a day planner if she owned one.

_When a hurricane blows Tiffany Breeze into Carter's sheltered universe, he must decide if he's willing to leave the emotional safety of his orderly existence to experience the highs, knowing he'll also have to face the lows_.

♥ ♥ ♥

Warm damp air blew through Carter's living room from the backyard, carrying with it a clean, outdoorsy scent. A tree branch perched half inside his picture window dripped on his floor. Broken glass lay strewn over the Tabriz and Kerman carpets. So much for the realtor's assurance that the deep overhang on the back of the house would be enough protection from a storm and he wouldn't need hurricane shutters there. He should drag her back here and let her see what Hurricane Julia had done to the back of his living room. The room's front windows, which faced the street, were intact behind their lowered shutters.

What if nature had played a trick on him, leaving his monetary possessions in exchange for the more important?

Skirting the broken glass, Carter Worthington IV padded barefoot across the house to his study. Glimmers of morning light filtered through the louvers of the shutters, giving the room an almost ghost-like quality. The books filling the shelves along two walls greeted him like old friends, and he immediately felt his insides settle. He crossed the Berber carpeted space, grateful his feet didn't squish. No water in here. He pulled the garbage bag he'd cut open to use as a makeshift tarp from his antique oak desk. His research paperwork and manuscripts were stacked in plastic storage boxes on its surface, just as he'd left them last night. Still, his heart rate picked up as he opened the drawer where he'd placed his backup files. The flash drive sat there in its plastic bag. Of course it would. A hurricane didn't come into your home and pick up selected items. And even if it had, there were three other backups tucked away throughout the house. And one, albeit not quite as current, in his safety deposit box.

He powered on his computer and checked the Weather Channel's website for an update. In the early morning hours, impending Hurricane Julia had veered north, losing much of her strength in the process and was now little more than a limping tropical storm. Tornadoes had hopscotched over half the state, destroying mobile home parks and isolated neighborhoods.

How had he slept through it all? He recalled vague images of dreams filled with explosions and howling winds. His subconscious mind's way of giving him a few hours of needed sleep, he supposed. That and the Tylenol P.M.

He went into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, first removing another plastic-sealed flash drive from his coffee canister. The familiar whirring of the coffee grinder and the smell of freshly ground beans brought him one step closer to a normal day. In here, without the filtering of shutters, he could see the clouds, high and flat, like someone had taken a broad paintbrush to the sky, but hadn't gone back to even out the brushstrokes. Bright sunlight sneaked through thin places in the clouds, giving everything a silver glow.

Carter poured water into the coffeemaker, tapped the coffee into the filtered chamber, clicked it shut and flipped the switch. He wiped out the grinder and set it in its place on the counter before taking a closer look at his backyard. Water droplets reflected shades of green in and out of shimmering shadow as a breeze moved through the treetops. And, in the middle of the yard, atop a thick carpet of leaves and magnolia blossoms, sat what looked like George Grimbel's lawn chair.

Great. Grimbel would probably find a way to pick a fight about why Carter now had his lawn chair. A preemptive strike was in order. With luck, he could toss the chair back across the fence before Grimbel noticed it was missing. Carter dashed to the bedroom and threw on some clothes. Too late. By the time he reached his back porch, the old man was leaning over the fence separating their properties.

"You seem to have my chair, Worthington," Grimbel rasped. His white hair stuck out in a halo from ear to ear, with a wisp on the top of his freckled pate. Eyebrows like the feather tufts of a great horned owl poked over the rims of his trifocals, and gray stubble filled the creases along his sagging jaw. His gnarled fingers, mottled with age spots, gripped the top of the wooden fence.

"Must have blown over in the storm. I was just coming out to bring it back." Carter walked across the yard and picked up the chair, giving George his best Keep the Peace smile. "Doesn't seem to be too much other damage, though, does it? Guess we were lucky."

"You were lucky. Me, I've got a hole in my roof big enough to launch a Delta rocket, and enough rain in my living room to float the Titanic."

"Sorry to hear that. Insurance should cover it, though." He bit back the urge to tell Grimbel that if he'd kept his trees trimmed properly, he'd probably still have his roof. Come to think of it, the tree branch in his own living room was from an oak tree, and Carter didn't have any oak trees on his property. Grimbel, however, did. Carter glanced in the direction of Grimbel's yard. Okay, used to.

"If I can ever get through to them," Grimbel whined. "Every other poor slob in town is probably trying to call in a claim. And I don't have any power."

An uneasy feeling built in Carter's stomach. Where was Grimbel going with this?

"Do I smell coffee? I'd kill for a cup," Grimbel continued.

Carter forced a smile. "I have some. Why don't you come—?" Before Carter finished speaking, Grimbel was walking toward Carter's door. He squared his shoulders and went back into the kitchen.

"Where's the cream?" Grimbel demanded as Carter poured a cup of steaming coffee into a mug. "And sugar. Black coffee gives me gas."

"Hold on." Carter found the milk in the fridge and brought it to the counter.

Grimbel grabbed the carton from Carter's grasp. He squinted, holding it at arm's length. "Two percent? You can't use two percent milk in coffee. Like adding piss."

Carter reached around him for a plastic container and carried it to the counter. "Sugar?" he asked, pulling a spoon from a drawer.

Despite his protestations about the milk, Grimbel added a liberal amount to his coffee, followed by four heaping spoons of sugar.

"Can I get anything else for you?" Carter asked through gritted teeth.

"I'm fine," Grimbel replied. His threadbare brown robe revealed ropy calves and knobby knees. And if he didn't do something, he'd be revealing a lot more than varicose veins, things Carter had no desire to see. Being neighborly only went so far.

"Mr. Grimbel," Carter said, gesturing to the man's midsection. "You ... uh ... might want to get the fruits back in the loom."

Grimbel snorted, but set down his coffee long enough to tighten his robe before heading for the living room. Carter shoved the milk into the fridge and hurried after him, wary of the way the mug wobbled in the old man's hand

"Good to see I wasn't the only one Mother Nature had a grudge against last night," Grimbel said. He meandered through the living room, his slippers crunching on the glass. Carter cringed at the thought of it being imbedded in the rugs. He stood by as Grimbel ran his gnarled fingers over his CD collection, pulling out several, flipping them over, then returning them without regard to their proper spots on the shelf. He groaned inwardly as the man put his fingerprints all over a Steuben vase, and his heart stopped when Grimbel tried to examine an antique Chinese porcelain vase without relinquishing his shaky hold on his coffee mug. He exhaled with relief when the man set it back in its place unharmed.

Grimbel turned slowly around. "You've got some nice stuff. Ought to get some plastic and cover the window." He settled into Carter's easy chair and put his scuffed slippers on the ottoman. "Claire liked nice things."

"Claire?" Carter asked without thinking. Damn, now he'd probably be stuck listening to the old man blather on forever.

Outside, a car door slammed. "Tinkerbell, come back here!" a female voice called out. "Come! Now!"

Carter crossed to the living room's front window and pulled back the curtain, forgetting about the lowered hurricane shutter. His view of the street was gone. Maybe he should leave them down. He'd picked this neighborhood for its privacy—a little more wouldn't hurt.

He turned to Grimbel. The old man's eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. Carter pried the coffee mug from the gnarled hands and set it on a coaster on the cherry side table. He reached to shake the man's shoulder, to wake him and get him out of his house.

"Grampa! Where are you? Grampa!" The same female voice, high-pitched with fear, rang out. His doorbell chimed, followed by an incessant rapping.

"Great," he muttered under his breath. He left Grimbel to his nap, hoping the man wouldn't wake up and ruin anything before he got back.

He pulled the door open. A wide-eyed pixie of a woman stood on the leaf-strewn tile of his front entry. A froth of corkscrew-curled hair, almost black, looked like it had been through the hurricane. Her blue cotton shirt was wrinkled, as if she'd slept in it. Gazing up and down the street behind her, Carter noted Grimbel wasn't the only neighbor who had lost trees to the storm.

"Have you seen my grandfather?" she asked, her voice frantic. "George Grimbel? He lives next door, and I can't find him, and Tinkerbell ran off, and there's a hole in the roof and water everywhere and I tried to get here last night but I had to evacuate and spend the night in a shelter and this was as soon as I could get here."

"Whoa. Calm down. Your grandfather is here. He's fine."

"Thank God." She pushed past him as if he were five-two and she was six-feet instead of the reverse. "Grampa. It's me. Tiffie."

Barging in must run in the family. He clawed his fingers through his hair, then stroked his beard. He turned and hurried after her. "He's asleep." Not for long, he guessed, with his granddaughter chattering like a magpie.

"Oh my." She stopped short and he barely avoided a rear-end collision.

Grimbel's snores filled the room. The woman shook her head. "Poor Grampa. He must have had a horrible time with the storm, all by himself and all."

"He seemed all right to me. We were talking, and he fell asleep."

"He does that sometimes. Probably didn't sleep much last night. I'll get him out of your hair." She stepped to the chair and laid her hand on Grimbel's shoulder. "Grampa, wake up. Time to get you home."

Grimbel snorted and snuffled, but gave no signs of awakening. If anything, he settled deeper into the chair.

She jiggled his shoulder. "Come on, Grampa."

If not for the steady snoring, Carter might have worried the man had died in his living room. Outside, the grinding of chainsaws punctuated the morning stillness. Grimbel could give them some stiff competition.

"Is this normal for him?" Carter asked. "Should I call a doctor?"

She looked in his direction. Her blue eyes were a few shades darker than her shirt. Freckles splashed her fair skin, across an upturned nose. There was a smudge of something on her left cheek, and he fought an uncharacteristic urge to wipe it away.

"He's healthy as a horse, as far as I know. Too cantankerous to get sick. Germs don't stand a chance. But when he sleeps, he's out."

Carter debated carrying the man back to his house. A tropical storm provided enough disruption to his routine. He didn't need the added chaos of a couple of eccentric intruders.

Worthingtons are never rude. His father's voice roared in his head. You must learn to set an example of proper behavior.

His gut clenched, but ingrained manners pushed their way to the surface. "I've got some fresh coffee if you'd like a cup. Maybe by then, he'll be awake."

She smiled. Beamed, actually. The entire room seemed to brighten. Her eyes crinkled to almost nothing and a dimple appeared in her right cheek. "Coffee. Oh, there is a God. Yes. Please. I mean, if it's not too much trouble."

He found himself returning her smile without effort. "No trouble at all."

They sat at the dining room table where she could keep an eye on her grandfather.

"I really appreciate this," she said, working on her third refill. She set her cup in its saucer and waved her hand over the silver sugar and creamer. "But there was no need for the fancy stuff."

"You're a guest." He glanced at her unadorned left ring finger. "Miss Grimbel."

"It's Breeze, actually. Tiffany Breeze. Grampa's my mother's father." She stared at him expectantly.

"Oh. I'm Carter Worthington." He left off The Fourth. "I should have introduced myself earlier."

"No problem. I didn't give you much of a chance. Everyone calls me Tiffie. That's from when I was little and couldn't say Tiffany. I never liked the name, like I'm supposed to be this precious gem or something, and I'm really totally ordinary, but at least Mom talked Dad out of naming me Summer. That would have been too much, don't you think?" She paused for half a breath. "What do your friends call you?"

He lifted his eyebrows. Friends? He went out of his way to avoid them. "Carter, usually." Unless you were his father, in which case it was Worthless.

"Even in school? No nicknames?"

None anyone would use to his face. Not at a fancy prep school. He shook his head and shrugged.

She tilted her head, and for a moment, he feared she was seeing beyond his carefully cultivated expression, seeing the pain of buried memories.

"More coffee?" he asked, pushing away from the table.

She shook her head. "I've had plenty." She glanced around. "Would it be okay if I used your bathroom? Tinkerbell and I were on the road a long time. Ohmigod. Tink. I've got to find her. How could I forget all about her?" She looked torn, as if she couldn't decide which need was more urgent.

"I'm sure Tinkerbell will be all right for another couple of minutes," he said. "There's a powder room off the entry."

"Thanks." She dashed away, and he swore the room dimmed. Must be a power glitch after the storm. He did _not_ need any disruptions. He had a deadline in less than a month, and an editor breathing down his neck for a synopsis of the next Beau Banner book. He'd already wasted yesterday with hurricane preparations, and the loquacious Miss Breeze and her grandfather weren't helping.

Or were they? He realized he'd already made mental notes of their mannerisms, their descriptions, their quirks. Maybe Beau Banner would meet someone like Tiffany Breeze. He wondered how his bold adventurer would manage. He smiled at the thought.

Footfalls announced her return, and he erased his smile—or most of it, anyway.

"Thanks for looking after Grampa," she said. "If you don't mind, I'm going to go look for Tink. As soon as I round her up, I'll be back. Grampa should be awake by then, and we'll all be out of your hair."

"Don't worry about it." At last.

She turned to go, and he followed her to the door. She'd gotten halfway down the driveway when some ventriloquist demon took command of his voice. "Miss Breeze?"

She whirled and faced him, smiling that damn smile. "Yes?"

"Perhaps when you return, you'd like to join me for breakfast?"

"Sounds great. The shelter didn't have anything. Thanks."

He watched the way her jeans hugged her derriere as she bent inside her car and retrieved a leash. The way her hips swayed as she wandered down the block, whistling and calling for Tinkerbell. Research, he told himself. Purely for research. Why else would he want to spend any of his precious writing time _not_ writing? He stepped a little farther down his entry, telling himself research was writing, too.

The next thing he knew, her voice rang out. "Tink, no!" He turned to see a monster from hell charging directly at him. And then he was flat on his back, a huge, smelly, furry, drooling _beast_ hovering over him.

His blood froze. He was six years old, on a rare visit to the park with his mother instead of his nanny. A German shepherd approached the playground. _Don't touch that creature, Carter. He'll bite you. And he's likely full of fleas and other ugly germs._

Fears compounded over the years overwhelmed him. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his face with his hands.

"Mr. Worthington? It's okay. She won't hurt you. She's a pussycat."

Tiffany's words worked their way through the swirling terror. The weight of the dog was gone. He took several deep breaths, then opened his eyes. Hers hovered above him, filled with concern. He mustered a weak smile. "Sorry. She took me by surprise. I must have hit my head." He struggled to his feet, hoping she bought his lie. And that she couldn't see his knees trembling.

"She's tied up now. Tinkerbell doesn't know her own strength. Thinks she's a lap dog."

He braved a glance in the direction Tiffany was pointing. "Interesting name," he said. "What does she weigh? A hundred pounds?"

"Closer to one-twenty, I think. Her lineage is ... mixed, to say the least, but I think there's some shepherd, some retriever, and a St. Bernard somewhere in her family tree."

"Mastiff comes to mind," he said.

"Look, I'm really sorry about everything. I'll wake Grampa and we're out of here. I'll take a rain check on breakfast."

Eating didn't appeal to him at the moment either. He held on to the column at the edge of his entry and let his pulse slow. Once he was sure he could walk without staggering, he went inside. Tiffany stood beside his easy chair, helping Grimbel to his feet.

"Let's go home, Grampa. Mr. Worthington has work to do."

Grimbel grunted and levered himself out of the chair. He pushed away Tiffany's attempts to help. "I'm not a cripple." He shuffled across the floor, nodding at Carter on his way out. "Get some real cream."

Before Carter could answer, Tiffany spoke. "Come on, Grampa. Let's go check out the damage." _I'm sorry_ , she mouthed as they left.

Carter closed the door behind them, then put a Mozart CD into the player. _The_ _Marriage of Figaro's_ overture soared throughout the house. He went straight to his bathroom and ran a long, hot shower, trying to wash away memories of the morning. After toweling off, he found a spare plastic shower curtain liner under the sink. It would serve as a temporary solution to the broken window in his living room. He'd slipped into shorts and sandals and was searching for his hammer when the doorbell rang.

Tiffany stood there, minus her dog and grandfather, a contrite expression on her face. "I'm sorry to bother you again. Grampa's phone is dead. May I borrow yours to call the insurance company?" She held out a cell phone and charger. "And maybe some electricity to recharge my cell? Our power's off."

He stepped aside, aware she was staring at his bare chest. He pointed her to the kitchen. "Phone's on the wall," he said and left to put on a shirt.

He came back to find her pacing the kitchen, phone to her ear, a scowl on her face. "On hold," she said.

"No hurry." He nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic way and found the hammer and a box of nails in the utility closet. Sweat trickled down his face as he dealt with the offending branch and hammered the plastic into place. IIf his father could see him now, doing menial labor. _Just leave it. That's why we pay servants, boy._ He pounded harder. He finished the last nail and stepped back to admire his handiwork. And bumped into Tiffany. She held a broom and dustpan.

"I thought I could help sweep up the glass. I'm really sorry about Tinkerbell."

"Forget it." He took the broom and began sweeping. "I wasn't paying attention. She caught me off guard."

She crouched to hold the dustpan. "You don't like dogs, do you?"

The top two buttons of her shirt were unfastened, revealing soft round curves of her breasts. He concentrated on the glass shards, making sure they went into the dustpan and not all over her slender fingers with their pink-polished nails. Damn _. Research. That's all. Normal to observe and file away for use later._ He exhaled.

"You didn't answer my question," she said.

"What? I'm sorry. I missed it."

"You don't like dogs."

"It's not that I don't _like_ them. I just never had much use for them."

Her look said she didn't buy his lie, but she didn't press.

"Did you get in touch with the insurance company?" he asked.

"For what it's worth. We're on the list and they'll get to us as soon as they can." She hesitated, tugging on her curls. "I'd really appreciate it if I can send a couple of emails to let my family know we're all right"

"Sure."

He stopped at the door to his study. Nobody came in here, not even his housekeeper, and he was opening his sanctuary to a stranger. He twisted the knob, stepped across the room and opened his Internet browser. "All yours." He retreated to the easy chair, letting her log on privately.

Her hands alternated between the mouse and keyboard, her gaze intent on the monitor. Outside, more and more chainsaws overpowered his Mozart. In a matter of days, the neighborhood would have a new face. Like his. He stroked his beard.

His stomach knotted and he pushed back the memories of talk show interviews, book signings, the luncheon circuit—all those things his publisher had required with his first book. He'd been physically ill before every event. Never again. His longer hair and full beard ensured he bore no resemblance to the young, clean-cut preppie on his first book jacket. No more pictures. From that point on, he'd demanded total anonymity. He'd bought this house and had became a recluse who never bothered anyone. Certainly no one suspected that he had authored six bestsellers to date, had a likely seventh almost complete, with a contract for three more.

"All done." Tiffany's voice brought him back. "Thanks. Should I close your browser?"

"Please," he said.

She pointed to the photograph of his grandfather on the edge of his desk. "Your father?"

"Grandfather." When Carter's parents had renounced him for his pursuit of a writing career, only his grandfather had believed in him. Had sneaked him money to cover rent and food while he'd struggled to get his first work published. And had died the day before the contract from the publisher, along with a tidy advance, had arrived in the mail.

"I take it you like Grant Gardner. You've got all his books."

Hearing his _nom de plume_ snapped him to reality. Damn. He'd been wallowing in memories and she'd wandered to his bookshelf and held one in her hand. He stood, resisting the urge to grab the book from her. "They make an entertaining read. Pass the time."

"I've read them," she said. "Not bad."

"Not bad? They're usually bestsellers." Great. Instead of letting it pass, his ego had to jump out.

"I guess. The plots are good. The descriptions are first rate. But Grant Gardner really ought to get in touch with his emotions. His characters are kind of flat. It's okay when Beau Banner is working—he has to focus on his job. But he's practically a robot in bed. Tab A into slot B and it's over. No involvement. It was okay in the first couple of books, when he had a different woman each time, but the last three he's been with what's her name."

Francesca La Forge.

"Francesca," she said, as if she'd read his thought. "By now, it should be a relationship, you know. He seems so ... cold. And she's just there, at his beck and call. Never says no to anything. Not that realistic."

He rubbed his nose. "It _is_ fiction, after all."

"Yeah, well this Grant Gardner guy should read a couple of romance novels. If he gets a little more emotion into the characters, he'd probably double his reading market. Women buy most of the books, you know."

"You're quite the expert. Are you a book reviewer? Work in publishing?"

"Nope. Just an avid reader. From cereal boxes on up. I love libraries." She put the book back in its proper place on the shelf and smiled again. This time the room didn't seem to brighten. "Thanks again. I've got to get back to Grampa."

She left. He sank onto the ottoman.

Bullshit. What did a flibbertigibbet know about Beau Banner? He moved to his desk, opened his word processor and clicked on his manuscript file. Chapter Twenty-Seven headed the page. Twenty minutes and countless deletions later, the page remained the same.

No problem. Writing wasn't easy. He needed a minor diversion, then he'd be back in full swing. He stood, stretched, and roamed the house for a few minutes. With the plastic nailed over his window, the sight that focused him—a view of a neatly mowed lawn and a stately magnolia tree—was gone. Avoiding the phone in his study, he went to the kitchen and called a glazier. Friday was the earliest appointment he could get. A call to the carpet store brought assurances they could handle any damage and a promise someone would be out the next day to pick them up for cleaning.

He rolled both carpets and dragged them to his foyer for tomorrow's pickup. Next, he got out the vacuum cleaner and ran it over the entire living room floor. The machine made a satisfying clinking sound as it picked up stray bits of dirt, leaves and glass the earlier pass with the broom had missed. Soon, all traces of Julia-induced disorder would be gone.

As he worked, Tiffany's words played back. His books all made the bestseller list, but he'd never had one in the top five. Was Beau Banner actually that much of a cold fish? When Carter created him, Beau was everything Carter couldn't be. Outgoing—brazen, even. Quick to respond in a crisis. Capable of split second decisions. Respected by his peers. Attractive to women.

Almost in dispute, the vacuum cleaner made a loud clattering sound, then whirred. The ozone-charged smell of something electrical burning filled the air. Carter fumbled for the off switch. He flipped the machine on its side, not sure what he was looking for. Beau would know how to fix it, he thought, probably with one of his lock-picking tools. Or a stick of gum. Disgusted, Carter rewound the cord, put the machine in the closet and went back to his study.

Chapter Twenty-Seven hadn't written itself in his absence. He scrolled back several chapters to get a running start into new material. As he read, his stomach sank. Beau _was_ cardboard. He moved his cursor to page one for another look. When he reached the scene with Francesca La Forge, he stopped. Read it again.

Carter wasn't a total stranger to sex. Not as adventurous as Beau, but no fumbling teenager. However, to his dismayed surprise, Tiffany had pegged him. Beau was a self-centered lover. A boring, self-centered lover. If lover was even the right word.

Should he change it? Could he change it? Was there anything wrong with sitting in the middle of the bestseller list? His father would never settle for anything other than number one. Had Carter been subconsciously rebelling, refusing to take risks, plodding the safe ground rather than doing something because it was the way his father would have done it? His throat tightened. Even from his grave, the man dictated his life.

Damnation. He picked up the phone and called his agent.

"Caroline? Look, I need an extension. Not long. A few extra weeks should do it. Smooth things over with Michael, okay?" His editor would understand. Besides, he'd never asked for an extension before.

He hung up, feeling only a little guilty she'd assumed he needed the extra time because of the hurricane, and went back to his reading.

The doorbell rang. Growling in frustration, he got up. Tiffany stood on his entry. Again. Her hair was banded atop her head like a mushroom cloud. Moisture glistened on her face. She wore nylon running shorts and a white tank-top which clung to her in damp patches, revealing impressions of a lace bra underneath. A faint tinge of female perspiration mixed with something citrus wafted up. Inexplicably, his groin tightened.

She strode toward the kitchen, rubber flip-flops flapping, and returned, waving her cell phone. "I forgot it. Sorry."

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"I've got to find a place for Grampa. No power, no air, and it's got to be nearly ninety. I'll make some calls. Find out when the electric company thinks we'll have power. Might have to find a hotel for him. This heat is taking its toll."

He couldn't stop himself. "My power's on. My air conditioning works."

"I noticed."

"We're on different transformers," he said.

Was it the air conditioning that made her nipples stand up under her shirt, through her bra? "Why don't you both come over?" he said without thinking. "I'll fix something for dinner, you can clean up, cool off."

"I don't want to impose. Grampa can be a handful, especially when his routine is disrupted. He's been kind of zoned this afternoon."

Take the out.

"It's no problem. I've got a guestroom with two beds. You can both stay the night. I insist." What was going on? _Insist?_ By choice, he never had visitors, and now he was inviting people over, weeks before deadline? Had he become a character in a story, with some unseen author writing his dialogue?

Tiffany smiled, and something chimed in his chest. If he believed he had a muse, this would be her signal. Just because he didn't believe was no reason to ignore the opportunity.

Her eyes widened, her head tilted. "Are you sure? Really sure?"

"Go," he said, giving her what he hoped was Beau's rakish grin. "I'll start dinner. The door will be unlocked."

She dashed a few paces down the path, then cut across the lawn at a trot. He glanced down at his wrinkled shorts and exchanged them for a pair of lightweight cotton slacks.

He considered dinner. Beau would probably grill steaks, but he'd put all his meat in the freezer yesterday, in preparation for a power outage.

Seconds later the door burst open and Tiffany called out.

"In the kitchen," he said.

She surged in, plopped a cardboard carton on the counter, then opened his refrigerator and began transferring the contents of the box. "Since we have no power, these will spoil in another day. Please take them. You're doing us a favor." She held up a package of chicken parts. "These should probably be eaten soon, or frozen."

"I can fire up the grill."

"Great. I'll get some things together and we'll be over in a bit." She whirled around and was gone.

He went to the patio to start the gas grill. From the other side of the fence, Tiffany pleaded with her grandfather. He moved closer, worried she might need help.

Grimbel paced alongside the fallen oak tree, back and forth, stopping occasionally to stroke the rough bark of its trunk. "I'm sorry, Claire. I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Come with me Grampa, please. It's not your fault. Gramma understands."

Finally, the old man allowed Tiffany to lead him by the arm.

Carter returned to the patio and busied himself with dinner preparations.

"We're here," Tiffany called.

He showed them to the guestroom, wondering again what had come over him, and hurried to the kitchen. He tore greens for a salad. The sound of water running through the plumbing told him someone was in the shower.

Shortly thereafter, Tiffany appeared in the kitchen wearing clean khaki shorts and a deep blue T-shirt. Her hair was damp, her face scrubbed. "Can I help?"

He checked the table. "Napkins are in the sideboard. Center drawer."

She passed in front of him, and she smelled of his soap and shampoo. His pulse quickened.

Grimbel shuffled in, wearing striped pajamas under the same robe he'd worn this morning, but he, too was clean. Dinner passed in awkward, stilted conversation. Grimbel was as crotchety as ever, grumbling that nothing was the way Claire made it. Tiffany did her best to calm the troubled waters, but the man grunted, poked at his food, and was one step this side of unbearable. Carter distracted himself by making mental notes, absorbing the man's general ill will to be used in a future book.

Grimbel shoved his plate away and headed for the front door. "Going home. Claire will be waiting."

Tiffany jumped up. "Grampa, no. Remember. We're staying here tonight. Gramma's ... out of town."

She took Grimbel's hand and gave Carter an apologetic look. "I don't know what's come over him. He went out to the yard, and something snapped. He keeps talking about Gramma and the oak tree."

"That was her thinking tree," Grimbel said. "Her favorite place. It's gone now. All gone."

The old man had shrunk two sizes since this morning and aged about ten years, Carter thought. "Is he on any medications? Might he have taken too much, or missed a dose?"

"Good point. I don't know," Tiffany said. "I haven't been up this way in some time. I'll call tomorrow."

Tiffany led her grandfather down the hall to the guestroom. Carter finished clearing the table, loaded the dishwasher and stopped himself from pouring a stiff whiskey. Much as he wanted to smooth the rough edges of the day, he needed a clear head.

Tiffany came back, finger-combing her curls. A ripple of apprehension trickled through his belly. "Tinkerbell?"

"She's fine in Grampa's yard. She has her own food and water dishes and her toys." Tiffany tilted her head again, a gesture he was beginning to enjoy, and one corner of her mouth curled up. "Admit it, you're relieved."

No point in denying it. "Guilty."

"You're afraid of her. Or is it dogs in general?"

"Who said I was afraid?"

She shrugged. "All right, have it your way." She glanced around the room. "Do you have a television? I'd like to get an update on the hurricane damage. If things are okay, it might make more sense to take Grampa back home with me for a while."

"In my bedroom."

"Oh. Well, maybe I could use your Internet connection? The storm didn't go where the Weather Channel said it would, and I was stuck in that shelter, which was a smelly old high school gym, but it was the only one that took animals."

"You're welcome to my television. Between the Weather Channel and the 24-hour local news station, I'm sure you'll find what you need."

He escorted her down the hall, not sure if he should leave her alone in his bedroom or stay with her, which would be entirely inappropriate. Beau would stay, he was sure, and probably have her in bed within seconds. But that wasn't what Carter wanted. Or was it? She was attractive, friendly, and had parts of him responding in ways they hadn't in a long time.

Slow down.

He filed his reactions away along with his observations of Grimbel. He preceded her into the room and picked up the television remote. She stood just inside the doorway, her gaze sweeping the room.

"You can come in," he said. "I'll be in the living room."

When she didn't move, he clicked the remote, turning on the set. "Is something wrong?"

She shook her head, her curls bouncing. "Not really. After the way the rest of your house looks, I should have expected this. But usually a bedroom, especially a single guy's bedroom, is a little more ... lived in, you know. Were you, like in the military or something? I didn't peg you as the type."

What was wrong with neat? He knew where everything was, and there was comfort in order. Gooseflesh prickled his skin, sending a shudder through him. His stomach flipped. Oh, God, he was turning into his father.

"Weather Channel is twenty-seven, local news is thirteen," he said, dropping the remote on the bed. "Feel free to use the phone as well." Staring at the floor, he hastened from the room.

Get in touch with his emotions be damned. Now he knew why he kept everything trapped inside a steel vault. Emotions _hurt._

He loaded his CD player with more Mozart, added some Handel and sat on the sofa, the leather slick and cool through his thin cotton trousers.

By the time Tiffany returned, he'd sequestered his emotions where they belonged. Until he saw the look on her face and something sharp clawed his heart. "What happened?"

She gave him a weak smile. "I don't know for sure, but it looks like the neighborhood where I was living took a direct hit from one of those tornadoes."

"Your house?"

"Can't tell. I'll make some calls tomorrow. But the main roads are all closed."

"Can I help?" he asked.

She smiled again and set loose a battering ram inside his emotional strongbox. "It's under control. Worst case scenario, I'll get a hotel room for us."

He gestured toward the sofa. "Sit for a while. Relax. It's been a long day."

She angled herself on the far end.

"Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea? Wine? Anything?" he asked.

"I'm fine." She seemed subdued, and he wondered what she'd learned while she was investigating the storm damage.

They sat in silence for a moment—long enough for him to realize he hadn't written a word all day, and surprised he didn't really care. He thought he heard the chainsaws, but realized it was Grimbel's snoring, audible over the music. "Sounds like your grandfather's out."

"This was _so_ not a good idea," she said. "I'll bet you're a light sleeper. He's going to totally ruin your night."

He thought about sleeping through a hurricane. "I'll manage."

"Are you sure? I mean, you're not exactly—"

"Exactly what?"

Her cheeks turned a pinkish red. "Never mind. I'm always opening my mouth and sticking my foot in it. Up to my knee, usually. And you ... don't."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"No, you can't do that. Go on. What are you trying to tell me?"

Her color deepened to bright magenta. "You're just like this house. Everything neat as a pin. Nothing out of place. It's like a museum. What I can't figure out is why you invited us to dinner, much less to spend the night."

His jaw dropped, and he slammed it shut. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're...organized. Not like me. People call me a free spirit, but sometimes I think they're being polite and not saying 'airhead.' I never know what I'm going to be doing next. I'll bet you've got a daily schedule down to the fifteen-minute mark."

His face grew hot. "And what's wrong with being organized?"

"Nothing. It's just that we're different. Opposite ends of the spectrum. I blurt out everything in my head. You weigh every word. I act first, think later. Have you ever done anything impulsive in your life?"

He hesitated. Until this morning, no. Little did she know how impulsive his day had been.

"See," she said. "You're figuring out what to say. If I wasn't right, you'd have said so."

He avoided the contradiction. "You might have a point."

"Tell me something about yourself, Carter Worthington. Something honest. Something from inside. The first thing that comes to mind."

"I want to kiss you." Heat burned his neck. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

Her eyes twinkled, and her dimple deepened. "Mean what? You don't want to kiss me, or you didn't want to tell me?"

"Maybe both."

"Well, since you've already told me, why not give the other part a try?" Her grin was impishly sexy, if such a thing was possible. Right now, anything she did was sexy.

"I don't usually..."

"I got that. Maybe you should. One kiss. No strings." She scooted across the couch until she was practically in his lap. Where she'd undoubtedly notice he'd meant what he said.

Before he managed any more thoughts, her lips were on his. Warm, soft, tender. Gentle. He closed his eyes. She kissed him from one side of his mouth to the other. The tip of her tongue slid along the seam of his lips, teasing. He opened, welcoming it, meeting it with his own. She tasted like barbeque sauce. Spicy, tangy and sweet at the same time. She nibbled his lower lip. He threaded his fingers through her hair, drawing her closer, deepening the kiss. Her tongue swept the inside of his mouth. He followed, an urgent quest, probing, seeking, plundering.

Time stopped. His pulse roared in his ears. His groin swelled, straining against the confines of his slacks, which seemed a size too small. He drew back only long enough to gasp a desperately needed breath, then covered her mouth with his, plunging into its sweet depths. One of them whimpered. He hoped it wasn't him. No, it was Tiffany. _He_ was moaning. He pulled her onto his lap.

Her fingers toyed with his beard, sending shockwaves through him. Her arms wrapped around his neck, pressing her breasts—her warm, soft breasts—against his chest. She sucked his tongue. At the same time, her bottom ground against his groin, and he thought he might die.

She broke away, resting her head on his chest, running her hands through his hair. "Was that so terrible?" she asked. "Letting go for a minute?"

He tilted her face to his. Her eyes were dark, her lips swollen. "Pure torture," he said, breathing hard. He ran his fingers down her jaw line. "Tiffany, I ..." His voice rasped.

She took his hands and nibbled his fingertips. Shook her head. "I wasn't totally honest before."

"And?" A ripple of uncertainty settled in his belly.

"I'm not a totally free spirit. This is as far as I go until I know someone a lot better."

Relief surged through him that she wasn't rejecting him. "I can accept that. What else would you like to know about me?" Damn, who _was_ that, not only putting words in his mouth but blurting them out before his brain could intervene?

This time she thought for a moment. He could almost hear gears whirring.

"Why are you afraid of dogs? And don't deny it. Dogs sense it, and it was pretty obvious even to me."

He exhaled a slow breath. "My mother instilled her own fear in me, I suppose. She never went near them, made sure they didn't get near me. Told me they were going to bite me, and even though I know it's not rational, I still can't relax around them." He smiled. "But snakes don't bother me. And I'm not afraid to fly. Do I get points for that?"

She laughed, and he wanted to bottle the sound.

They sat in silence again, and Grimbel's chainsaw imitation worked its way into the room. He gestured toward the guest room. "Are you going to be able to sleep?" he asked. "I can sleep out here and you can have my bedroom."

"Don't worry about it. I'm grateful for the bed and air conditioning."

She looked uncertain enough that he pressed. "Seriously. My room's on the other side of the house, and with the door shut, I don't think you'd hear a thing."

"Well, maybe. Grampa is a major sleep disrupter, but I can take the couch."

"No, take the bed. I insist."

There he was, insisting again. What did she do to him? Whatever it was, he was beginning to enjoy it. "I have work to do, so I'll be up late. You can get a good night's sleep and be ready for tomorrow."

He retrieved his toiletries from his bathroom, his silk pajamas, robe and slippers from the closet, and relinquished his bedroom to Tiffany.

"Thanks again," she said. "Good night." She stood at the edge of the bed, watching him, almost warily. She flashed a smile that didn't reach her eyes, or reveal her dimple. He lingered half a moment, trying to decide if she'd accept a goodnight kiss, but let it drop. She'd said one kiss, no strings. Maybe none on her end, but he was feeling decidedly tangled.

"Sleep well," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

He never made it into his pajamas, much less onto the couch. He went straight to his computer and ripped out entire scenes, even chapters, rewriting, tapping into _feelings_ Tiffany had kindled with just a single kiss.

Not just the kiss, he admitted. It had started almost as soon as he'd seen her, frantic to find her grandfather. She _cared_. He tried to remember when he'd cared for someone, even a fraction of the way she felt about her grandfather. Nothing came to mind. He'd been the obligatory heir, pawned off on nannies, sent to the right schools, the best summer camps. His total ineptitude at all things mathematical could have been overlooked. As long as there was someone named Worthington on the Worthington Investments company letterhead, what did it matter who did the work? But when he'd found the gumption to tell his father he didn't want to spend his life in the stratosphere of superficial business acquaintances masquerading as friends, his father had simply disowned him. As if he were a bad investment, dumped, the loss written off.

He wondered what Tiffany's childhood had been like. Public school. Cheerleading? No, he thought. Drama club. Probably a few trips to detention. He smiled and resumed typing.

He woke in his easy chair to mockingbird calls, his printout of his revised chapters strewn on the floor at his feet. He gathered them up, put them in order and placed them in a blue file folder in his desk drawer. Although he couldn't have slept more than three or four hours, he felt refreshed. Invigorated, even. The adrenaline rush of inspiration. Something he hadn't felt for the last two books.

Tiffany _was_ a fresh breeze blowing life into what until now had been mere existence. "No strings," she'd said. No problem. He'd lived his life without them. He could accept what she was willing to give, then move on.

The aroma of brewing coffee filled his nostrils. And bacon? He clawed through his hair, smoothed his beard and stretched. He took a lightning-fast shower in his study's adjoining bath, ran a toothbrush across his teeth and only then realized he hadn't brought a change of clean clothes with him last night. He climbed into his pajama bottoms, belted the robe and slipped past the kitchen to his bedroom, where he dressed in lightweight khakis and a polo shirt.

Trading his slippers for loafers, he made his way back to the kitchen. Tiffany was serving bacon and scrambled eggs to her grandfather. She looked up when he entered the room, and her smile didn't erase the worry in her eyes. "Good morning," she said. "Breakfast is ready."

Grimbel scooped eggs into his mouth. He grunted something unintelligible.

"I made Grampa a doctor's appointment," Tiffany said. "They can see him at eight."

He glanced at the kitchen clock. Seven-fifteen. "Anything I can do?"

She shook her head. She'd fastened her curls at the nape of her neck, denying him their playful bounce. "I'll take care of Tink. My cell is charged, so I can make calls while I'm waiting at the doctor's office. See if I can schedule some repairs."

Grimbel shoved his empty plate across the table. "Not your best effort, Claire. Bacon's underdone."

"I'm Tiffany, Grampa. I'll do better next time. Now, get ready to go, okay? Your clothes are on your bed."

Grimbel shuffled off, and Tiffany turned her worried blue eyes back to him.

An iron band squeezed Carter's chest. "It's good that they can see him so soon."

"But a little scary, too. Don't they normally work urgent cases in right away? If they think it's something minor, you can wait forever for an appointment."

He ached to kiss her temple where a few stray corkscrews of hair bobbed. "I'm sure it's nothing. They probably had cancellations because of the storm."

"Thanks. I hope you're right." She piled the dishes on the counter. "I'll take care of these as soon as I get back. Promise." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then jogged after her grandfather.

Carter sat with his coffee long after her car drove off.

For the first time since he'd moved in, the house seemed too quiet, too empty. He took care of the dishes, letting the hum of the dishwasher fill some of the void, and filled the rest with Chopin. After wrestling the carpets outside so he wouldn't need to be disturbed by the pickup crew, he ensconced himself in his study and reread last night's work. More than pleased, he lost himself in the new and improved Beau Banner.

Engrossed in a scene, Carter slowly became aware of a commotion outside. Dog noises. Barks, growls, whimpers. Tinkerbell? With his hurricane shutters still lowered, he couldn't see, but it sounded like it came from his front yard, not Grimbel's backyard. Was Tiffany back?

He saved his work and ambled to his front door, pulling it open for a better view. Tinkerbell lay on the lawn, half-hidden under a bush. Great. She'd escaped.

"Go home, dog. Tinkerbell. Tink. Go home." Tentatively walking toward her, he waved his arms toward Grimbel's house. "Home, girl. Nice dog. Good dog." His voice quavered.

From behind, his door slammed shut. Tinkerbell lifted her bestial head. She growled, revealing teeth—big teeth—and jowls covered with a reddish-pink froth. Carter froze. His heart thudded in his chest and he forced himself to take deep breaths.

Relax. Dogs know when you're afraid.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Tink." He hoped she'd return the favor. He edged backward until he could see Grimbel's yard, where an unlatched gate told him how she'd gotten out. He continued backing away, uttering soothing doggie platitudes, hoping Tinkerbell would stay put until he found something to tempt her back where she belonged.

In Grimbel's yard, all he found was an empty food and water dish. Keeping an eye on the dog, he headed home. He had some ground sirloin in his freezer. Hell, if it would get the creature into her yard, he'd thaw his rib eye.

Down the block, someone started a chainsaw. Tink bolted, hobbling on three legs. Damnation. He called after her, but she didn't turn. He dashed toward his door, noticing the bloody dog prints all over his entry tiles. Shards of glass, apparently dislodged when the carpet cleaners picked up his rugs, sparkled at his feet.

Crap.

He found a length of rope, grabbed a piece of leftover chicken and dashed outside. "Tink. Come here, girl."

Ten minutes later, he'd lured her with bits of meat and tied the rope through her collar. She seemed tolerant, but wouldn't allow him near her injured leg. She limped beside him into his garage. He tied the rope to a filing cabinet and tossed her another morsel.

"Don't go anywhere," he said and dashed into the house. He found the nearest veterinary clinic's address in the phone book. Halfway to the garage, he ran back inside and grabbed an oversize bath towel.

_Please let her be a dog that likes car rides._ He had visions of chewed up leather seats, mud, blood and dog puke all over the interior of his Mercedes CL. He opened the passenger door, tilted the front seat forward and spread the towel over the backseat. He placed another chicken bite on the towel and untied Tinkerbell.

"Inside, girl," he said. "Get the chicken."

As soon as the dog lumbered in, he slammed the door shut behind her and took his place at the wheel. They hadn't gone three blocks before his car smelled like wet, dirty dog. "Stay there. Good girl," he mumbled all the way to the clinic.

♥ ♥ ♥

Ninety minutes later, Carter punched the remote to open his garage door. He'd written a sizeable check to the vet to include keeping her at least overnight, where he thought she'd be safer. If Tiffany objected, she could fetch her. He leaned over the backseat and retrieved the shredded towel. It would take a thorough detailing to get the dog smell out of the car.

God, he needed a shower. And a stiff drink, although it was barely noon, but first, the shower. No sooner had he turned on the taps than the doorbell rang, followed by unrelenting knocking, along with his name being shouted. Tiffany and her impeccable timing. He grabbed his robe from the hook and sped to the door.

Eyes frantic, hands fluttering like butterflies, she barely looked at him, her head snapping back and forth as she scanned the street. "Carter. Thank God you're home. Tinkerbell's gone. The gate was open. I've been all over the neighborhood. Have you seen her?"

"Relax, Tiffany. Deep breath."

"But she could be lost. Or what if she's trying to find her way home? She could get hit by a car, or starve, or—" She seemed to notice his attire. "Did I get you out of bed? Are you sick or something?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Come in."

She sat on the couch while he paced and explained about the glass shards imbedded in Tink's paw, how they had to sedate her to get them out, and how he'd taken the liberty of boarding her there for the night.

"You did all that?" she said, her blue eyes wide. "I thought you were afraid of dogs."

"I was. I'm not sure I still am, but I'm not in the mood to find out."

She jumped up and gave him a huge hug. "Thank you, thank you. Kirsten will be so relieved."

"Kirsten?" He held her against his chest. "Who's Kirsten?"

"Oh, she's Tink's owner. Didn't I tell you?"

He pushed her to arm's length so he could look her in the eyes. "Tinkerbell isn't your dog?"

"No, I was dog sitting while Kirsten went to Italy. Maybe I won't even tell her. I emailed her that we had to evacuate her house—"

"Wait a minute. _Her_ house?"

"Well, yeah. I guess things were crazy and I forgot to mention it. I'm kind of a house and pet sitting service. I was staying there for two months, and—"

"Okay, stop. Give me a minute. It wasn't _your_ house that was damaged in the hurricane?"

"Tornado. But that's right. I don't actually have a house. I move around a lot, take care of places and pets when people are out of town. Only I might have to settle in with Grampa, at least for a while."

He sank into the easy chair, rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head in his hands while he tried to process everything Tiffany was telling him. "What happened with your grandfather?"

"They're running some tests, but they think it's depression triggered by stress. The storm, and losing Gramma's tree pushed him over the edge. They say it's not unusual in the elderly, but they want to rule out anything else."

"Tiffany?" He kept his head buried, clutching his temples against the rapidly growing headache.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to be alone for a while, please."

"Of course. I've got repairmen scheduled anyway. I'll be next door if you need me. " He heard a zipper, then some jingling sounds, and a click. "I'll leave my number on the coffee table, okay?"

"Fine."

Her footfalls clicked across his bare floor. The front door opened.

"Carter?"

"What else, Tiffany?" He sounded snappish, but didn't care.

"I'm very proud of you."

The door closed and he sat there a long, long time before finally getting up and taking a scalding-hot shower.

In the steam, her words played over and over. _I'm very proud of you_. Someone he'd known for barely a day was proud of him, and for what? Taking a damn dog to the vet. All the years he'd busted his ass trying to please his parents, and not once had he heard those words from them. He lifted his face into the spray, trying to convince himself the stinging in his eyes was from the soap.

He dressed and went straight to his computer. He didn't have to like the feelings roiling inside, but he could certainly use them. No longer afraid to release his emotions, he attacked the keyboard. The new Beau Banner jumped from the page.

Hours passed, barely noticed. His eyes burned, his wrists ached and his stomach rumbled, but he'd reworked the first half of the book. Then Francesca La Forge stepped into a scene and it was like hitting a concrete wall. Time for a break. On his way to the bathroom, he stopped to open a bottle of Jordan Cabernet and set it on the sideboard to breathe.

In the bathroom, Tiffany's toiletries reminded him of the abrupt way he'd dismissed her earlier. And he thought of Beau and Francesca. He went to find the slip of paper with her phone number.

She came over a few minutes later, dressed in a long, flowing floral print skirt and a pale green tank top. "I saw the light in your study. I figured you were working and didn't want to bother you."

She was hesitant. Almost shy. Definitely un-Tiffany-like. Had he been such an ogre? Or had something happened to her grandfather?

"Would you like a glass of wine?" he asked. "I was going to have one and would like the company."

"I'm not sure. I haven't eaten much, and I'm not much of a drinker."

He tried a Beau smile. "There's leftover chicken. Join me for dinner?" He thought about Grimbel and begrudgingly extended the invitation.

"Grampa's with a friend at an assisted living senior complex. Sabal Palms. He knows a bunch of the residents. One of them has a two bedroom place and said Grampa can stay there. It's cool because there's medical staff on the premises if anything happens."

"Sounds like a perfect arrangement."

She nodded and her curls bobbed. "Can I help with dinner?"

They worked side by side making a salad and reheating leftovers. Over the meal, she filled him in on the progress with Grimbel's home repairs. The insurance company had already sent an adjuster out, and blue plastic covered the hole in the roof.

"The carpeting is history, but overall, the damage wasn't as bad as it seemed."

He had to ask. "Tinkerbell?"

"I'm boarding her at the vet's until her paw heals. Not good for her to be outside, and Grampa's house isn't exactly dog-proof."

"Probably the smart thing to do."

"Yeah, Kirsten agreed. She'll be back in a week." Tiffany twirled her empty wine glass in her fingers. He took it from her and set it on the coffee table next to his.

She arched her brows. "I won't break it, you know."

"I know. But it was in my way." He leaned forward and ran his finger over her lips. "I want to kiss you again."

She parted her lips and caressed his finger with her tongue. Scraped it with her teeth. Nibbled it. Sucked it. She took his hand in hers and repeated the action for the rest of his fingers. When she took his thumb into her mouth, he pulled it away and replaced it with his tongue. She tasted of wine, the kiss intoxicating him far more than his share of the bottle they'd finished.

He broke the kiss and traced the neckline of her top. She took his hand and moved it lower, to her breasts. He thumbed her nipple, already erect, feeling it grow harder beneath his touch. "You like this?"

"Mmm hmm." She pressed his hand, increasing the pressure. "I have two of them, you know."

Oh, did he know. Round, soft, and ... there. He used his lips and teeth on the other one.

"Carter?"

"Hmm?" he said without moving.

"This isn't kissing."

"I think it is." He demonstrated by kissing her breast. Her neck. Her shoulder. Her belly. He pulled her tank from the waistband of her skirt and kissed her navel.

"Definitely kissing," he murmured.

"But I'm not kissing you."

"Later." She stiffened, and he pulled back. Was he moving too fast? God, he wanted her. Ninety percent of his blood supply had rushed south, and he longed for contact. She shifted, and he realized she'd been undoing her bra. Using his teeth, he slid the strap off her shoulder, first one then the other. One hand slipped beneath the neckline of her top and caressed the warm mounds. The other worked its way inside the elastic waistband of her skirt.

"Carter?"

She pushed him away, gently, and he gazed into her eyes, her pupils dilated so they looked almost black. "What?" Voicing the word was a major effort.

In what seemed to be one smooth motion, her tank and bra were on the floor. "You want to try kissing me again?"

"Oh, yeah. But I've got a better idea." He stood, hooked one arm under her thigh and tugged upward. She followed his lead. With both legs wrapped around his waist, she ground her pelvis into his. Her tongue delved the depths of his mouth. He cupped her buttocks in support and somehow managed to navigate the eighteen miles to his bedroom without breaking the kiss.

He lowered her to the edge of the bed. She lay there, her legs hanging over the mattress. He straddled her, trailing more kisses along her torso, licking, nipping, until he reached her skirt, His teeth clicked against a button at her waist. His lips reversed direction, up to her navel, as his fingers worked the button through the hole. Continuing down, he discovered another. And another. He made short work of them, until her entire skirt was one flat piece of gauzy fabric lying beneath her.

He kissed her through the shiny, flesh-colored panties at her hips. His breath warmed his face as his breathing accelerated.

"Are you okay with this?" He nuzzled her inner thighs. "Say stop and I will." Although he thought he might die if she did. He shifted, trying to relieve some of the pressure of his cock against his trousers.

She wrapped her fingers in his hair and pulled his head against her.

"You're sure, Tiffany?"

"Carter?" She pressed harder.

"Mmff?"

"Stop talking. Find something else to do with your mouth."

He thought his heart might crack a rib. The fact that she hadn't released his head meant she wanted him to kiss her _there._ More than kiss. Excitement and apprehension waged a rapid battle. This was new territory. The girls he'd dated in college—well, they were strictly the missionary position types. Since then, there hadn't been a lot more—creativity—in his sporadic and brief encounters.

He laved her belly, exploring, absorbing the new sensation. Teeth, tongue, lips moved from her navel downward. She groaned and lifted her hips, moving her hands from his hair. "Off."

Slowly, he pulled away, trying to control his breathing. He reached for her hand. She accepted his and moved it to the elastic top of her panties. "Off," she repeated, wriggling them down her hips.

Oh, that kind of _off._ He was a little slow on the uptake, but damn, how much blood was left in his brain? Not enough to fill a shot glass, he'd wager. He swore his entire volume was between his legs.

He inched the silky fabric past her hips, following it with a trail of kisses. Her female scent, musky and sweet, assaulted him. He needed to taste her. Sliding the panties down her legs and onto the floor, he returned to unravel the mystery that was Tiffany.

His thumbs parted the cleft between her legs. Tentatively, he kissed her damp curls. She wriggled beneath him, opening herself wider, scooting herself closer to his mouth. His tongue darted out, grazing her lips, seeking her sweet spot. He found it, wet and swollen. For him? With a groan, he licked, teased, sucked. She writhed, moaned and moved her hips in rhythm, guiding her with her hands. He cupped her breasts, the rock-hard peaks of her nipples contrasting with the soft cushions surrounding them.

She convulsed and called his name.

Gasping, he rested his head on her mound. She stroked his hair, wrapping tendrils around her fingers. His cock throbbed.

Afraid to speak, he listened to her breathing, to the faint gurgling from her belly.

"Carter?" Her voice was husky.

"Yes, Tiffany?" His wasn't much clearer.

"That was good. Great. Fantastic, actually."

"My pleasure," he said.

She traced the contour of his ear. "Your turn. What would you like?"

Like? He'd like the moment to last forever. "To make you happy."

"You just did."

"Then I guess I'd like to make you happy again."

She worked her way out from under him and moved to the center of the bed. "Lie beside me," she said.

He stood and wiped his beard on the corner of the sheet, only then realizing he hadn't made the bed this morning after Tiffany left.

"Wait," she said, rising to her knees She framed his face and kissed him on the mouth. When she drew back, she said, "I wanted to know what I taste like."

"Like Tiffany-flavored honey."

She laughed. "I wouldn't describe it that way."

"Well, I would, and I got it firsthand."

"Carter?"

He could listen to her say his name all day. The way her voice lifted at the end, almost to a squeak. He didn't think it was possible, but he hardened further. "Yes, Tiffany?"

She giggled. "I think one of us has too many clothes on, and it isn't me."

"I can fix that." He shed his shirt, his pants, his shorts, and left them in a heap by her panties.

"Much better," she said, cupping his balls. She leaned forward and licked the tip of his penis. He locked his knees to keep them from buckling with the pleasure. "You taste good, too. Salty."

Control was spinning away. "Tiffany, stop."

"You don't like it?"

"I like it too much."

She stroked his length, then retreated to the center of the bed, still on her knees. "Do you have a condom?"

He yanked open the nightstand drawer and found a foil packet at the back. Thank God. His fingers trembled as he ripped it open and sheathed himself.

She pulled him onto the bed and straddled him, leaning forward so her breast hung inches from his mouth. He cradled it in his palm, suckled it while she centered herself over his erection, sliding back and forth along its length.

Control slipped further away. He fought back, trying to think of anything at all to delay the inevitable. Nothing helped. "Tiffany, please. I want to be inside you. Come inside you."

She smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." She took him in her hand and guided him to her entrance, admitting him in increments, withdrawing, taking a little more, until finally he was buried to the hilt.

He grasped her hips, stopping her from moving. "Wait."

"Why? Don't you like this?"

"God yes, but—."

"So, enjoy. You don't need to be so stiff."

He smiled despite himself. "I thought that was a good thing, under the circumstances."

She wriggled. "I want to do something for you. Just for you, no strings." Her hands covered his, and she took them from her hips to her breasts. "If it'll make you happy to be doing something, I prefer your hands here."

Her hips lifted, sank, lifted sank, with a back and forth motion and some kind of twist that had him hanging onto control by a toenail.

"You're still fighting, Carter. I'll bet you're thinking about nasty, horrible things to keep from coming."

Yeah. Quadratic equations are pretty nasty. He clenched his teeth. God, not yet, not yet. Please.

She reached behind her and cupped his balls. "And what's the point of taking what should be glorious pleasure and thinking ugly thoughts? Seems it would spoil the effect."

She reached lower, stroked him and there was nothing more he could do to delay the explosion. His hips pumped to match her rhythm. He gripped her hips again, this time to pull her closer to him, to go deeper inside than he thought possible. He took control of the pace. Sensation layered on sensation. There was everything and nothing. Behind closed eyelids, bright lights and colors swirled and sparkled. He erupted, thrusting over and over in what had to be the most potent orgasm of his life. One beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

When he could breathe, he opened his eyes. Tiffany hovered above him. He pulled her down so she was lying on his chest. Their heartbeats drummed as one. He tangled his fingers in her hair. "Do you always talk so much during sex?" God, what a stupid thing to say. Obviously the blood hadn't returned to his brain.

"Only when it's something important."

He'd analyze that one later. He wrapped his arms around her back and sank into a sated doze.

He awoke to find her spooned against him, her buttocks against his groin, his hand at her breasts. He nuzzled her neck, and she inched her hips backward to let him know she was awake. Another nudge let him know she was aware he was awake, too. He leaned over her and opened the nightstand drawer, fumbling through its contents, fingers searching desperately for what he hoped was another condom.

Elated when he found two, he handed her one and dropped the other on the nightstand's surface. "All I have," he said.

"We'll work it out." She tore the packet and together they slipped it over his erection. This time, he reveled in mutual pleasure, and although he wouldn't have thought it possible, the experience was more exhilarating than the first. It was as if allowing himself to be pleasured freed him to give pleasure on an instinctive level.

He slept more deeply this time, and dawn drifted between the slats of the shutters when he awoke, on his back, with Tiffany's head pillowed on his chest. She lay on her side, her right leg extended along his, her left bent, nestled between his thighs. She stirred, and he whispered her back to sleep, enjoying her rich perfume, a combination of fruity shampoo, her own scent, and the musky aroma of their lovemaking. He wouldn't deny it. He'd made love to her, and he'd face her "no strings" when he had to.

Later, they used his last condom in the shower.

"I'll get more," he said as he rubbed her dry with his bath towel. He took a breath and tried for a touch of humor as he asked, "How many?" Was last night all she wanted? Is that what she'd meant by "no strings?"

She took a smaller towel from the rack and wrapped it around her head. She didn't meet his gaze when she answered. "I should be around at least two more weeks. Get the repairs finished, get Grampa set up. I think there are openings at Sabal Palms, if I can talk him into moving. He keeps calling everyone there a bunch of old farts, but I know they're his friends."

Two weeks. Not a one night stand. Maybe a two week stand, but he'd deal with that when the time came.

He made pancakes and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Tiffany wore one of his button down shirts like a dress, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She ate one pancake and refused any more.

"What's wrong?" Was she regretting what they'd done?

She fussed with her coffee cup. "I feel...guilty."

"For what?" She'd been an equal participant last night. More than equal.

"About Grampa," she said, her voice quavering. "I love him dearly. Really I do. But he can't live alone in that big house anymore. And all I can think about is what happens if he can't—or won't—get into Sabal Palms. There's really nobody else to look after him." A tear trickled down her cheek. "I must be a horrible person, but the thought of staying in one place makes me all jittery. Even if it's to be with someone I love."

Breakfast lost all its appeal. He stood and cleared the table, scraping the uneaten pancakes down the disposal. While it ground away, his thoughts caromed in his head. If she couldn't settle down to be near a blood relative, what chance did he have? And why was he thinking he could live with someone like Tiffany, all chaos and impetuosity? He'd probably go nuts before two weeks were over. Right now, it didn't seem to matter.

"You're the wandering sort, then?" he asked, rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.

"Army brat. Never stayed long in one place. I got used to being the new kid. Kind of liked it, actually. I knew if I didn't fit in, it wouldn't matter because I'd be gone before too long."

"So you housesit for a living? What kind of security is there in that?"

"I take care of pets, too. And I've got basic office skills, so I can temp wherever I go for extra cash. I don't need a lot of _things._ "

Her emphasis on the word knotted his stomach. His life was full of _things_. "And you're happy?" he asked.

"I've always thought so," she said, her voice a low whisper. After the span of several heartbeats, she went on. "And what do you do, Carter?"

"I'm an independent marketing consultant." The automatic lie slipped from his mouth. But this time, there was guilt attached.

"Not one of those people who calls you at dinnertime, I hope?"

He turned and gazed at a point over her shoulder "No, I spend most of my time at the computer, writing...reports and other dull stuff."

She looked as if she'd rather wrestle alligators. Knowing Tiffany, she probably would. And she'd be good at it. She gave a polite nod. "Whatever floats your boat."

"Pays the bills," he said. "And I don't have to commute beyond my study most days."

"I guess that's a plus." She finished the last of her coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher. "I should be going. Things to do, people to wait for, you know."

He nodded. "I'll be here if you need anything."

"Um ... I have to pick up Grampa's prescription later. I could save you a trip."

She must have caught his puzzled expression, because she came closer and smiled. Much closer, rubbing his groin. "You know. A two weeks' supply?"

"Oh. Yes. I'll get my wallet."

"My treat." She pecked his cheek and trotted toward the bedroom.

Elated, flabbergasted, and totally bewitched, he leaned against the sink and watched her cute bottom sway under his shirt.

For the next week, during the day, Carter sequestered himself in his office, writing, rewriting, and revising yet again. Nights were spent with Tiffany in his bed. On the couch. In the yard under the stars. Each night brought something new.

Francesca La Forge met an untimely death, and Therese Storm blew into Beau Banner's life. The words flowed from fingertips to the monitor, seemingly without the need of any intervention from his brain. Writing was exciting again. Fulfilling. The cycle fed itself. A productive writing day energized his nights. A night with Tiffany propelled his writing.

It wasn't just sex, he realized. There was a tenderness, an openness. Often, they simply lay in each other's arms and watched a movie, or just talked. About everything. About nothing.

One night, they sat on the couch sipping a Chardonnay. Tiffany raised her glass. Her eyes sparkled.

"Are we toasting something?" he asked.

"Grampa's applied for his own apartment in Sabal Palms."

He tried to match the happiness on her face, but he feared it fell flat. "That's good. Will he be moving in soon?"

"Within a month," she said. "If things go on schedule."

Would it be so wrong to wish there would be snags? About ten years' worth. Chiding himself for his selfishness, he clinked her glass with his. "To schedules," he said.

"Carter?" Her voice was unusually tentative.

He smiled and gave his automatic response. "Yes, Tiffany?"

"I've been thinking."

"About?"

"Grampa's house will be fixed up soon. He's going to sell it to cover the cost of the Sabal Palms arrangements for full care, meals, and all."

So much for his dream she might live next door. "Where will you go?"

"That's what I wanted to talk about. I was thinking of sticking around here. Not your house, of course, but in the vicinity. That is, if there was a reason." Her blue eyes held doubt.

"Tiffany, if you're looking for my opinion, God, yes, I want you around."

"So you're not tired of me?"

"Tired of you? Never. I've been dreading the day you'll say you're moving on. Your terms were 'no strings,' and I accepted them, but I hoped you'd change your mind."

She finished her wine and set the glass down on a coaster. "Can we celebrate?" Standing, she took his hand and tugged. He rose and chased her into the bedroom.

We don't run in the house, Carter. His father's words invaded.

He laughed. Shut up, Father.

♥ ♥ ♥

"I have to go to New York for a couple of days," Carter said after another week of bliss. "New client wants a face to face." Close enough. He gave her his spare key. "Feel free to use my place if you need to escape the repairmen."

"Thanks," she said. "The smell of paint always gets to me."

Two days later he pulled into his garage, tired and stressed after the meetings with his publisher and publicist, the ones he begrudgingly attended because otherwise they'd make him go on the luncheon and book signing circuit. A light in the living room and another in his bedroom lifted his spirits. Tiffany must be here. He'd called when the plane landed, but she hadn't answered.

He pressed the remote to close the garage door behind him and let himself in through the utility room. Dropping the small blue bag he carried onto the kitchen counter, he called her name. When she didn't answer, he stepped to the living room. If she wasn't here, why were there lights on?

He found her sitting on the couch, a book on the coffee table and a file folder in her lap.

"How could you?" She waved the folder.

"How could I what?" He looked at the book on the table more carefully. His book. The first Beau Banner novel.

"Let's start with lying to me and go on from there. You're Grant Gardner."

"No, I'm Carter Worthington the Fourth."

"Semantics. Grant Gardner is Carter Worthington, Carter Worthington is Grant Gardner. You wrote these books."

He sank to the couch beside her.

She got up and flounced to the easy chair. "I thought we had something special. And it's all here. Every damn word, everything we did, everything we said, all on the page for everyone and his brother to read. _Therese Storm_? God, you could have found a better name. How dare you cheapen what we had?" Tears streamed down her face.

"You went into my study. You went through my things." It sounded stupid, even to him.

"Yes, I did. But not to snoop. You could have locked the study door. Or even asked me not to go in there. But when you gave me the key to your house, that more or less implied I had the run of the place. All I wanted was a book to read, and I don't have a local library card, and you have a whole damn library in there. I simply browsed your bookshelves and picked up this." She grabbed the book from the table and opened it to the back flap, where his one and only portrait was displayed above his bio.

"And then your damn phone rang, and I thought it might be important, so I picked it up. Reflexes of an office temp. And there was the picture of your grandfather on the desk." She pounded on the book. "Without the beard, you look just like him. It clicked. And, furthermore—" She thrust the folder at him, scattering sheets of manuscript pages. "This was on your desk, in plain view."

"Tiffany, I can explain." He got up, arms outstretched in supplication, and walked toward her.

"And what makes you think I'd want to hear it? Goodbye, Carter. Or Grant. Or is it Beau?"

She pushed him aside and ran out the front door. It slammed behind her.

He trudged back to the kitchen and picked up the Tiffany bag. He held it for several moments, then took it into the bedroom and shoved it in the back of his nightstand drawer, along with the rest of his condoms. He wouldn't be needing those, either.

"No strings," she'd said. For her, maybe. For him, it would take a while, but eventually, he'd be able to cut through the tangled net she'd wrapped around him. One more emotion he could draw on, but the thought gave him no comfort. He'd raised his hurricane shutters, but the added light was nothing compared to what Tiffany had brought every time she visited.

Next door, repairmen came and went. The For Sale sign appeared in the yard, and a parade of realtors and potential neighbors tramped through. Grimbel had been a pain in the ass. Carter could live with whoever bought the place.

He started his next Beau Banner book and lost himself in the writing. Words didn't flow as easily, but they eventually hit the page. According to the calendar, summer ended, although the heat and humidity outside said otherwise. He hid in his air-conditioned comfort, venturing out only when necessary.

One day, as he stood at the curb getting his mail, a moving van pulled up next door. He watched for several moments as movers unloaded cartons and set them on the sidewalk. A mini-van pulled up. The side door opened and two dogs raced out, followed by three small children. A frazzled blonde woman, late-thirties he guessed, did what she could to round everyone up.

Head down, studying his collection of junk mail, he hurried inside, back to his refuge. He went online and ordered a white-noise generator. One that came with a headset.

Two days later, an incessant ringing of the doorbell accompanied by violent knocking roused him from his bed. Six-thirty in the morning? He threw on a robe, hurried to the front door and pulled it open without thinking.

Tiffany pushed inside. His immediate thought was that she'd been through another hurricane. Disheveled hair, wrinkled shorts, rumpled shirt clinging to her body. She dropped a package on the coffee table. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what? The last time we spoke, you didn't want to hear anything I had to say."

Her cheeks flushed hot pink. "You're right. I was angry. And apparently I was wrong." She leaned forward and opened the package. He saw the familiar white cover of the Advanced Reader Copy of the book he'd rewritten. The one he'd forgotten he'd told his publisher to send her on his trip to New York.

"I moved around a lot," she said, holding out the book. "It took a while to find me."

"Did you read it?"

She gave him a crooked smile. "I almost threw it away, but I'd read everything, including all the cereal boxes where I was staying." Tears streamed down her face.

Afraid to approach, he crossed the room to the other end of the coffee table. "What you saw in the file was never intended for the book. It was something I had to write, to get what I was feeling out of me and onto the page. Then, I could draw on the emotions—emotions you let me feel for the first time in my life—and transfer them to my fiction. I would never have published anything so personal." She met his gaze and he took the book from her trembling hands. "If you'd have looked at it more objectively, you might have noticed I bared _my_ soul there, too."

"I was too mad at you at the time."

He set the book down and took her hands. She didn't pull away.

"But when I read it." She exhaled a shaky breath. "The end product, it was perfect. It was you and me, but private, you know. The same, but different. It hit me in the gut. I started driving when I finished the last page. Can you forgive me?"

"Only if you can forgive me."

"Can we ever make something work between us? You're so—"

"Stiff?" he said. He drew her close enough so there was no doubt what he meant.

She grinned. "And I'm so impulsive. And right now I have an impulse to—"

"Let me guess." He took her hand and led her toward the bedroom.

Afterward, he pulled the bag out of the nightstand drawer. "For you. You ran off before I could give it to you."

Her eyes flew open wide at the Tiffany bag. "Carter, this isn't ... I mean, it's too soon—"

"Just open it," he said. He watched as she withdrew the blue cardboard box, then the velvet one inside. She pried open the lid and the tears started again. "They're beautiful. But you shouldn't have." She stroked the diamond stud earrings with a fingertip.

"I'll be the judge of that. There's nothing ordinary about you, Tiffany Breeze, and I thought you deserved to have something as bright and sparkling as you are."

She splayed a hand over his chest. "I love you, you know."

He took the box from her and set it on the nightstand. "I love you, too. I think I have since Julia blew you into my life. What do you think about naming our first child after a hurricane?"

"Maybe." She wrinkled her nose. "But only if it's a girl."

His heart soared at the implications. He caressed her warm, round breast. "All of a sudden, I'm feeling impulsive."

#  Romancing the Geek

Stephanie's lifelong dream is to design toys—sweet, cuddly toys. Instead, she's hired as a glorified typist, forced to share an office with Brad, a geek, who's happy programming computer games full of explosions.

Ignoring each other is their solution to co-existence. But when Brad has girlfriend troubles, he swallows his pride and asks Stephanie if she'll teach him how to talk to women. She agrees, but he's having trouble passing her exams.

♥ ♥ ♥

"Bah, humbug." Brad jumped to avoid the splash of a passing bus.

Kevin lifted his eyebrows. "I think you've got the wrong holiday, big brother. Unless someone's messed with time, Christmas was two weeks ago."

"Didn't you see the side of the bus? A mobile Valentine's Day ad." He pointed at a rooftop across the street. "And there's another one on that billboard. Don't get me started on television commercials and newspaper inserts."

"What's the problem?" Kevin asked.

"It's all a plot, perpetrated by the chocolate and greeting card industries. I repeat. Bah, humbug."

"Still haven't recovered from giving whoever she was an electronic tire gauge? That was what—five years ago?"

"Hey, she had a new car and I thought she'd appreciate a gift that showed I was thinking about her safety."

"Trust me. Stick to the chocolates and flowers."

Brad grunted. Kevin stepped closer with that I'm-younger-but-wiser expression on his face. Brad braced himself for the inevitable.

"You know you were welcome to have Thanksgiving dinner with Amanda and me." Kevin's tone matched his somber expression. "And we missed you at Christmas. You're family."

True, but he was Kevin's family, not Amanda's. Although Brad liked Kevin's wife, the rest of that in-law thing had never taken, especially with all her relatives. Since Mom died, Kevin had deferred to Amanda's family traditions and Brad always felt like an outsider.

"Chill, bro. No problem. I had plenty to do. Maybe this year." As if. There were plenty of good meals to be had at countless restaurants, and nobody there nagged you about finding someone special and settling down.

"You need to get away from that computer every once in a while. You know. Go out. See a movie. Talk to people. Females, even." Kevin winged his eyebrows. "When's the last time you got laid?"

Brad felt heat rise to his ears. He shoved his hands in his pockets and studied the cracks in the sidewalk. "None of your business."

"Shit, that long?" Kevin shook his head. "All work and no sex makes Brad an angry software developer."

"Just shut up. If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. I like my job. The new venture into video games could be a big coup for the company—and me. If it means extra hours, so be it."

Kevin gave him another brotherly stare. "I'm serious, Brad. Get out of that subterranean office once in a while. Find a woman."

Brad swatted Kevin on the side of his head. "Thanks for lunch, kid. Next one's on me."

"All right. But I'll expect a kinder, gentler brother."

Brad stood for a moment, watching Kevin's carefree stride down the sidewalk to his car. He mumbled another "bah, humbug" as he pulled open the door to the bank building that housed the corporate offices of Wilson and Wilkes Toys.

Inside the lobby, Brad's sneakers squeaked on the polished marble floor. An aggregation of suits clustered in front of the elevator. He looked down at his worn jeans and pivoted toward the stairs. Although his office was on the lowest floor occupied by Wilson and Wilkes, it was hardly subterranean. Climbing the four flights would work off the cherry pie, not to mention the frustrations a meal with Kevin seemed to instigate. At the second floor landing, he paused to take off his jacket.

Breathing a little too hard, he pushed open the door at four and a sense of calm washed over him. This was where he belonged. Unexpected strains of classical music drifted down the hall. When he realized the melody came from his office, he quickened his pace. Almost in one motion, he swiped his key card through the lock and pushed the door open.

From behind the spare desk, a woman turned, blinking her large blue eyes at him.

He froze in the doorway. "Who the hell are you? And what are you doing with my things?"

♥ ♥ ♥

"Mr. Hewitt?" Stephanie turned off her CD player. She grabbed her glasses from the desk and adjusted them on her nose. The blur at the door turned into a geek in ratty jeans and a faded green South Park T-shirt with a black jacket slung over his arm. An unsmiling geek. She tried to decide if he looked more confused or angry. Either way, it was definitely not a glad-to-see-you expression.

She came around the desk and extended her hand. "I'm Stephanie Brinks."

His expression hadn't changed, but he took two steps into the room. He nodded, not offering his hand in return.

She gave him the friendliest smile she could muster. "You know? Your new office mate? Didn't you get the e-mail? Last Friday? From Mr. Wilkes?"

Ignoring her, he strode to his computer and tapped some keys. The screen switched from his exploding fireworks screensaver and he opened his e-mail folder. She couldn't help but notice how many of them hadn't been read.

She took a tentative step toward him, waving the printout. "Um...I have a copy here, if it'll save you some time?"

He grabbed it from her hand and pulled a pair of black-framed glasses from his pocket. Scanning the page, he mumbled the phrases she'd read a dozen times when she'd been sent to this office. "Shortage of space on the sixth floor. Unused desk. Temporary assignment. Understanding, cooperation is appreciated."

He looked at her over his glasses. "Temporary? Six months is not _temporary_. What am I supposed to do with all my stuff?" He swept his hand in a broad gesture and she stepped back.

"Maybe I can help you organize it?"

He folded his glasses. She noticed his eyes were almost the same green as his T-shirt, but they were anything but faded.

"Why do you talk in questions?" he asked.

"What?"

"Your voice. It goes up at the end, like everything you say is a question."

She considered his words for a moment, mentally rewinding and listening to herself. "You're right. Is it going to be a problem?" She tried another smile. "That was a legitimate question."

"I haven't decided. Mostly, if you're going to work in here, I'll expect you to be quiet."

Great. A grouchy geek. What else could go wrong? She reminded herself she was lucky to have a job at all. Until a desk opened on six, she'd be stuck down here, but at least she had a toe in the door for a better position.

She straightened her spine. "I understand, Mr. Hewitt. I'm no happier with these office arrangements than you are, so I'll leave you to your work and expect the same courtesy from you."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. With a shake of his head, he went back to his computer. He yanked on a drawer, pulled out a pair of Bose headphones and settled them over his ears. Pretty soon, all she heard was the clattering of his keyboard.

Stephanie ran her hands across her CD player, wishing for the comfort of background music. Tomorrow, it would be earbuds for sure. With a sigh—a very _quiet_ sigh—she moved stacks of paper, magazines and miscellaneous debris to the edges of the desk, clearing enough room for her laptop. According to her supervisor, Ms. Hungerford, the Telecommunications people would show up before the end of the day, and she'd be set. Meanwhile, she had a flash drive with the files she needed until she was connected to the network.

She moved a pile of books from the chair to the floor and sat behind the old, scratched desk. Adjusting the chair to a comfortable typing position, she gave one last wistful look at her portfolio tucked between the two filing cabinets.

Last Friday, Mr. Wilkes had perused her designs, her ideas and a part of her soul. He gave her a sympathetic look over his wire-rimmed glasses. "Very impressive, Miss Brinks. Unfortunately, we already filled the position. However, we do have an opening at the entry level."

Because there were bills to pay, and because entry level was a _job_ , which she desperately needed, she'd swallowed her pride and accepted. And here she was. A member of the _support staff_. What would have been called a typing pool back in the dark ages when secretaries pounded on manual typewriters. Even worse, because the rest of the Wilson and Wilkes support staff worked on the sixth floor and she was stuck on four with the mailroom and the techs. How could she network her way into the design job she had trained for down here? She permitted herself one last sigh. She had no place to go but up.

While she waited for the company-issued laptop to boot, she studied her office mate. From the back, he looked remarkably ungeeklike. His dark brown hair might be on the long side for the suits upstairs, but it was clean, shiny and hung in thick waves over his collar—or where his collar would be if he actually wore a shirt with one. His shoulders filled out the T-shirt he wore, and when he'd stood in the doorway gawking at her, there hadn't been a trace of belly overhang. When he'd gone to sit at his desk, the rear view wasn't half bad either.

What was she thinking? She was sharing an office with this guy, not looking for a date. Okay, maybe a date would be nice, seeing as how she hadn't had one since she broke up with two-timing Dennis three months ago, but she wasn't looking to date Brad Hewitt. She preferred men who wore shirts with buttons to work.

She plugged in the flash drive and checked out her work for the afternoon. HR said she'd be handling correspondence for the Marketing Department. She studied the Templates folder, then looked at the twelve letters she was supposed to work on. Her stomach clenched. So much for four years of art school. Insert name, date, assemble boilerplate paragraphs. Next.

Brad's phone rang. He didn't seem to notice. After he'd ignored three calls, her stomach knotted every time it rang. She reminded herself it was none of her business. She tried telling that to her stomach.

His job, his decision. Nothing to do with her. She moved to the next letter on her list.

The phone rang again. She marched across the office. "Aren't you going to answer that?"

He paid no attention or didn't hear her. He was wearing those headphones. She tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped.

"What?"

"Your phone?" She heard the inflection in her tone. Well, deep down, it _was_ a question. Just a shortcut way of saying, "Why don't you answer your telephone, Mr. Geek?" Besides, what did she care what he thought of her speech patterns?

He looked at her, blinking as if he didn't recognize her. "What about my phone?"

"It's been ringing."

He stared at it, as if it had materialized from a cloud of smoke. He shrugged. "Voice mail. I'll check when I need a break." His fingers went back to the keyboard, his eyes to the monitor.

"Fine," she muttered. It was going to be a long six months.

The door pushed open. Stephanie turned, hoping it was someone from Telecommunications. Instead, a very well dressed attractive woman strode into the room. At least a seventh floor outfit. Maybe an eighth. What would bring her down here?

The woman tucked a wisp of raven-black hair behind her ear. "You must be Ms. Brinks."

Stephanie nodded.

"Ms. Hungerford would like to see you."

Her supervisor. Stephanie's mind raced through all the reasons she'd be summoned upstairs. She hadn't been here long enough to screw up. Maybe they'd found a real desk in a real office. Maybe even the real job she wanted. She smoothed her skirt and made sure her blouse was tucked in.

"Please bring your files," the woman said.

While Stephanie saved her work and followed the procedure for removing her flash drive, the woman turned to Mr. Hewitt and tapped his headphones.

He tipped one away from his ear and glared at her.

"As long as Wilson and Wilkes write your paychecks, it behooves you to respond to telephone calls." The woman's tone reminded Stephanie of her college History professor. All business, no room for discussion. She wondered what kind of trouble Mr. Hewitt would be in. Almost smiling, she pulled the flash drive from the USB port.

As she walked down the corridor toward the elevator, the woman's heels clicked on the vinyl flooring, echoing her own. No carpet down here. At the elevator, the woman got in behind her and pressed six. "I'm Elaine," she said. "And don't worry. I'm sure Ms. Hungerford will understand it's not your fault."

The elevator rose. Stephanie's stomach sank.

♥ ♥ ♥

Brad listened to his last voice mail and hung up the phone. He wasn't someone's secretary. How was he supposed to know marketing people would be calling for Stephanie Brinks? If people wanted him, they knew to come down and see him, not that the suits ever came down here. They'd talk to his team leader and Rich would relay the message, which was always the same. "Are you on schedule?" And the answer, truthful or not, was always, "Yes."

Feeling a little chagrined, Brad called Telecom. Maybe Kevin's speech about being a kinder, gentler person had wriggled into his subconscious.

"What do you mean, you're backlogged and it'll be next week!"

Someone mumbled attempts at explanation. Brad barked into the phone. "Look, buster, just because the hookup is on four doesn't mean it goes to the bottom of the list. Miss Brinks works for the suits upstairs, and you'd better make sure she's wired within thirty minutes."

So much for kind and gentle.

After extracting a promise they'd be here within ten minutes, he went back to his computer. He still wasn't happy with the way the Madame Nefarious character moved when she was evading an attack.

Engrossed in code, Brad ignored the tech from Telecom when he came in and did his thing. Brad wasn't sure why it pleased him that Little Miss Question would find the work done when she got back. After all, it meant they hadn't found another office and he'd be stuck with her for the next six months.

Back to Madame Nefarious.

He hardly noticed when Stephanie returned. Hardly. She brought a citrus scent with her that teased his senses.

"You're wired and ready to go," he said. "I called—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Hewitt. If it's all the same to you, I think it's better if we go with your original plan, where we don't talk to each other at all. I'm in enough trouble, no thanks to your unprofessional work habits."

"Fine." So much for doing her a favor. This was why he preferred the computer people he created. They did what he told them to.

♥ ♥ ♥

The next morning Brad opened the door to his office. Storage boxes sat on the floor beside his desk. The second desk—her desk—gleamed. Perched on top, neatly arranged, were her laptop, a phone and two wire file baskets labeled "In" and "Out", for God's sake. He stepped inside. The room smelled like citrus. And there was a damn potted plant on top of the file cabinet.

"What the hell—?"

Before he could continue, Stephanie came into the room behind him, carrying a collapsed storage box. Without a word, she popped it open and moved the contents of one of his filing cabinet drawers into it. She wrote something on the front of the box and stacked it on top of the others beside his desk.

Her blue eyes met his, and she smiled. "I've taken the bottom two drawers of the second file cabinet and the lower left compartment on the console. Nothing seemed more recent than five years, so I boxed them for you. Have a nice day, Mr. Hewitt."

He blinked, unable to speak. She went to her desk, plugged in some earbuds and started typing.

♥ ♥ ♥

By Friday, Brad had solved the Madame Nefarious problem and he thought he was finally acclimated to his roommate. He barely noticed the citrus smell Stephanie brought with her.

He'd been polite, she'd been polite. He stayed on his side of the office, she stayed on hers. Aside from the increased citrus aroma when she pulled her pages from the printer, which was on the console behind his desk, her presence was almost ghostly.

Except he was hornier than hell. Kevin must have planted _that_ bug in his ear along with the kind and gentle crap.

He glanced at the time on his monitor. Maybe he'd leave at five the way Stephanie did every night. He could hit Mulligan's for a couple of beers. Lisa used to hang there, along with a handful of her girlfriends. With luck, he'd find someone who wanted a no-strings night. If not, after a few beers, he wouldn't care.

At the stroke of five, Stephanie shut her laptop, opened her desk drawer and, Brad knew without looking around, pulled out her purse. Next, she'd pat some makeup on her face, put on more lipstick and twiddle with her hair.

The clasp on her purse clicked shut, her chair pushed back and she breezed out the door. Only tonight, she actually wished him a nice weekend.

"Thanks," he said. "Same to you."

They exchanged a quick, surprised glance at the overture of sociability. But, without another word, she was gone.

By six, he was at the door to Mulligan's. Holy crap! How long since he'd been here? Instead of comfortably dark and dingy, someone had pulled a Stephanie. Fresh paint covered the walls. Gleaming brass dividers broke the room into sections. He looked up at the new stained glass light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. And there were frigging candles and _flower vases_ on the tables.

Scowling, he worked his way through cheery faces and enthusiastic laughter to an empty booth at the back. A waitress sashayed to the end of the table and smiled. When she leaned over to light the candle, Brad decided the bar's makeover wasn't totally bad. Her low cut blouse gave him a nice glimpse of cleavage. He made sure his eyes shifted to her nametag. Lianne.

"What'll it be?"

"Hi, Lianne." He smiled. "What's on tap?"

She ran down the list of options—far more than the old menu. Another plus. "Killian's," he said. The retreating view wasn't half bad, either. Her skirt barely covered some admirable assets.

When she brought his beer and asked him if he wanted to run a tab, he thought he caught a hint of interest in her eyes.

From his vantage point, he had a clear view of most of the room. A lot of couples but nobody he recognized from the old Mulligan's crowd. He caught Lianne's eye and she brought him another beer and a bowl of peanuts. No rings on her fingers, he noticed.

He figured he'd ask her when she got off work, but before he could form the words, she whisked away to serve other tables.

Over the next two hours, he had two more beers, an order of wings and a platter of nachos. Lianne lingered at his table with each order, giving him a friendly smile.

Just ask her. Open your damn mouth. Hi, I'm Brad. Can I...

And that's where his brain froze, every time. Could he what? Buy her a drink? Grab a bite to eat? He'd already OD'd on both of those. Go back to his place for some mindless sex?

While his frustration stewed, he watched the action. Men approached women. Women smiled. Men joined them. They left together. Why couldn't he do that?

♥ ♥ ♥

Two weeks into the job, Stephanie got to the office early, surprised to see Brad at his desk. Normally, he stumbled in after ten with an oversize mug of steaming coffee, sat at his desk and pounded at his keyboard all day. His conversations were limited to either cursing or praising whatever characters he created on his computer. Lately, there'd been a lot more cursing than praising. Judging from the letters and memos she'd been writing for the marketing department, there were questions as to whether Wilson and Wilkes would be ready to launch their new video games division on time.

"Morning," he said. "Coffee." He got up from his desk and left.

Must have had one heck of a weekend, she thought. She put her purse in the desk drawer and turned on her computer. While she waited for it to boot, she watered the Philodendron on the file cabinet.

Moments later, Brad came back carrying two mugs of coffee. He set one on her desk along with packets of creamer and sweetener. Her mouth dropped open and she snapped it shut.

"Thank you, Mr. Hewitt."

"Brad."

"Brad," she repeated.

He rolled his chair across the room, stopping in front of her desk. "You're a woman, right?"

"Excuse me?" She almost laughed, but the blend of curiosity and eager puppy in his eyes stopped her. So did the heightened color in his face.

He took a sip of his coffee, then turned the mug in his hands. "I mean, I know you're a _woman_ , but you know—you think like a woman, right?"

Curious, she folded her hands on her desk. "What do you want to know?"

"If you're sitting at a bar and a guy comes up to you, what makes you decide to listen? Let him buy you a drink, or sit next to you? You know, not blow him off."

Unable to speak, she took a sip of her own coffee, realizing she hadn't added any sweetener. Stalling, she tore open a yellow packet, tipped the powder into her cup and swirled it around while she tried to figure out how to answer him.

"Why are you asking me? Shouldn't you be asking one of your guy friends? Or at least one of the other women who work down here?"

"You work down here."

"Only because they don't have any desks upstairs."

"That's beside the point. Are you going to answer my question or not?"

His tone was no different than if he'd asked her about the weather. In a flash of insight, she realized that for Brad, there were always logical answers to questions. Apparently, according to however his mind worked, she was the obvious choice. Summoning all her self-control to keep from laughing, she prayed that her phone would ring while she tried to wriggle away from his question. "I'm not sure I can help you. I don't go to many bars."

"Oh. Okay. But my question still stands."

"Brad," she said gently. "Why do you want to know?"

His face reddened two shades and he studied his hands. "I...well...um..."

"You're not asking me out, are you?" Please, not that. Just because she didn't like him didn't mean she wanted to hurt him.

"You?" His eyes popped to the size of dinner plates and his mouth hung open. "No, of course not."

She felt a quick tinge of disappointment mixed with surprise at his obvious shock. She wasn't _that_ bad.

"Look, I'd love to help you out, but Ms. Hungerford's breathing down my neck. I have eighteen letters to get out by lunch."

"Will you help me then? At lunch, I mean. I'll treat."

♥ ♥ ♥

Sitting across from Brad at the local coffee shop, Stephanie kicked herself for letting Brad manipulate her into solving his love life problems. If she knew the answers, she'd be married with two point three children by now, instead of hooking up with a string of losers long enough to make her swear off relationships for a long time.

Brad dunked a French fry in ketchup. "It's this waitress at Mulligan's. She always gives me this really friendly smile when she comes by my table, and she seems—interested, you know."

Good grief, how could she break it to him? The waitress was doing her job. Being friendly was how she made decent tips. "Did you ask her out?"

He popped the fry in his mouth and shook his head.

"Why not?"

He went that deep sunset shade again. "I can't." He took a long swig from his water glass, set it down and wiped his mouth. "I try, but it's...I've never been able to talk to women. The words just...stop."

"You're talking to me. I'm a woman."

"But you're...different. You're like my roommate or something. And besides, you're not my type."

Not _his_ type? She raised her eyebrows but didn't press. "Tell me about her."

He shrugged. "I've gone in after work every night for over a week. She knows what I drink and has it ready by the time I sit down. Sometimes she'll ask how I am, and I say fine. She gets off around nine, changes her clothes and sits at a table in the back to have dinner."

"Do you stop to chat while she's off duty?"

"Kind of."

"What do you mean, 'kind of'?"

"Well, I pass her on the way to the men's room, and I'll say hi, then she says hi back."

Of course she would. Stephanie tried to look encouraging. She must have failed, because he ducked his head.

"I told you I couldn't do this."

"But you want to, right? You think she's special, or are you just trying to improve your pickup techniques in general?"

He shrugged again. "Both, maybe."

She sighed and worked on her salad for a few minutes. Brad finished his burger and munched on his fries.

"Okay," she said when she'd finished her salad. "There's the company party to celebrate the new Sweet Susie Doll campaign on February thirteenth. It's a Valentine's Day party—guess the idea of a 'Friday the Thirteenth' party wasn't very enticing. That gives us about three weeks to get you ready." All of a sudden she felt like Henry Higgins in _My Fair Lady_.

"You mean, invite her to the party? Me?"

"Of course. Why not?" She crumpled her napkin and put it on her plate. "Think of it as another challenge, like getting Madame Nefarious or Slithering Sylvia to cooperate."

His eyes widened. "You know about them?"

"It's pretty hard not to overhear you cursing about it. I've seen some of the early marketing blurbs. Although I don't see why Wilson and Wilkes Toys can't stick with what's made them famous. There are enough blow-'em-up games on the market already. Why they had to jump on the video game bandwagon is beyond me. Some people prefer the old-fashioned toys."

"Like dolls and trucks?" The look he gave her was part incredulous, part nostalgic.

"Exactly." She looked at her watch. "I have to get back. Unlike some people, I have a schedule to keep."

He squinted and scowled. "Some of us don't arrive and leave because a clock says to. If the debut of the video division is on time it's because we geeks work eighteen hour days—or even around the clock—if that's what it takes."

Stephanie felt her cheeks heat. "Sorry," she mumbled into her coffee.

Brad paid the bill and when he held the door for her, Stephanie wondered why she was surprised.

When they stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change, a bus stopped to expel a load of passengers.

"Why do women want stupid gifts on Valentine's Day?" Brad asked.

Stephanie saw the huge ad for a florist chain emblazoned on the side of the bus. She glanced at Brad, who looked genuinely puzzled.

"It's a romantic holiday," she said. "Flowers are romantic."

"But they die in a week. You eat the chocolates and they're gone. What's the point?"

"The point is, they show you're thinking of her."

"No, they show you've succumbed to the commercial pressure of the florist and chocolate industries. Giving something practical shows you're thinking of her."

It was going to be a long three weeks.

"Tell you what, Brad. If you want my help, you're going to have to trust me. Remember, you came to me because I'm a woman. Lesson one. Don't try to apply logic. We're not wired that way." She grinned and stepped from the curb. "And there's a price for my help."

"What kind of a price?" A look of panic flashed across his face.

"Starting today, I get to play my music in the office. No headphones."

"What kind of music are you going to play?"

She winked. "I'm not sure yet."

♥ ♥ ♥

Brad hung up the phone and stared at his monitor. He'd rewritten the gargoyle attack sequence for level eight three times now, but it still didn't look right. Maybe it was the music that filled the office. Chopin, Stephanie had said. He considered calling off their deal, but then he'd envision Lianne's smile and he figured he could put up with it for a few weeks. He'd tried to plug in his own headphones, but she'd vetoed that one. Maybe he could sneak in some decent tunes during her regular trips upstairs.

"Next rule," Stephanie said from across the room. "We practice."

"Practice what? I'm on a deadline here."

"Talking. Lunch and breaks. I heard you on the phone. You're waiting for someone to finish something or other so you can do your whatever thing. Until then, you should be able to work non-geek hours, right?"

He liked it better when they'd been plugged into their own headphones. "Fine," he grumbled. He looked at his watch. "Three-thirty work for you?"

"It's a date."

The very word made him cringe.

At three-twenty-nine, Stephanie tapped his shoulder. "Break room." And she disappeared out the door.

He saved his work and headed for the break room, locking the office door behind him. Realizing he'd forgotten his mug, he went back to retrieve it. When he got to the break room, Stephanie sat at one of the small Formica-topped tables, sketching on a spiral-bound tablet. He hesitated, not sure what he was supposed to do. He took a step into the room, but she didn't look up. He cleared his throat. Still nothing. He crossed to the coffee maker and poured a cup of the stale coffee.

She glanced up when he approached her table. "Hello, Brad. How's it going?"

"Um...fine, I guess."

"Good. Your characters behaving?"

"Yeah, for now."

She sighed. "Okay, cut. Let's start over. You come into the room. You get coffee. I don't have any. What do you think?"

"That you didn't want any. It's pretty gross by three in the afternoon."

"It's still a nice gesture to offer."

"Okay. You want some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

He groaned and sat in the chair across from her. "So if you didn't want coffee, what was that all about?" He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes left. "Besides, I thought you were going to help me with Lianne."

"I'm seeing where we need to start. Kind of like an assessment test."

"Great. Just great." He caught himself before he stormed out of the room.

"Calm down. I think what we need to do is desensitize you."

Now what? "I thought girls liked sensitive guys."

She laughed, and it made something inside him tap dance.

"We do. What I mean is you're so uptight about talking to Lianne that your brain freezes."

She had that right. His tongue, too. "So tell me what to say, and then I can tell her."

"Sorry, Charlie. That went out with Cyrano de Bergerac." She smiled with so much confidence, he actually believed whatever she came up with would work.

Her pencil moved across the tablet. Was she drawing him? He felt heat rise to his face and wasn't sure why.

She chewed on the eraser end of her pencil. "I don't think we have to worry about basic social skills."

"If you're implying I don't know which fork to use, or how to open a door for a lady—I can probably drag out my Manners 101 manual. Believe it or not, I wasn't raised in a barn." He heard the irritation bleed through his words, but didn't care. He'd swallowed enough pride asking for help. He didn't need any condescension from some typist.

"No, no. I didn't mean it like that. I'm sure you know how to be a gentleman. It's a matter of getting everything to the surface. If it becomes a habit, you'll stop worrying about it, which, in my opinion, is the only thing keeping you from talking to women." She set the pencil down. "Why can you talk to me?"

"Because I've got nothing to lose." Her eyebrows lifted into upside down Vs above her glasses and he realized he'd said the wrong thing—again. "See—I just screwed up. I never say it right." Maybe he had some neurological disorder that disconnected his brain from his mouth.

This time she smiled. "Try again. Like you said, you have nothing to lose."

"I don't know. You're kind of—sisterly, maybe, although I don't have any sisters."

"Good. So you're comfortable with me, is that it?"

He pondered that one for a moment. Yes, he did seem comfortable—at least not like a train wreck—when he talked to her. "I guess it's because I know you're going to disappear in six months. Plus you don't talk to my friends in the department and I can trust you."

"Trust is good. Without it, you've got nothing."

He heard the twinge of bitterness, quickly hidden behind another one of her smiles. She flipped her tablet closed. "I think that's it for my break. We'll work on this more tomorrow."

"But...but what should I say to Lianne tonight?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. You keep away from the bar for a while."

"But what if someone else—"

"Then she wasn't worth it to begin with." Her gaze softened. "I don't want to seem negative, but what do you know about her? She could already have a boyfriend. If she does, I'm not going to be much help. And if she doesn't, then it's not likely she'll find someone in the next few nights. At least not someone you couldn't give a run for his money."

♥ ♥ ♥

At eleven-forty-five on Thursday, Stephanie picked up her purse. During the week, she and Brad had chatted at breaks and eaten lunch together, either down in the fourth floor break room or upstairs in the office cafeteria. She fought down a fluttering in her belly as she crossed the room. She was as nervous as a mom watching her kid's ballet recital. She took a breath before she reached his chair. One thing hadn't changed, and that was the way the world disappeared for him when he was programming.

She paused a pace behind him and shook her head at all the explosions on his monitor. Buildings, cars, planes—if it was part of the game, he could blow it up. Why didn't they have computer games where kids put things together instead of destroying them—or each other?

"What?" he said. "This is what the specs order. I'm just doing my job."

Had she said the words out loud? "And loving it."

"Well, yeah, there is that." He smiled. "Is it lunch time?"

She nodded. "And it's time for a field trip."

"Field trip?" His mouth gaped.

"Yep. We're having lunch with Carrie and Megan from marketing. They'll meet us at Mama's."

"Two...two of them?"

"You'll be fine."

♥ ♥ ♥

Well, that was a disaster. Stephanie slipped her purse into her bottom desk drawer. No, disaster was putting it too mildly. Brad had gone straight for the men's room when they'd come back. She flipped through her CDs and tried to decide between _The_ _Dave Matthews Band_ and _Queen_ instead of the love songs she'd lined up for the afternoon. Soothing was probably not what he wanted, but she didn't think she had anything remotely resembling the head-banging she thought he'd want to lose himself in.

Five minutes later, when the door slammed open and he stomped to his desk, something squeezed her heart. "Brad—"

"Just be quiet." He pulled out his headphones. "You can tell Carrie to give me the bill for the dry cleaning."

"It was an accident." She had a feeling the marinara sauce-white cashmere sweater combination wasn't going to be salvageable, but no need to mention that to Brad.

He lowered his head and rested the heels of his hands against his temples for a long moment. His chest rose and fell with a deep, shuddering breath. "Why am I such a loser?"

"You're not a loser, Brad. You tried too hard and overcompensated, that's all."

"Great. So I go from not being able to talk to not being able to shut up. And that klutz stuff. I've never been clumsy. Where did that come from?" He slapped the headphones onto his ears and fiddled with his computer. "Leave me alone, okay?"

After ten minutes, she'd had enough of his sulking and computer generated explosions. She marched across the room and leaned against the edge of his desk. "It was my fault," she said. "I shouldn't have sprung lunch on you like that. I thought you were ready, and I didn't want you to have time to worry about it."

He spun around and she stepped back as if his green eyes had hit her with a laser. "Go away. I should never have asked for help. I was doing better on my own."

"Brad—"

"I said go away. I have work to do, and so do you." He cranked up the volume on his music until the sound was loud enough to hear three feet away. "Our original arrangement was working fine. Let's go back to it. I'm going to handle my life my way."

She reached for his shoulder, then drew her hand away. Fine. She hadn't wanted to play Cupid to begin with.

True to his word, the next day Brad didn't speak to her at all. But Monday, he came in with two cups of coffee. "I'm sorry. You were doing what I asked. Can we start over?"

She accepted the coffee, sipped. Sweetened the way she liked it. "Rough weekend?"

His eyes glittered and one corner of his mouth turned up. "Not exactly. I stopped by Lianne's table Saturday night. I managed to say hello and she let me buy her a beer."

"That's great. So why do you need me?"

"Because I still felt like an idiot and couldn't do much more than give her monosyllables. She probably thinks I'm a toad."

"She'd be wrong. Shall we pick up where we left off? Over lunch? The Deli?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Lunch is fine, but let's not start where we left off. I don't want to think of that ever again. Pick up with last Wednesday, fast-forward through Thursday."

"Fair enough."

When Brad took a break later that morning, Stephanie called Carrie to cancel their lunch plans.

"You know you're not networking up here if you eat lunch with the geek every day," Carrie said. "You need to establish a presence."

"I know, but he's like a puppy, trying to please. I don't have the heart to say no. It's only for a couple more weeks."

"You sure there's not something going on?"

"Me and Brad? Get real." She heard the door open. "Gotta go."

♥ ♥ ♥

Brad watched Stephanie cut her tomato wedge into six smaller tomato wedges before mixing them through her salad. She repeated the miniaturization process for the cucumbers. Once she appeared satisfied with the distribution, she tilted the plastic container of dressing and drizzled its pink contents in a spiral pattern over the salad.

He picked up the second half of his roast beef sandwich. While they'd waited for their lunches, they talked about the weather, office supplies and how hard it was to park downtown. None of which he thought Lianne would find the least bit interesting.

"When do we start?" he asked.

She chewed the mouthful of salad, swallowed and set her fork down. "We've already started. Were you nervous talking to me before?"

"No, but that wasn't really talking. I mean—it was boring."

"But it's talking. Once you get used to it, _really talking_ isn't any different." She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and he noticed how shiny and pink her fingernails were. He couldn't remember what Lianne's nails looked like.

"Ask me something," she said. "If talking makes you nervous, then let the other person talk. But you have to listen."

"I listen."

"Tell me three things I said while we were waiting for lunch."

He tried to replay the conversation in his head. All he got were images of her blue eyes behind the oval-shaped lenses of her glasses. "Something about it was cold...and getting enough office supplies...and parking places?"

She stabbed a few lettuce leaves. "I said I liked days that started cold and cloudy but warmed up by noon. That I never had the right size binder clip. That most of the time I take the bus because it's too expensive to park in the lot."

"Listen. I get it. Thanks. Now, what about the talking part? I told you, I'm a loser at conversation. Give me some opening lines."

"If I do, they'll sound like lines which is a total turnoff. What's something you want to know about me?" She forked up more salad.

"You?" How was talking about Stephanie going to help him with Lianne? He sipped his Coke while he tried to think of a question. He could do this. Just think of something he'd want to know about Lianne and substitute Stephanie. "Okay. Do you like your job?"

"Not much."

He waited. She tilted her head and smiled. Lifted an eyebrow.

"Um...how long have you lived in Clayburgh?"

"Six months."

His stomach knotted and he showed what he considered admirable restraint in not pounding the table. "See. I told you. I suck at conversation."

"You need to ask better questions. Open ended ones." She chewed on her lower lip. "People aren't computer programs. None of the _if yes, then this, if no, then that_. To keep a conversation going, you can't ask the sort of questions someone can answer with a yes or no, or a simple answer. It just brings the conversation to a screeching halt or throws the ball back at you, which we're trying to avoid, right?"

"Right."

She laughed. "See—mine wasn't a good question. Try again?"

Easy for her—almost everything she said was a question, although she'd gotten better since he'd pointed it out. He inhaled a deep breath and blew it out. "Where did you go to school?—No, wait. Why did you move to Clayburgh?"

"Better. Because I wanted to work for Wilson and Wilkes Toys. I moved around a lot as a kid. I had a Cozy Clara doll, and I knew when I put her on my bed, that no matter where I was, I was home."

"So if you got what you wanted, why don't you like your job?"

"Because it's not the job I wanted. I've always wanted to design toys and things little kids could love. I didn't spend four years getting an art degree at UCLA so I could type boilerplate letters. I'm a good designer. I know I am." Her tone wasn't that of a friendly teacher anymore. There was a bitter edge to her words.

He saw something new in her face, too. Sadness? Something he couldn't put into words, but it settled around him like a cold, damp day. "What made you want to design toys?"

"I've been doing it my whole life," she said. "I didn't have many real ones, so I'd make them up. When my imagination wasn't enough, I'd draw pictures. I didn't have many clothes for Clara, but I could draw her in every outfit imaginable. I could give her a universe of toys to play with. Friends, places to go."

"You have brothers or sisters?"

She shook her head. "Lots of them. Or none. I lived in a bunch of foster homes when my mom was _getting better_ —that's what they'd tell me. More like drying out, but I didn't know it at the time."

"Your dad?"

"They divorced when I was a baby. I never knew him."

Her words hit him like a sledgehammer. It took him a moment to speak, but it had nothing to do with being tongue-tied. "That must have been tough. I have a brother. We had a great childhood. Loving parents. My mom died two years ago, but she was always there. Solid. A rock." He pushed away the memories. Time to change the subject. "Those drawings you did. Are they what's in your portfolio?"

She smiled and some of the chill lifted. "Well, not the ones I drew when I was six. But a lot of the ideas started there."

"I'd like to see them sometime. If that's okay."

"Of course." She wiped her mouth. "Any time." When she stood, he got up and held her coat. She gave him another one of those thermostat-raising smiles. "You did great. By the end of the week, you should be a pro at this. Lianne's going to be impressed. I can see the two of you at the Valentine's Day party already."

"Right." Lianne. He'd forgotten about her while he was talking to—no, _listening to_ Stephanie. "What should I get her for Valentine's Day?"

"I think that's going to have to wait for another lesson."

♥ ♥ ♥

The following Monday, Brad sauntered into the office, his green eyes sparkling.

"Whoa," Stephanie said. "You look like one happy camper. Lianne?"

"We went to the movies Saturday night."

"And?" Stephanie tried to attribute the sensation in her belly to a teacher's pride in her prize pupil.

"And you were right about it being a good way to start. I didn't have to look at her in the dark, and we didn't have to talk."

"And?" Where had that come from? Did she even want to know?

"And we went home. She met me at the theater after work. It was late and she had things to do with her family the next day."

"Did you invite her to the party?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. There didn't seem to be the right moment."

Was that relief she felt? No way. "I'm sure it'll come soon. Have you picked out her present?"

"I still think Valentine's Day presents are stupid but I'll come up with something."

"Well, you hardly need me anymore. How about your final exam? Tomorrow? Lunch in the cafeteria with—"

He cut her off. "Not Carrie and Megan. Please."

"No, I've got fresh blood for you." And it was going to cost her.

"The cafeteria? I've got a reputation to think of," Alicia had complained.

She had to promise to buy Alicia lunches for a week before she'd agree to have lunch with Brad and not give him a hard time.

His smile disappeared. "When?" He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Tomorrow. Enough time to prepare, not enough time to stew."

He grumbled, but at least he didn't turn green.

The next day, he showed up for work in crisply ironed khaki pants and a tan long-sleeved shirt with faint green stripes. His face reddened when she looked him up and down.

"It's all your fault," he said. "Until you started coaching me, I never felt out of place in the cafeteria.

She opened her mouth, but he waved her to silence.

"Lately, I _feel_ like a geek up there. Like everyone's watching me, wondering why they let me in."

"Brad, that's ridiculous. You work here, just like everyone else."

He adjusted his collar. "Well, today, we're going to blend in."

When she told him he was on his own, he paled.

She went behind her desk and pulled her purse from the drawer. "Graduation day, remember? You? Alicia? Casual conversation? No strings? You're not asking her on a date, remember. Just enjoying lunch."

"You're doing that question thing again," he mumbled.

In the cafeteria, after introducing Brad to Alicia, Stephanie found a table in the corner. When Greg from marketing slid into the seat across from her, blocking her view, she almost asked him to move. Good grief, what was wrong with her? He was exactly the sort of person who could get her a desk upstairs.

Do the dance, walk the walk. Network.

"Lose your geek?" Greg asked.

She raised her chin. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've been stuck downstairs too long. You've forgotten what a real man is like."

She most certainly had _not_ and it wasn't someone smarmy like Greg. Somehow, she got through lunch, looking interested, laughing at his lame jokes and trying not to gag at his double entendres. When he invited her to the Valentine's Day party, she almost choked on her fruit salad.

"I'm not sure, Greg. It's not a big item on the fourth floor so I forgot all about it. I'll let you know?"

"Don't wait too long," he said. "Melinda's been hinting, but I'd rather go with you—could be a great evening. Maybe more." He winked. "I hear they're looking for someone in dolls." His leering smile turned her stomach.

♥ ♥ ♥

Brad used the "crunch time" defense and avoided Stephanie's questions the rest of the day. Let her call Alicia for his final grade. He knew he'd passed—with flying colors, he expected. He had followed every rule, guideline and instruction. Alicia had laughed, responded to his questions, and he'd shown genuine interest. Heck, she _was_ interesting, especially without the pressure of trying to impress her or ask her out.

So why was he bummed? He refused to believe it could possibly have anything to do with the way Stephanie had chatted with that suit. Smiled for him. Tilted her head the way she did when she was thinking. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

No, it had to be the impending deadline. He adjusted the coding on the heroine. Something still didn't look right. For him, the villains were more fun than the heroes and heroines, so he'd put off dealing with Miss Marvella. He reran the sequence, shifted the angle and enlarged the image. Rotated it to a full front view. Holy crap. He minimized the window and glanced over his shoulder. Stephanie was engrossed in her typing.

He pulled up the original specs and studied the image of Miss Marvella. Somewhere along the line, Stephanie had infiltrated his subconscious until she'd replaced Miss Marvella. He was about to delete the botched file when he changed his mind and saved it. Someday, someone might need a blue-eyed blonde. Cursing under his breath, he went back to the real Miss Marvella and started fresh.

It took the better part of two days and nights, but his part of the debut project was finished. Not trusting the IT department, he saved, backed up and emailed copies of the completed files. Twenty-one hours ahead of schedule. His eyes burned, his stomach was raw from coffee overdosing and he knew he needed a shower. Stephanie had spent more time than usual upstairs, and when she was in the office, had stayed behind her desk. He crossed his arms and lowered his head to the desk. Just for a minute.

Someone floated into the office on a cloud of citrus. "I hear you've finished."

He raised his head and rubbed his eyes. Stephanie stood at the edge of his desk, a steaming mug in her hand.

"I'm coffeed out," he said. "But thanks anyway."

"It's hot chocolate. I thought it would be a nice change. Soothing, too."

Her fingers slid over his as he took the mug. His insides warmed as if he'd already drunk the cocoa. "Thanks." He attributed the raspiness in his voice to lack of sleep.

"Did you get Lianne her Valentine yet?" Stephanie asked. "The party's tomorrow."

He shook his head. "Too busy."

"I'm sure you could get a florist to deliver something to her at work. That might impress her—something to show off to the customers?"

"Maybe. Right now, I'm too brain dead to deal with it. I'm going to go crash for a while at home. I'm not even sure I'll be in tomorrow."

Her eyes flashed electric blue. "After all the work I put in, you're not going to ask her to the party? Come on, Brad. You can do it. Alicia said she would never have guessed you were a geek."

"Well, thank you very much, but I'm not ashamed of being a geek. I _like_ being a geek."

"Whatever. But you _have_ to ask her. Bring her flowers or chocolate—or both—when you do."

"All right, all right. But not until I've had a shower and some rack time."

He drove home on autopilot, showered and fell into bed. He was beyond exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come. He dozed in fits and starts, a montage of Stephanie, Lianne and exploding roses whirling through his mind. He pulled on some sweats and went to his computer. Silver strips of dawn slithered between the blinds and across the floor before he was satisfied with his efforts. This time, he crawled into bed and slept until mid-afternoon.

♥ ♥ ♥

Wrapped in her robe, Stephanie stood beside her bed, contemplating the red dress she'd laid out before showering. When she'd bought it a month ago, she'd deemed it perfect. Now it taunted her. Too short, too low-cut, too red. Not the dress someone who wanted to be taken seriously would wear. _Take me_ , it screamed. Nothing serious about it.

She should just blow off the whole party. All the time spent coaching Brad had left her dateless. Besides, she'd told Greg the Sleaze she wouldn't go as his date. She hadn't _exactly_ said she had another date, but if she showed up solo, he'd know she lied.

What was she doing? Her dream. Her talent should be enough, but she couldn't get anyone to look at her skills without connections. References, Greg called them. She called them bedpost notches and she wasn't going there. Even knowing that, she knew skipping the party wouldn't advance her career.

The doorbell snapped her out of her muddle. Tightening the belt on her robe, she padded to the door and peered through the peephole. Heat flooded her face while butterflies did the hustle in her belly.

She pulled the door open. The night breeze swirled under the silk of her robe. "Brad? What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the party? What happened with Lianne?"

His eyes skimmed up and down her body. "You're cold. If you'll let me in, I'll answer."

She hadn't noticed. She crossed her arms over her chest. Better he thought her obvious display through the thin fabric was due to the temperature. But it was heat she felt, not cold.

"Of course." She stepped aside and nodded him in, closing the door behind him. "Sit down."

"I can't stay." He stopped on the tiled floor of her small entry. "I wanted to catch you before you went to the party."

"Aren't you going?"

He shook his head. "I went to Mulligan's to talk with Lianne. Only this time, I listened and decided I really didn't care about her." He rubbed his hands along his thighs. "I never asked her to the party."

For an instant, her heart jumped. Had he come to invite her? Looking at his jeans and parka, she swallowed her disappointment. "I'm so sorry. You worked so hard."

"Hey, no sweat." His eyes twinkled bright green and he gave her a lopsided grin. "I can apply what I've learned to other women. Your desensitization technique seemed to work."

"I'm glad. You can still go to the party, though. You don't have to bring a date."

"Not really in a party mood."

"But you should be. You busted your tail to get your part of the project finished."

"I'll celebrate when the video game's in the stores. That's still a ways off. I'm not much into the Sweet Susie celebration thing." He pulled a small brown bag from his pocket. "Or Valentine's Day, but I got you something. A thank you." He turned to the door. "I have to go. Enjoy the party."

"Brad?"

He shook his head. "Go. You belong with the suits. Get yourself the job you deserve."

Holding the bag he'd given her, Stephanie stared after him as he slipped out the door and into the night. She chastised herself for the empty feeling that engulfed her. She'd seen _My Fair Lady_. Professor Higgins and Eliza fell in love. However, that was a story. This was real life and she had to get on with hers.

Her fingers explored the gift through the paper. It felt like a CD jewel case. True to his beliefs, he hadn't kowtowed to the chocolate or flower industries. She gave a wry smile. Or the wrapping paper ones, either. Maybe he was giving her a not-so-subtle hint that he didn't like the music she'd been playing.

Strolling into the bedroom, she pulled the case from the bag. No label. Had he taken the time to do a compilation for her? His favorites, probably. No matter. She could listen while she got dressed. After popping the CD into the player on her nightstand, she reached for the dress.

Puzzled when nothing happened, she ejected the disc. Of course. Brad was a computer geek. Curious, she went to her desk and inserted the disc into her computer.

With the party forgotten half an hour later, she sat at her keyboard interacting with the images Brad had created. Her images. He'd looked at her portfolio. Dolls to dress in clothes she'd designed. Rooms to furnish, color schemes to select.

When she finally clicked "Finish," the screen dimmed and images floated into focus. A park-like scene emerged, with a path meandering through the trees. A man grew larger as he walked toward her, and as he did, the resemblance to Brad grew with him. From behind his back, he pulled out a huge bouquet of multi-colored flowers plus a giant size box of assorted chocolates.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Stephanie" in a lacy script scrolled across the monitor, finally stopping in a heart shape.

Tears streamed down her face. She rushed for her phone. Damn, she didn't have his number. Back at her computer, she waited impatiently for her Internet connection so she could look up his number. Three Brads, one Bradley, a Bradford and six B. Hewitts. How could she have talked with him for three weeks and never asked his full name? Or where he lived?

The thought of waiting until Monday had her pacing the room. The office. It would be open for the party. She plucked her dress from the bed. She studied it for a moment, then let it slip to the floor. Instead, she grabbed a pair of black slacks and a red sweater, shoved her feet into her loafers and ran for the door.

In the elevator at Wilson and Wilkes, her finger hovered over the panel. Not eight, she decided. Four first. There might be something in her office that would give her what she needed without having to deal with the party and its inherent complications.

Her footfalls echoed through the empty hallway. Opening her office door, the soft glow from Brad's monitor cast flickering shadows through the space as images exploded on his screensaver. Without bothering to flip on the lights, she stepped across the room and slipped into his chair, reaching for his mouse. Probably easier to find what she needed on his computer.

As she jiggled the mouse to activate the screen, the room filled with light. Startled, she whipped her head toward the door.

"What do you think you're doing?" Brad entered the room, closing the door behind him.

She jumped to her feet. "Brad! You scared me to death."

"Why are you here? The party's upstairs." He frowned, looking over her shoulder toward his computer. "What are you looking for?"

Her heart drummed. "You," she whispered.

♥ ♥ ♥

Brad waited for his heart to start beating again. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"I...um...wanted to thank you?"

Now his heart pounded like a kettledrum. Her husky voice and half-lidded eyes promised more than simple thanks. "Is that a question?" he asked, cursing the flippant tone that erupted, seemingly of its own volition.

She blinked and cleared her throat, her demeanor transformed into the total professional. "No. Thank you. The CD was a perfect Valentine."

"I'm glad you liked it." Was that the best he could do? At least he hadn't stammered.

She chewed on her lower lip. "I think you should propose something like it to Product Development. I'll bet there's a huge market for non-exploding video games."

"Maybe." Damn. How did this turn into a business discussion?

"Seriously, Brad. I think you might have a gold mine here. I could present it if you want."

She started to step around him, toward her desk.

He reached for her arm. "Stephanie. Wait."

She turned slowly, her eyes downcast. When she raised them, there was no mistaking their heat. They sucked him in like a whirlpool. Floundering in their blue depths, he struggled for the words. "Talking to you. It's not the same as before."

"I know. Maybe we should go upstairs? To the party?"

Never mind her eyes. Hearing the upward tilt to her words had him rock hard. "Not a good idea at the moment."

Her face flushed. "You might be right. You want to practice talking again?"

"No."

"Go for coffee?"

"Had enough lately. And what happened to the open-ended questions you harped on?"

Her laughter rang in his ears. He hardened further.

"You're right," she said. "Okay. Tell me what's on your mind right now."

"You don't want to know," he growled.

"I think I do." She narrowed the already too-close distance between them. "Tell me. Please?" The soft click as she set her glasses on his desk filled the room. Her scent, that citrus essence, washed over him like a sudden, intense summer rain. A rain that somehow evaporated every bit of moisture in his mouth.

He cradled her face in his hands. "I'm thinking how blue your eyes are. How soft your lips look. What it would be like to kiss them. If you taste as good as you smell."

She tilted her head up. Her tongue flicked across her lips. "You're doing great. Go on."

He brought his lips next to her ear. "I'm thinking about how your breasts fill out your sweater, and how much I want to touch them. I want to feel your nipples harden when I suck them. I want to see your eyes when I'm inside you. I want to hear you say my name when you come." He ran his finger along her jaw.

She quivered beneath his touch. "I think you've talked enough." Her breath warmed his neck.

When she threaded her fingers through his hair, electricity tingled across his scalp. He bent and grazed her lips with his. Soft and tender as he'd imagined. He increased the pressure, asking. She parted her lips, answering. His tongue swept across the inside of her lower lip. She tasted even better than she smelled. Warm, spicy and totally Stephanie. He probed deeper, and when her tongue entwined with his, he pulled her against him. Her breasts against his chest. Her hips against his erection—his painful, throbbing erection.

The kiss intensified until it took on a life of its own. The universe shrank until it enclosed them in a blanket of pleasure. Soft whimpers from Stephanie echoed his moans until he could no longer identify which of them was their source. Blood rushed in his ears. Her heart beat against his chest and he swore he could feel its pulsations through his entire body.

When they both needed to breathe again, he broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, panting. Neither spoke for several long moments.

Stephanie shattered the silence with a whispered, "Wow."

His heart still pounded, but at least he was pretty sure it wasn't going to escape his ribcage. "That was...intense."

"You don't kiss like a geek," she said.

He stepped back until he felt the edge of his desk behind him. "I need to sit down."

"Me, too," she said with a smile that ramped his heart rate back up to drum corps proportions.

He sank into his chair and pulled her across his lap. "And how many geeks have you kissed?"

"Counting you?" Her already flushed face reddened further. "One."

"Maybe we all kiss like that." He stroked her cheek.

"You're right. Maybe I need to kiss a few more. You know, for comparison. But first, maybe you should refresh my memory."

She wriggled on his lap and he was afraid he'd lose it. For an instant, he thought nothing could be better than making love to her right now, right here. He glanced toward the door, thinking he really ought to lock it. Then she touched his lips in a kiss so tender he knew he couldn't go through with it, no matter how much he needed pure physical release. With Lianne, sure, but not Stephanie.

A frisson ran through him at the realization. He lifted her from his lap and stood. "Stephanie—" He clasped her hands in his. "I want you. But I want it to be something special. Not a quickie in the office. I want it to be slow. In a bed. With flowers. And chocolate." He closed his eyes as he waited for her answer. He couldn't bear to see her face if she wanted nothing more than a tumble.

"I've got a bed," she murmured. "And I'll take a rain-check on the flowers and chocolate. Might be hard to find, this close to Valentine's Day, you know."

Her voice cracked. When he opened his eyes, hers glistened with tears. One trickled down her cheek. He leaned forward and kissed it, tasting the salt. "I still think Valentine's Day is a commercial plot," he said. "But I've got really strong feelings about February thirteenth."

"It has potential. Can we stop talking and take the celebration to my place? Unless you'd prefer yours?"

"Mine's closer." He took her hand and started for the door.

♥ ♥ ♥

Later that night, Brad lay in the dark, totally content, with Stephanie snuggled into the hollow of his collarbone. With her, the physical release was only a fraction of the pleasure they'd shared.

The thought of an empty bed was almost painful. "Will you stay?" He caressed her bare shoulder.

She wiggled closer and toyed with the hair on his chest. "For a while."

He glanced at the clock. Not quite midnight. "It's still the thirteenth. Would you like to celebrate some more?"

Her answer was to straddle him and bring his hands to her breasts. "I have to be at work Monday. I hereby declare February thirteenth a three day holiday."

He thumbed her nipples, feeling them rise to tight peaks. "I can go with that." He closed his eyes as she bowed her head and swung her hair across his chest.

"Brad?"

"Mmmh?"

"How do you feel about St. Patrick's Day?" She moved back and forth along his erection until he thought he might die from sheer ecstasy.

"It might be my second favorite holiday."

"Easter?"

"Stephanie, with you, every day's a holiday."

She reached between them and guided him inside. "With flowers and chocolate? Even if flowers die and I'll eat the chocolate?"

Surrounded by her tight, moist heat, he tried to find a few brain cells to answer. "Sure."

Moving her hips, "I've decided to call off my comparison research project. You are the first, last and only geek for me."

Before he lost himself in her, he made a mental note to consider something more permanent to add to her flowers and chocolate. Maybe something sparkly in a velvet box.

#  Relationships

_Amy's ready for a weekend of solitude and pampering, but her plans turn to thoughts of a no-strings fling when she meets_ _Greg._

♥ ♥ ♥

Amy closed her anthropology textbook with a satisfied thwack. She pushed away from the study carrel in the library stacks and knuckled her lower back, twisting until her vertebrae snap-crackle-popped into alignment. No matter what Professor Dillard threw at her tomorrow night, she was ready. She hoped. While she stuffed reams of notes into her backpack, her friends and coworkers' voices played like a symphony in her head, heavy on the percussion.

Get your degree, Amy. You put that jerk of a husband through school. He dumped you, and good riddance. It's your turn now. Go. Relax. Meet some new people. Intelligent people. Not the riffraff that comes into the diner. Have a fling.

Right. As if she had time to meet any of these intelligent people. Most avoided her like she was some kind of plague-ridden alien. Like age was contagious. Good heavens, she was only thirty-five. She zipped her pack. So what? No matter what her friends said, she was here for an education, not a social life.

Whoever said adults going back to college made the best students obviously hadn't had to work enough hours to feed two kids, pay for someone to watch them while she went to night classes, and still manage to find time to study. Aside from carryover credits, nothing from the two years at junior college in her former life helped in her current classes. If she remembered anything at all, it was way out of date.

She'd crammed as much as she could, and for the first time this semester, felt like she didn't need to keep her textbooks open behind the diner's counter, reading paragraphs between orders. And, blessed miracle, she had a three-day weekend off from work.

Three days. All to herself. Only her exam tomorrow night, then nothing until Monday.

Tomorrow was a teacher workday at the elementary school, and Roger had already picked up the girls. Jerk of a husband he may have been, but he loved his daughters. Together, she and Roger had created something wonderful, and neither was going to let past mistakes hurt their children. When Roger said he'd be there, he was. Better than the stories her coworkers at the diner told about last minute cancellations, unkept promises, and just plain no-shows. The pure joy in their daughters' eyes—and his—when he'd picked them up made her wonder if the fates had decreed she and Roger would get together for the sole purpose of creating Jessie and Elyse, and once done, would move apart.

She started making plans. Selfish plans. Soak in a hot bubble bath? Enjoy a glass of wine? Dare to watch a chick flick or read a sizzling romance? Be totally decadent and paint her toenails?

She rubbed her neck, trying to relieve the tension of hours bent over books, and glanced at her watch. Hours was right. Good grief, it was almost eleven. She wriggled into her parka and shouldered her pack. If she hurried, she might make the last bus. She'd have to. With a grand total of three dollars and twenty-eight cents in her wallet, cab fare was out of the question.

She wrapped a scarf around her neck, tucked her hair up into her knit cap, and bolted down the stairs, clutching her anthro book to her chest. The elevator was powered by tired gerbils on a treadmill in the basement, and she could run the three flights in half the time it took for the elevator to get down, even if she had the amazing good fortune of a car waiting at her floor.

Across the lobby at full tilt, then down the library's cement stairs to the sidewalk. But she hadn't considered the weather. While she'd been lost in the tribal customs of indigenous Australians, someone had had the nerve to dump at least two inches of snow on the ground, much of which had turned to ice. Halfway down, Amy slipped and landed unceremoniously on her bottom. She scrambled to her feet in time to see the last bus pulling away from the stop.

Stamping her foot did nothing but let her know she must have twisted her ankle in her fall. Dammit. Telling herself that at least she wasn't paying a sitter did little to assuage her frustration. A long walk on a cold night was not in her plans.

"You all right, ma'am?"

Amy started at the sound of a deep male voice. Muggers wouldn't ask you if you were all right. They certainly wouldn't call you "ma'am _."_ Still, her heart pounded a little faster. "I'm fine. Thanks for asking." She squinted into the street lamp that kept her unknown companion in shadow. Six feet tall, at least, she guessed. He extended something in front of him. Her anthro book.

"I think this is yours," he said. Nice voice. Hint of a southern accent, maybe. That would explain the "ma'am." She reached out and took the book from his hand.

"Thanks. Can't afford to lose this." She maneuvered around under the light to get a better look at him. A little older than she expected. Lines etched around his eyes. Friendly eyes. Blue. Like his parka. Stop that. She'd been out of circulation way too long. Give her someone who said "ma'am" instead of "dude", and her hands start sweating.

"Anthro 110. Dillard, right?" he said.

She nodded. "Yes, and I have a midterm tomorrow and need to get home." She worked her pack off her shoulders, zipped the book into the outer compartment. Somehow, it didn't bother her when he helped her slip the pack back on.

"Relationships. That's the key," he said.

"What?" Okay, now that was a bit much. They hadn't even exchanged names yet.

"On his midterm. He'll ask at least six questions about how the different tribes look at relationships. You know, a mother's sister is an aunt in our culture, but in some tribes she's just as likely to be considered another mother."

"Oh, yes. Relationships. Thanks. I guess I'll have to review some more. How do you know he'll ask that?"

"TA'd his class last year."

"Ah. You're an anthro major, then? Grad student?"

"Yes. Should have my doctorate in two more years. If I can squeeze in all the classes with my work schedule. Might take longer. Been at it long enough, a few more years won't matter."

"Good luck. I know about working and classes. I can't get in more than two a semester. I may never graduate. Almost guaranteed if I don't get home and go over those relationships again. Thanks for the advice." She stepped away, gritting her teeth when her ankle protested.

"That was the last bus, you know." He stood there with his hands in his pockets. "It's cold, too."

"Yes, I know. That's why I need to get going. I've got a long walk."

"I'm Greg."

"Amy." She gave a sigh of exasperation. "Look, Greg, it's been nice chatting, but like you said, that was the last bus, and it's cold, and I need to study. Maybe I'll see you around campus."

"I have a car. It's in the west lot." He smiled.

She smiled back, and when she limped because her ankle hurt and he put his arm around her waist, she leaned into him. As they walked to his car, she shoved aside thoughts that screamed _romance novel cliché—heroine sprains ankle, handsome hero comes to the rescue, and they fall in love and live happily ever after._

Damn, she'd fallen down half a flight of stairs and was lucky she hadn't broken something. People fell in real life. Even twisted ankles. Still, she tested the joint, pleased when it accepted her weight. She inched away from Greg's support, her mind discarding the romance novel clichés and grabbing the suspense novel clichés instead. The stories where the heroine blindly follows the murdering maniac—the one with the disarming smile and friendly blue eyes—into disaster.

"Ankle feeling better?" Greg's mellow voice pulled her out of her personal story hour.

"Yes, thanks. If I'd known the weather was going to change, I'd have worn boots, not sneakers."

By now, they'd reached the perimeter of the west parking lot. Amy scanned the half-empty rows of cars, trying to pick out which was Greg's. Something sensible. An SUV, probably. Not new. Black. Mud-stained, maybe a couple of dents or dings.

His hand at her back was gentle. She accepted his touch. Polite, guiding—not possessive.

"Over here," he said. He led her to the edge of the last row, where a lone blue car sat under a light pole.

"This is yours?" she asked, aware her voice expressed her awe at the sparkling, well-maintained Chevelle SS.

He shrugged. "Is now. Was my grandfather's. When he died, my grandmother kept it."

"But she only drove it to church on Sundays, right? What is it, a sixty-six?"

"Good eye. You into cars?"

"Not really. My family had a dealership a long, long time ago. I kind of grew up on the lot."

"Well, this one came at the right price. Maintenance isn't so bad, but gas is a killer."

"I can't believe you actually drive this."

"I keep telling myself to sell it and get something more practical, but it's got too many memories on board."

He opened the door and she slid in, running her hand over the smooth seats. She relaxed a little. Anyone who cared that much about his car wasn't going to do anything that might get it all bloody.

"Where to?" Greg asked.

_Where to_ was the question of the century, all right. Home, for another lonely night? The bubble bath and pedicure lost some appeal. His place, for goodness knows what? Right. Like she'd ever done anything _that_ stupid. Not even when she'd met Roger.

She met his gaze, and his lazy smile, so unassuming, loosened something inside. Loosened. Didn't untie. _Be sensible._

Nevertheless, the words poured out. "I know it's late, but maybe a cup of coffee? My treat, if you'll give me a couple more pointers about Dillard's midterm. My GPA needs the boost."

He twisted the key in the ignition and the car purred to life. The seat vibrated beneath her.

"My notes are at my place," he said. "Maybe a couple of drafts of Dillard's old exams, too."

When she didn't respond right away, he smiled again.

_Whoa_. Between the smile and the bottom massage from his V-8, sensible was getting harder to hang onto. "Umm..." was all she managed before he backed out of the parking slot.

"I make a lousy cup of coffee," he said, as if he'd read her mind. "But I've got a pretty good memory. Any favorite coffee places?"

Relief, with just a dash of disappointment, flooded her. She almost blurted out the name of the diner where she worked before common sense took over. All she needed was a million questions, not to mention another million unfounded rumors, if she walked in off-duty with a man. A good-looking man.

"Whatever's open," she said. "I'm not fussy. I drink plain coffee, black, but at this hour, it'll be decaf. Don't need those fancy frou-frou concoctions."

Moments later, they sipped coffee from thick mugs in a booth at Denny's. Greg asked to see Amy's notes, and she spread them on the table. Without asking, Greg simply got up and slid in beside her, reading her notes, commenting here, highlighting there, inundating her with his clean, masculine scent everywhere.

Study date. No! Study session. Not a date.

Before long, Amy stopped noticing when the waitress refilled their mugs, only that they never seemed to be empty. A crumb-filled plate perched near the edge of the table. She ran her tongue over her teeth, tasted cinnamon and nutmeg. Apple pie? When had she eaten the pie? And only one plate. _Had they shared pie?_ That brought it back to date, didn't it?

Later—much later—when they stood outside her apartment door, because, of course, he insisted on seeing her safely inside her building, she tried for a casual smile.

"Thanks for the help," she said. "I think I'll pass the midterm."

"You'll ace it," he said. "I'm positive you will. How about a late supper afterwards, to celebrate?"

"Or drown my sorrows. Sometimes I freeze during exams."

"Relax. You know the material. Remember. Relationships."

"Right. Uncles and cousins and aunts, oh my."

When he laughed, she tilted her head up. His kiss was gentle, a mere touching of lips. She opened to him, and his tongue delved deeper. He tasted of coffee and apple pie. They'd definitely shared. Her pack clunked to the floor. Her hands entwined in his hair, pulled him down to her. He cupped her buttocks, brought her close enough to feel his arousal.

With a sigh, he released her. "You need to rest, which means I need to leave. Now. I'll see you tomorrow night. Pick you up at nine." He waited long enough for her to fish her keys from her purse. When her fingers trembled and she missed the lock, he covered her hand with his warm, strong one and slotted it for her. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open a crack. "Good night, Amy."

Inside, she closed the door behind her, leaning against it. She listened as his footsteps faded down the hall.

From the kitchen, Rupert, the family cat, padded to Amy's feet, mewing.

She sank to the couch and patted her lap in invitation. "I know I'm late. But it was a study session. Not a date." She scratched Rupert behind his ears. His cat-motor rumbled through her. "All we talked about was anthropology. Honest." Rupert kneaded her thighs. "Okay, we kissed. Once. And it was hot. But a date means talking about personal stuff."

Which, she thought, would happen tomorrow night, and he'd find out she had two kids and a failed marriage, and he'd be on his way.

Stop it. All that talk about relationships has your mind in overdrive. One study date—session—doesn't mean a relationship. He's nice, he's definitely hot, and his kisses curl your toes. Maybe everyone's right. Maybe you do need a fling. Recharge the batteries and you'll be fine for another two years.

She put Rupert on the floor, checked his water, and went to bed. Grateful for the luxury of not needing an alarm for the morning, she closed her eyes, falling into dreams of indigenous tribes filled with tall natives with blue eyes and friendly smiles.

♥ ♥ ♥

The next evening, relaxed from a late-afternoon bubble bath, Amy sat on the bus, wriggling her freshly-painted toenails in her boots. Fuck-me red toenails. She didn't remember buying the polish, but when she'd found it buried in her collection of pale pinks and creamy corals, she couldn't resist. Not that Greg would ever see them, of course. But she'd know they were there, and that was all that mattered. Maybe she wouldn't go as quite as far as _fling,_ but she'd had her grand awakening last night. Time to get out of her rut.

During the exam, she imagined herself in the booth at Denny's. She heard Greg's calm voice, not feeding her facts, but making her think, draw her own conclusions. The words seemed to write themselves as she filled in her exam booklet. And when she hit the section on relationships, she felt a smile stretch across her face. Maybe Greg was right. Maybe she _was_ going to ace this one.

She dropped her exam booklet on Professor Dillard's desk.

He added it to the pile, squaring them. "Thank you, Ms. Kellar. Enjoy your weekend."

Her face warmed, and she wondered if he knew anything. God, Greg had been Professor Dillard's Teaching Assistant. Did they talk? Afraid to meet his gaze, she gave him a polite thank you and strode up the aisle and out the door. In the hall, she paused and peered in both directions, half-expecting Greg to be waiting. No. He'd said nine, which was over an hour from now.

Arriving at the bus stop as the bus was pulling in, not pulling away, added another layer to Amy's good feeling. She climbed aboard, flashed her pass at the driver and found an empty seat in the back.

When the bus wheezed to a stop at her block, it was all she could do to refrain from skipping the rest of the way home. She took the stairs two at a time to her third-floor apartment. The key slid into the lock like butter. The squeaky-creak when she pushed the door open sounded like music instead of setting her teeth on edge. She dumped her book bag on the floor and hurried to change for dinner with Greg, still avoiding thinking of it as a date. Moms didn't date.

With the radio in the bedroom blaring Jimmy Buffet, she rummaged through the cluttered vanity drawer in the bathroom and found her curling iron. While it heated, she spritzed herself with perfume, dabbed on some foundation—was she that pale?—and took a deep breath. At this rate, she'd be exhausted before Greg even got here. She forced herself to slow down. Get dressed. Sit. Read.

At precisely eight forty-two, according to the display on her VCR, the doorbell rang. Early was good. Waiting was the pits. Amy put down the book she'd been staring at and tried to wipe what had to be a stupid grin off her face. She smoothed her skirt and went to open the door.

Roger stood there, flanked by Jessie and Elyse, their overnight bags in hand. "Don't you answer your damn cell phone? Or check your messages?" he snapped.

His tone demanded answers, and Amy reverted to form, providing them without thinking beyond the moment. "I was taking an exam. I forgot to turn my cell back on." She swiveled her head and saw the blinking light on the answering machine.

"I don't have time now," Roger said. "If you'd checked, you'd know that I have to fly to New Jersey." He glanced at his watch. "Now." He bent over and hugged and kissed each daughter. "Thanks for understanding. We'll do something extra special next time, okay?"

Glad that there didn't seem to be any resentment on the girls' faces when they said good-bye, Amy watched Roger race down the stairs. Jessie and Elyse pushed past her, dragging their cases toward their room. Moments later, they returned.

"Can we watch TV?" Jessie asked, displaying a DVD case. "We were going to watch with Daddy, but he had to go."

Amy sank to the couch. This was her life. Nothing ever went according to plan. "What's the movie?"

"Pippi Longstocking," Elyse said.

Amy turned over the case. One hour, twenty-one minutes. "I'm not sure. It's pretty late to be starting a movie."

"Please, Mommy. No school tomorrow."

They'd already had one disappointment tonight. "All right. But get in your jammies first."

When the doorbell rang a minute later, there was no smile on her face.

Greg stood there, wearing neatly pressed khakis and a button-down blue oxford shirt. She followed his eyes as they did the same, taking her in. She'd chosen a simple brown skirt, a long-sleeved yellow sweater that hinted of cleavage without revealing much, and leather dress boots.

"You look good," he said.

"You, too." God, how dumb.

"How was the exam?"

"I think I did okay. Thanks so much. Last night really made a difference."

He smiled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. She wondered if he was thinking about the studying or the good-night kiss.

"Glad to help. You ready? I'm starved. I thought we'd do a little better than Denny's tonight."

"Umm ... I think ... I mean, something's come up, and I can't make it. I need to stay home." She cast a quick glance into the living room, but the girls hadn't reappeared yet.

He eyed her again and frowned. "I'm not sure I understand."

She realized what it must look like. She wasn't dressed for a night of hanging around her apartment. He must think she had another date.

Just then, Jessie and Elyse scrambled into the room, dragging pillows and blankets, already arguing about who would be in charge of the remote. Amy sighed. "My daughters. They were supposed to be with their father this weekend. Plans changed."

He didn't speak, and she rushed to fill the void. "I just found out about it about three minutes ago. He dropped them and dashed off. We've been divorced for three years. I was going to tell you, but I thought I could have one night being just me, you know."

"Maybe we can finish this inside instead of out in the hall? Unless you don't want your kids to see me."

"No, that's not it. But—you don't want to leave?" Amy stepped back and Greg followed.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Well, I sort of left out the fact that I had kids last night. That wasn't totally honest."

"We didn't talk about anything but anthro last night. I figured tonight we'd do all the autobiographical stuff. If having kids was a stopper, I'd have asked about it before inviting you to dinner. Maybe you should ask me a couple of make-it-or-break-it questions, in case you don't want me around."

Amy knew her face was glowing like a Hawaiian sunset. "No. I think we can take things as they come."

"Good." He crossed the room and crouched to the floor where the girls had settled into their blanket cocoons. "Hi. I'm Greg. Can I watch, too?"

They giggled in unison. "Okay."

"I'll sit on the couch with your mom, though," he said. "I didn't bring my pillow. Is that all right?"

More giggles and a couple of head bobs.

Greg joined Amy on the couch, sitting close. He put an arm around her shoulder. She stiffened for a moment, glanced at the girls who were engrossed in the television. At six and eight, they probably wouldn't read anything into it. She relaxed and leaned into him, taking in his spicy aftershave, his broad chest, and steady heartbeat.

"Want me to call for a pizza?" he asked.

"Pizza! Yippee!" Squeals of delight from the floor "No peppers!" Jessie added.

"I guess that's a yes," Amy said. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "And if you're not aware of it yet, kids are endowed with super hearing, so we're just going to watch the movie."

Greg mimed zipping his lips, and squeezed her thigh. He pulled himself up and looked around. "Phone? I'll order the food."

"Kitchen," Amy said. "Number's on the fridge."

One hour and thirty minutes later, the girls were off to bed. Amy tucked them in, kissed them, and enjoyed the swelling in her heart as they snuggled under the covers. Greg had gathered the pizza debris and was wiping down the kitchen counter. She hovered in the doorway a moment, not sure if the pang in her chest was a residual from her good-nights, or brand new.

Greg had arbitrated remote disputes, rationed pizza, and laughed in all the right places when the girls talked back to the movie. She'd tried one or two dates after Roger had split, but they'd always been awkward and uncomfortable. Greg simply took over, making himself part of a foursome, not an outsider.

He rinsed his hands, dried them, and faced her. "What's next?"

He was the champion at asking the questions of the century. "What did you have in mind?" she asked.

He grinned. "You mean when I rang your doorbell or right now? Because they're exactly the same, but I don't think that's going to happen."

Amy chuckled. "Right now, and realistically."

"There's some wine left. Another glass?"

She nodded. He poured, then walked toward the living room. She followed.

"You were great with the girls," she said. "A natural. Should I be asking you where you got your experience?"

"I'm the youngest of five. I was practically born baby-sitting for nieces and nephews."

"So, that means—?"

"If you're asking do I have any of my own, the answer is no. Have I been married? No again. Why? I'm not sure. I saw what my parents, my brothers and sisters had, the way they fell in love. I guess I'm waiting for that to happen to me."

"I thought I loved my ex. Actually, I know I did. But it wasn't the same for him. I didn't expect a fifty-fifty relationship, but one day I woke up and realized that ninety-ten wasn't the way to go. All we had was the kids, and they're happier with us apart."

"They seem well-adjusted."

"Tonight—he's never done that before. He's always been a rock for the girls." She swirled the wine in her glass. "Never mind. The only connections Roger and I have anymore are sound asleep in the bedroom."

"Sound asleep?"

She nodded. "Out like the proverbial lights." Her heart thumped until she thought he'd hear it.

He took a sip of wine, then set his glass on the coffee table. "I've been wanting to do this all day." His fingers wrapped around hers. Transfixed by his gaze, she was only peripherally aware he'd taken her glass and set it beside his. He leaned toward her a fraction. "May I?"

There was no misinterpreting what he wanted. Or that he saw the answer in her eyes, because he didn't hesitate to press his lips to hers. She invited him in, teased with her tongue. He accepted, probed deeper, and their tongues entwined in a frenzied dance. His taste—wine and pizza. His scent—masculine and spicy. His hands cradled her face. Pulled her closer. A calloused finger traced her jawline. She intercepted it, kissed it, nibbled it.

Soft moans—his or hers? Rapid breathing. Definitely hers. And his.

His large, warm hand in hers, shown to her breast. Her small hand in his, placed at his groin. Straining against each other, as if they could squeeze inside each other's skin. The universe shrank to a corner of her sofa.

And expanded enough to pull away. A very important part of her universe, sound asleep or not, demanded a moment of rational thought here. "Stop. Please." She barely heard the words herself, hated to utter them and put a halt to the ecstatic dizziness. He heard, because he obeyed.

Panting, he released her breast. "Wow," he said after several long seconds.

"I'll see your _wow_ and raise it to _intense_. But too fast. Too soon." She glanced in the direction of the girls' room.

"I understand." He raked his fingers through his hair. "I can't say I like it, but I understand. I'll do whatever you say."

"Can we talk? Or just sit here? I don't want you to go—but I can't do this. Not yet. I thought I needed a fling. A battery recharge. But—"

His breathing evened. "But?"

"But if I did—I don't know if I could—if you're fling material."

"So you're saying I'm not good enough?"

"God, no. I mean, God, yes." She lowered her head to her hands. "I'm not saying this right."

"I'm not going anywhere for a while." He gave a half-chuckle, half-snorting sound. "I think if I had to walk right now, it would kill me."

She let her gaze flicker to the bulge in his pants. And smiled. "What I think I'm trying to say, is that this was supposed to be my all-for-Amy weekend. No kids, the midterm behind me, and I don't have to be at work until Monday. I was going to veg—total couch potato. Bubble bath, trashy novels, a few chick flicks. But then I met you."

"So I ruined your perfect weekend?"

She heard the teasing in his voice and picked up both wine glasses. She handed him one and went on. "No. You just expanded the horizons a little. So now, I was going to do all the Amy stuff, but I was going to have a fling."

"A fling." He nodded, all seriousness. "So I'm a fling."

"No. Not after tonight. A fling means no strings, and if we'd kept going, I don't think I could deal with the aftermath."

Greg leaned into the corner of the sofa and pulled Amy into him. With his arms wrapped around her, he nuzzled her hair. "Aftermath?"

"You know. A weekend of sex, and then you go off to your life, and my girls come home and I'm back to mine. With some nice memories, but not much else."

"So I was supposed to be your boy toy for the weekend?"

"Stop it. My brain and my mouth aren't connected right now. Yes, I thought it would be a one-night stand—maybe two, because it was a long weekend. But I can't put you into that pigeonhole anymore. If we ... you know—"

"Made love?"

"Yes. If we did, it would have to mean more than a weekend for me."

"Do I get a turn to talk here?"

"Please. I'm tired of the taste of shoe leather."

"You're not a one-night stand, fling, quickie, or anything remotely related in my book, Amy. I would be honored if you would allow me the pleasure of courting you and your daughters. Slowly, at whatever pace you deem appropriate."

"Can you be back here at eight tomorrow morning?" Once the words left her mouth, Amy knew she'd taken an irreversible step toward silencing her internal voices.

He sat up. "I can. Why?"

"I promised the girls we'd go out for pancakes tomorrow. Will you join us?"

"I'd love it."

"You think you can walk yet?"

"For you, I'd cross the Serengeti, pain and all."

"How would Professor Dillard classify this kind of a relationship?" she asked. "I don't recall reading about one like it."

"Special."

She lifted her wineglass. "To relationships."

#  Out of Sight

Sometimes being invisible is a good thing. Or is it? Alone with a captivating colleague, Sandra deals with the reality of her marriage and herself.

♥ ♥ ♥

"Have a good trip," Brett said. He proffered his cheek for a good-bye kiss, exactly the way he had every morning for the last twenty-nine years. "Call me when you get there."

Sandra gave him a peck on that soft place above his now almost-white beard. After all these years, she was the one going on a business trip. Brett's turn to be left to an empty house.

Her stomach lurched and her heart skipped. Travel nerves, she told herself, but a sense of freedom rose within her on the cab ride to the airport.

Three days away from her friends, her family, anyone who knew her. She forced herself to concentrate on the reason for the trip—to sit down face-to-face and iron out all those details that telephone calls and emails wouldn't permit. Put the first edition of the new journal to bed.

"I need you here, where we can do it in real time," Jim had said. "Fly out for a couple of days, and we can probably get the whole thing finished. You can stay at my place—it'll be more convenient than a hotel. Everything's in my home office."

"I don't want to put you to any trouble," she'd replied. "Your wife doesn't need a houseguest."

"No problem. Katie will be in Brazil, so it's not an imposition. And it'll save a lot of commuting time."

She'd agreed, both out of a need to get the job done, and an unexplainable desire to work side by side with this man she knew only from e-mails and phone calls. Even when those e-mails and phone calls wandered into the personal arena, even with the occasional flirtation, underneath, it had always been about the work.

Brett thought nothing of her staying at Jim's, and that unnerved her. Why hadn't she told him Jim's wife would be out of the country? Would he care? Make a fuss? Insist she stay at a hotel? Maybe she'd been afraid he wouldn't have reacted. That he figured nobody else would find her the least bit appealing, and she wasn't sure her ego was ready to deal with that.

She tried reviewing her notes, gave up, and picked up the in-flight travel magazine, which did little to hold her attention. She forked over the bucks for the movie, adjusted the headphones and stared at the blurred screen. Shortly after the final credits rolled, they'd landed in Albuquerque.

She un-clicked her seatbelt and reached into the overhead for her carryon.

"Let me help you, ma'am," came a voice from behind her.

Sandra turned and stared into the eyes of a man she pegged as mid-thirties. Ma'am? "Thanks," she mumbled. Bad enough AARP was bombarding her with premature membership appeals, but _ma'am_?

Navigating the airport, following signs to ground transportation, she heard nothing but her luggage wheels clacking out an annoying rhythm. _Over the hill, over the hill, over the hill_.

The cab driver approached. "This your bag, ma'am?" he asked, and she snapped back to reality. The driver put her case in the trunk of the cab and opened the rear door for her. From the cabbie, the ma'am didn't rankle quite as much. That was his job, after all. Besides, he couldn't be more than twenty.

Would Jim take her bag as if she was too feeble to manage it on her own? She gave the cabbie Jim's address and punched Brett's office number into her cell phone. Why was she glad to get his voice mail?

"Hi. I'm here. Safe and sound and on the way to Jim's." She ended the call and wondered

How long before Brett remembered to check his messages? Business trips were routine for him. He rarely called from the road anymore. Why should he expect it to be different for her?

She watched as they exited the airport, identical to almost every airport she'd ever been in. From the warm confines of the cab, only the naked trees, their branches beseeching the heavens to bring forth their spring finery, told her this wasn't Miami. Well, that and the culvert with the icicle waterfall. Funny, she hadn't thought about Albuquerque this way. Her images were always of a hot, dry desert filled with shades of reds and browns. The stark blue sky and white snow caught her unawares. She watched as the cab left the highway and followed winding mountain roads into old neighborhoods where the houses weren't cheek by jowl with their neighbors. Definitely not convenient to a hotel.

Jim took over her thoughts. Damn. In twenty-nine years, not once had she felt the slightest desire to stray from her marriage vows. Okay, there were those fantasy flings with Harrison Ford and Tom Selleck. But somehow, in them, she always imagined herself a widow. Never a divorcee. And, absolutely never an extramarital affair. Faithful to the end.

Finally, she stood at Jim's two-story adobe. There was a note tacked to the front door. Be right back. Door's open. Your room is upstairs on the left. Make yourself comfortable.

Comfortable, hell. Tell that to her butterflies. Sandra lugged her small bag to the top of the stairs and found the guestroom. A box of chocolates and a single rose lay on the pillow! She'd worked with Jim for three years. He was a friend. Someone she could talk to about anything. In fact, had he not been male, he'd have been her best girlfriend. Sitting on the bed, twirling the rose in her fingers, she tried to think of anything she might have said to make him think this was more than a business meeting.

Damn. Was he just being hospitable or laying the foundation for more? When was the last time Brett had given her chocolate?

And he'd never put a rose on her pillow. She heard the front door open.

"Sandra?"

"Upstairs," she called, and hurried to close the bedroom door. The voice echoing up the stairwell matched the one on the phone, deep and warm. But about twenty degrees warmer in person. Just like her face at the moment. She couldn't let him see her blushing. Would she be able to read his face? Worse, would he read hers?

Busying herself with unzipping her suitcase, she realized she'd been holding her breath.

A tap on the door. "How was your flight? Sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport."

She spoke through the closed door. "Fine. No problem."

She arranged her face into what she hoped was a friendly but professional smile and imagined Brett's face from the company website. Taking a deep breath, she eased the door open, speaking to a spot above his head. "Do you want to get started? I thought of a few more things on the plane." She lowered her gaze. A little older than his photo, and no beard. And a smile as bewitching as his voice.

She turned back and dug through her briefcase, as if searching for something of vital importance.

"You're probably tired." His voice dripped like honey, smooth and sweet. She closed her eyes and let his mellifluous tones flow over her. "Why don't you unwind, change, whatever. Bathroom's around the corner. I'll fix us some drinks."

"I'll be down in a few minutes." She flashed a quick smile in his general direction and dove back to her briefcase. His footsteps retreated down the hall, then down the stairs. After closing the bedroom door, Sandra traded her travel blouse for a green turtleneck sweater.

All those ma'ams reverberated through her head. She checked her reflection in the bedroom's full-length mirror. In decent shape, thanks to the four trips a week to the gym, but was it really so wonderful to pass for forty-four instead of forty-nine?

She snatched the pouch containing her toiletries and went into the bathroom. A quick brush of her teeth, and a glance in the mirror did nothing to calm her. Dammit, she was almost fifty, and roses on the pillow or not, happily married. Or had it become comfortably married?

She stared at the creases under her eyes, imagining them creeping farther toward her cheeks almost as she watched, and reached for her compact. She patted on more foundation. This was nonsense. Two mature individuals could get a job done under one roof. A quick dab of lipstick. Unwinding with a drink after a long day—what was wrong with that? She was making a big deal out of nothing.

Jim stood at the foot of the stairs, drinks in hand. "Gin and tonic okay?" His eyes moved up and down her body. Of course they would. He'd never seen her in the flesh, either.

She lifted her chin, straightened her spine. Smiled. "Fine, thanks."

He extended a glass. "Tough flight?"

She took the drink, careful to avoid touching his fingers. "Not really. A little turbulence over the mountains." Why had she agreed to stay here? Then again, the temptation of an impersonal hotel room might have been worse. Surely he wouldn't betray his wife in their home. Betrayal? What was she thinking?

She glanced around the room, saw all the pictures of him, of Katie, of the two of them. Smiling for the camera. Happy. Good. She exhaled audibly and took a sip of her drink. "Mmm. A little strong."

"Good gin makes the difference. Have a seat." He motioned to two wingback chairs in front of the fireplace.

Sandra smiled and settled into one. It was winter. Of course he'd have a fire going. A good host, that was all. Nothing romantic about it. Talk about work.

"The journal layout is great," she said. "That new logo makes all the difference, don't you think? And if we merge the three databases and do a search for duplicates and discrepancies—"

"It'll be fine. We can go over everything tomorrow. After that, I thought we'd drive out to Santa Fe for dinner."

"Sounds good."

"Speaking of dinner, I'm cooking tonight. I hope you like pasta."

"I do. Can I help?"

"You can join me in the kitchen. It's all prepped. I figured you'd be hungry with the time change and all."

"Not to mention the amazing dearth of food on airplanes these days." She glanced at her watch, still set to Florida time. Eight-thirty.

In Brett's spacious kitchen, Sandra sat on a stool at a large butcher block. Everything was laid out on the counter. Tomatoes, anchovies, olives ... Oh God. Pasta puttanesca. Hooker pasta. He was making her hooker pasta? He wouldn't talk about the origin of the dish, would he?

Was he sending seduction signals? Would she even recognize them after all these years? She hoped the heat in her face was from the fire.

He opened a bottle of Chianti and poured two glasses. "Can't cook without wine."

"I think I'll wait for dinner. This G-and-T on an empty stomach is plenty."

"No problem. Hand me the capers."

She passed the jar and tried to decide if he drew his fingers along hers longer than necessary. And why it felt so good when he did. If she ever suspected her husband of thinking what she was thinking now, she'd have removed essential parts of his anatomy and shoved them down his throat. She trusted Brett when he was away, and she knew he trusted her.

"Umm ... what's Katie doing in Brazil?"

"Working on an article about deforestation. Should be in National Geographic next year."

What was that look on his face now? Longing for his wife? Or looking for immediate companionship? How could you read the expression of someone you knew exclusively by phone?

He picked up a remote and pointed it at a CD player on a baker's rack. "We need music. Almost as important as the wine for cooking."

She waited. Classical and romantic? Please, God, no. Upbeat? Upbeat. She prayed for upbeat. Rock and roll. That's what she needed. The Beatles. _A Hard Day's Night_. The only song Brett would dance to. Then she heard a guitar intro segue into _Peaceful Easy Feeling_. She braved a look at Jim.

He tasted the sauce, adjusted the burners and turned to her, his hand outstretched and an inviting smile on his lips. "May I have this dance?"

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a dancer."

"It's just a two-step. Come on."

What the hell. She put down her glass and took his hand. He led her to the living room, put one hand at her back and held his other up at shoulder level. She placed hers against it. The iced drink wasn't the only reason her hands were cold. If Jim noticed, he didn't say anything.

"Relax," he said. "Two steps to your right, one to your left." As she fell into the gentle rhythm, she felt his right hand exerting gentle pressure as he changed direction and turned her. "You're a natural."

"I haven't done much dancing since college, and that was all folk dancing. Rock and roll is all Brett will tolerate, and it's like pulling teeth to get him on the floor."

"I'll have to have a talk with that man." The song ended, and he released her.

She felt her face grow hot again, and she lowered her eyes. "How's the pasta coming along?"

"Should be done. Take a seat." He motioned to the dining room, the table set with cream-colored dinnerware on Bargello print placemats. Matching napkins, rolled in silver rings, lay atop both plates. Three deep blue candles and a box of matches sat in the center.

She contemplated lighting the candles. No, he could do that. She was not going to make any first moves. Hell, she still didn't know if he was making moves or just being himself. They'd always enjoyed lighthearted flirtation and innuendo on the phone. He couldn't think she expected something more than business? Or could he?

Jim carried most of the dinner conversation, and she hoped he didn't notice how she couldn't keep up her end. He regaled her with trips to New Zealand, to Russia, to exotic places she only dreamed of visiting. She lost herself in his voice, the hint of a British accent still lingering despite all his years in the States. His eyes twinkled in the candlelight. "Dessert?"

"I shouldn't."

He nodded toward the living room. "Go sit by the fire. I'll bring you a tiny bowl of ice cream and a taste of port."

The alcohol she'd already had gave everything a pleasant glow, and she took her seat in the living room. "I think you need to revisit the definition of tiny," she said when she took the bowl he offered.

He grinned at her. "I've heard it's good for preventing jet lag."

She savored the creamy vanilla and the chocolate crunch. On the third bite, she realized the chocolate bits swirled through the dessert were heart-shaped. Good grief, what was wrong with plain old generic chocolate chip?

She looked at Jim, but he was busy eating his own dessert. She swallowed. "I meant to thank you for the chocolate in my room. And the rose."

"You're welcome. Anyone who knows you at all knows you're a chocoholic. Try the port."

She set down the bowl and picked up the long-stemmed liqueur glass. The ruby red liquid reflected in the glow of the firelight, and she took a tentative sip. "Don't tell me. You brought this back from Portugal, right?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. You like it?"

His smile was casual, but something inside her wobbled. Too much to drink, she told herself. Time for a polite retreat. She smiled back. "It's good, but it's late, and I think I need to get some sleep. It may be just a two hour time shift, but I'm feeling it."

He took the glass from her hand and sat on the hearth in front of her. "Talk to me."

"What do you mean?"

"You're uncomfortable. What's bothering you?"

She hid behind closed eyes, and it became another telephone conversation. No strings, no guilt, no warm flesh and blood inches from her. "I've been married twenty-nine years."

"Twenty-three for me. But you're not talking about an anniversary, are you? Problems?"

She sighed. "No. I'm comfortable. But I'm wondering if comfortable might be turning into boring. For Brett."

"I don't see how that's possible. You're an amazing woman. Smart, funny, and damn good to look at."

"Finish the sentence."

"What do you mean?"

"For a woman your age. Even when you don't say it, I hear it. Not just from you. From everyone."

"That's ridiculous. You're a beautiful woman, age be damned."

"Yeah, right." She felt his hand on her knee and opened her eyes. "I think I'd better go upstairs." When she stood, the room shifted, and his hand was on her elbow. "I think that port put me over my limit."

"I'll walk you up."

"Jim, really—" but by then they were halfway up the stairs. He reached around her and opened the door to her room, and she turned and looked into his eyes. Amber. She hadn't noticed that before. His lips touched hers, warm and gentle. A touch, nothing more. All she could hear was blood pounding in her ears. She pulled away. "Jim ... I ... I've never ..."

He took her hands in his. "Neither have I."

She forced herself to keep her gaze steady although her heart threatened to leap out of her ribcage. "Please. We have something special ... the way we are."

He ran one finger along her cheek. "Sleep well. My room is downstairs off the living room. If you need anything ...."

Like an extra blanket? Or something else? Somehow, she managed to speak. "I'm sure I'll be fine. Dinner was great. Good night."

"I'll see you in the morning." He pressed her fingers to his lips.

Jim stepped back toward the stairs and she closed the bedroom door. Sinking to the bed, she blew out a deep breath and pressed a button on her cell phone.

"Hello?" Brett's voice was thick with sleep.

Sandra's fingers traced her cheek where Jim had touched her. "Hi, honey. Sorry I woke you. Just wanted to say, I love you."

"I love you, too. It's different, being alone in our bed. It's empty without you. I'll pick you up from the airport, and we can go to the Mason Jar, okay?"

Maison and Jardin? They hadn't been there since their tenth anniversary. "Can you get reservations there? They're always booked."

"I made them already. Eight o'clock. A window table."

"I miss you, too." She pulled on flannel pajamas and crawled into bed, cell phone tucked under her ear. "Talk to me while I fall asleep, okay?"

#  Second Chance Rose

Rose has had her chance at her one true love. Widowed, her home destroyed by a hurricane, she relocates across the country and discovers the special garden of the bedtime stories her mother told her as a child. When she meets Richard there, friendship blooms. But can there be second chances for true love?

♥ ♥ ♥

Her garden was history.

Throughout the once-quiet neighborhood, chainsaws growled, punctuated by an occasional crash as limbs toppled. Rose picked her way through the debris for one last look at her yard. A part of her soul, entwined with Doug's, was buried here. Why she'd expected the garden to survive when her house had blown apart made no sense— but nothing had made much sense since Hurricane Charley blasted through central Florida with Hurricane Frances hot on his heels.

Rose knelt beside her flattened rosebushes. Tenderly, she took her shears and clipped several cuttings, then placed them in the plastic bag she'd brought.

"Give it up," Doug had said when they moved to Orlando and she watched everything she planted die. "Flowers don't grow in this climate."

Undaunted, Rose found a way to bring color to their yard once she learned to work with the climate instead of trying to fight it. Orange and yellow day lilies, pink azaleas, and a bower of purple bougainvillea replaced her northern daffodils, tulips and peonies. But in both locales, she had her roses.

A hint of pink stood out against a tangle of brown sticks, leaves and branches. Against the odds, a single rose clung to a freshly broken stem. Careful to avoid the thorns, she teased the forlorn bloom free, stroked its velvety petals. She brought it to her nose, inhaling the delicate perfume.

"Hey, Rose. You all right?" Her neighbor's voice broke through Rose's reverie.

She swallowed and peered into the suntanned face hovering over her. "Hi yourself, Evie. I'm fine. How're you holding up?"

"Hanging in. We were lucky. Having a generator made things bearable." Evie tilted her head toward the flower in Rose's hand. "Looks like you found a survivor."

"Some things are tough. But without its roots, it's not really a survivor. Only a shell. Like my house."

"You're really moving to Los Angeles? You'll just be trading hurricanes for earthquakes, you know."

Rose stood and brushed her palms together, watching the soil drift to the ground. She smiled at her friend.

"I'll take my chances. The law firm's opening a branch in LA and needs a secretary, and I've got a friend with real estate connections. It's like it was meant to be. Besides, Doug's been gone three years. There's nothing here for me anymore—only memories, and I can take them anywhere I go."

"I'm sure you'll find a lot of new ones," Evie said. "And maybe a Hollywood hottie, too."

Rose chuckled. "You're too much, Evie. I'm hardly the starlet type."

"It's time to let your hair down, girlfriend. Like you said, Doug's been gone three years. You've got a lot of life ahead of you. Trust me, being in your forties isn't old."

Rose gave Evie one final embrace. "I'm going to miss you. Stay in touch, okay?"

♥ ♥ ♥

On a warm October Sunday, Rose locked the front door of her bungalow in one of the multitude of suburbs that was Los Angeles. Today, at last, she was going to Exposition Park, to the rose garden. She'd heard the story so many times, replayed the memories countless more, yet she feared visiting her mother's magic garden, as if seeing it for real would diminish the perfection in her mind. Traffic moved smoothly along the freeway, lulling Rose and transporting her to her childhood.

She'd been four or five, feverish with some flu bug. Mama sat on the bed beside her, stroking Rose's brow with cool, soft fingertips, holding her hand, and telling her stories.

"Tell me how you met Daddy," Rose begged. "Like a _ponce_ _a_ _time_ story."

She curled on her side, waiting for the oft-repeated tale to begin.

Her mother smiled, the warm smile that made Rose's head almost stop hurting.

"Once upon a time," Mama said, "a little girl went to a special rose garden. It had rows and rows of beautiful roses. All different colors, pink and white and orange, and dark, dark red. Some had two colors. Some had stripes. Some were big, some were little. The little girl loved the smell of the garden. Her mommy and daddy would bring her and her big brother there on Sundays. First, they would go to one of the museums next to the garden. The little girl liked the rooms full of animals, especially the elephant. They weren't alive, but to her, they were real. Her big brother liked the dinosaur bones."

"After the museum, you'd go to the rose garden, right?" Rose said, more to get to the part she loved than to alter the flow.

"Right," her mother said. "The mommy loved the garden, but the big brother didn't like it very much, so he and the daddy would go to the other museum, and the mommy and her little girl would wait for them in the garden, smelling all the wonderful roses."

"And you were the little girl, right? The big brother is Uncle Sammy. And the mommy and daddy were Gramma and Grampa."

"You're exactly right." Her mother offered her a drink of ginger ale. Rose didn't like the bubbles tickling her nose, but Mama said it would make her tummy feel better, so she sipped it through a straw.

"Tell me the rest."

"I think you could tell me the story, my little Rosie."

"But I like it when you tell me. Please?"

Mama smiled again. "Time went on, the way time does, and the little girl grew up, the way little girls do. She moved far away, but she always remembered the rose garden. Then, one day she moved back to Los Angeles and on Sundays, she would go to the rose garden and remember what it was like to be there with her mommy. There were benches in the garden and the grown up girl would sit and read and smell the roses. One day, a handsome man came to the garden. He talked to the girl, and they walked through the garden.

"She came back the next Sunday, and the next, and the handsome man was there, too. They walked and talked, and laughed. And one day, they knew they were in love, and he asked her to marry him. She said yes. So one beautiful day, they had a beautiful wedding right in the middle of the beautiful rose garden."

"And the girl was you, and the handsome man was Daddy. And they had a baby, right?" Rose chimed.

"They did. A beautiful baby girl, and they named her ..."

"Rose!"

"Yes, my special Rose. Now close your eyes and go to sleep."

♥ ♥ ♥

The Coliseum loomed ahead, bringing Rose out of her daydream. She found a shady spot on a side street and parked her Civic.

Under the flat blue Los Angeles sky, anticipation built, layer upon layer, with each stride along Exposition Boulevard. Rose sniffed the air, dry and dusty, so unlike the verdant scent of Florida. Passing the Science and Industry Museum, she forced herself to slow down. It was as if the very air had changed. The smell of grass heightened, rising above the car exhaust. Soon, increasing hints of floral aromas wafted through. Rose fought the urge to run. The sidewalk branched. Rose hesitated at the top of the stairs leading to the sunken garden.

She closed her eyes. "I'm here, Mama," she whispered.

When she opened them, her mouth went Sahara dry. Mama had said it was a big garden, but nothing had prepared Rose for the spectacle of more than seven acres of rose beds. She took in the huge oval grounds with the round fountain in the center. The gazebo where Mama had married Daddy. Bands of grass separated bed after bed after bed of rosebushes.

Rose stepped reverently down the grassy paths. Another time, she knew, she'd stop and identify the myriad rose varieties. Today, drinking in the atmosphere was enough. She found a bench under the trees surrounding the garden and sank onto its weathered wooden surface. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a paperback. Unable to concentrate, she laid the book beside her on the bench and people-watched.

Some sat on benches and read. Some spread blankets on the grass. Many were students, most likely from nearby USC, poring over textbooks. A man in a wide-brimmed straw hat sat cross-legged on the grass, sketching in a thick white pad. Couples sauntered, children scampered, and moms pushed strollers. Toddlers rode dads' shoulders. Little girls practiced cartwheels. She imagined her mother here as a child, clutching Gramma's hand, smelling the roses.

From that day on, Rose's week seemed geared to Sundays. Monday through Friday, she was at the office, where one day blended into another. Saturdays were for taking care of errands and household chores. But on Sundays, she was reborn. Filled with enthusiasm, she drove downtown, into the museum complex surrounding the roses. The Natural History Museum stood guard, along with the Museum of Science and Industry, but their pull wasn't strong enough, and Rose never ventured inside. As soon as her sneakered feet touched Exposition Boulevard, a sense of calm and peace enveloped her, demanding that she return to the rose garden. Not searching for love, she told herself. She believed, just as Mama had, that in this world there was one perfect mate for everyone. She'd had hers with Doug. Since he died, no man had come close to filling the void he'd left. Instead, she came to the garden to be with her mother again—in spirit, since the flesh had departed years before.

Rose wandered the grounds, jotted notes on varieties she thought she'd try to grow in her tiny yard. She settled onto her favorite bench. The sounds of the garden, now a familiar backdrop to her reading, thrummed into a neutral white noise, and she lost herself in her book.

"Excuse me?"

A deep male voice intruded upon her silence. Rose closed her book over a finger and shaded her eyes with her other hand. The man, backlit by the sun, looked vaguely familiar. "Yes?"

"I don't mean to intrude. I wonder ... I'd like ... would it be okay ... would you mind if I sketched you?"

Rose squinted, and the man stepped aside, blocking the glare. The artist. He held his straw hat in one hand, his sketchbook tucked under his other arm.

"Me?" Rose scanned the garden, seeing all the attractive coeds. "Surely one of the ... younger ... women would be more suitable."

He took a step back and lowered his head, but not before Rose saw the disappointment on his face.

She folded her hands in her lap. "If I agree, what will you do with my picture?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. I have to draw it first. I don't usually do portraits."

Because who'd want a portrait of a forty-two-year-old woman with boring brown eyes and plain brown hair with strands of gray popping out like dandelions?

He handed her his sketchbook, speaking to his shoes. "I draw to unwind. In real life, I'm a computer programmer. A geek. Staring at a monitor writing lines of code pays the bills, but doesn't do much for the soul."

Rose nodded. "I understand. I'm a legal secretary, and most days I feel like I'm going through the motions."

She flipped through the pages. A lot of roses, but many of the garden as a whole. His sketches captured the mood and sucked her in. She could feel the happiness when she saw the way he'd depicted the families with his sweeping strokes. She perused a series of sketches of a Labrador retriever. "Yours?" she asked, stopping at one compelling drawing of the large-eyed dog.

He leaned forward to see the picture. "Yeah. That's Oswald."

"Cute."

"Thanks. He's my buddy."

Rose extended the book. "Okay," she said. "I'll pose. What do I do?"

"Nothing. I mean, just what you were doing before. Read your book."

"That seems easy enough. Can I turn pages?"

He laughed, a rich, warm tone, and Rose felt a long-forgotten sense of comfortable companionship. "Yeah. I can handle that." He shoved his hat onto his head and dropped to the ground. "Pretend I'm not here."

Rose knew it would be impossible. Like telling someone not to think of a zebra. She turned back to her book, trying not to sneak peeks at the way his hands held the pencil, noticing the lack of a wedding band. Intrigued by the way he gnawed on his lower lip as he worked, she had a quick flash of what those lips could do with hers.

Stop it. You're remembering Mama and Daddy falling in love here. You've already had your turn.

Inevitably, their glances met from time to time as he studied her between bouts with his pencil, and she sneaked peeks of her own. He averted his gaze and went back to his sketchpad.

"I said you can turn pages," he said after a while.

Rose realized she'd been staring at the same page the entire time. Glad he was working in pencil and couldn't draw the red she knew spread across her cheeks, she flipped the page. She'd re-read the chapter tonight.

Moments later, he handed her the pad. She almost dropped it.

"That bad?" he said.

"No. No. This is—" _Mama_. _When_ _did_ _I_ _become_ _my mother?_ "Wonderful."

"Keep it," he said.

"I couldn't," was her automatic response. But her eyes stayed on the page.

He ripped the page from the book and handed it to her. "I insist. I want you to have it."

"Thank you," she said.

"I owe you a modeling fee." He paused. "Do you ... have plans for lunch?"

Rose shook her head. "The picture is payment enough."

For a moment, he stared at his feet. "I'd still like to take you to lunch. There's a café in the museum."

He sounded nervous. For the first time, Rose examined him closely. Reddish-brown hair, short and thick. Hints of gray at the temples. Beard stubble, a little redder than his hair. Probably skipped shaving on the weekends. Doug had done the same. But it was the man's eyes that dominated. Light brown, almost golden, with a dark ring around the iris. Eyes that drew you in and held on. Laugh lines crinkled around them. She wanted to hear his laugh again.

"I'm Rose," she said. "And I'd love to join you for lunch."

"Richard," he said. "Pleased to meet you, Rose."

He put his pencil and sketchbook into a canvas backpack. Together, they strolled to the Natural History Museum. When Rose reached into her purse, Richard's hand stopped her. "I've got a membership. You're my guest."

Rose wondered why she hadn't come inside since she'd moved to LA. More fears that the pictures she had in her head from Mama's stories wouldn't match reality?

Inside the museum, the entry hall loomed before them, dominated by a Tyrannosaurus and Triceratops immobilized in a skeletal duel. She imagined her uncle tugging on Grampa's hand, urging him to move faster.

Richard guided her downstairs to the café. Rose lifted her eyebrows.

"Wolfgang Puck? Not bad for a museum."

"Depends. Frankly, I prefer less exotic pizza, but it's convenient."

Over pizza, salad and iced tea, Rose confessed her ties to the rose garden. Almost immediately, she wished she hadn't. Would he think she was trolling for a husband? Nothing in his demeanor changed, and she relaxed.

"What makes you come here every weekend?" she asked. "There have to be millions of places to draw in LA."

He picked up the crust of his pizza and flipped it around in his hands for a moment. His face, despite the straw hat he wore outside, was tan, but she thought a flush rose at the tips of his ears. He took a slow, deliberate drink of his tea.

"There are."

"But you like it here because?"

"I saw you," he mumbled.

"What?" Rose regretted the sharpness in her tone. Like he'd confessed to being a stalker.

He kept his gaze on his plate a moment longer, but when he raised it, he met her eyes. There was no doubt he was blushing.

"I first saw you about a month ago. In your own world. I came back the next week, hoping to see you again. You walk the grounds, then sit in the same place, survey the garden like you have a vested interest in the roses, then disappear into a book. Today, I finally got up the nerve to talk to you."

Now Rose knew she was blushing as well. "I'm glad you did."

Silence hung between them for a moment, a gossamer curtain.

"You want to tour the museum for a bit?" he asked.

"I'd love to. Do you know if they have rooms filled with animals? Not real ones. I think there was an elephant."

"Sure. It's still there."

They ambled through the museum to the Hall of African Mammals. Glass-fronted dioramas surrounded a vast open space. For Rose, it was like entering a cathedral. Unaware of Richard beside her, she strode past the exhibits until she found the diorama her mother had described. She stood, transfixed by the animals gathered around the watering hole, rooted in her mother's childhood, oblivious to people coming and going. Eventually, she returned to the here and now. Richard stood off to the side, a polite distance away.

"I guess I'd better be going," Rose said. "Thanks for everything. I enjoyed the day."

"Yeah. Me, too. Oswald's probably ready for a walk."

They ambled down the stairs. "I'm in the lot," Richard said, turning toward the museum parking.

"My car's across the garden. I parked on the street."

"I can go with you," he said.

"You don't have to. I'll be fine."

"I'd like to." He cleared his throat. "I'd like to walk through the garden with you."

She looked at him again. He blinked, lowered his gaze, and then stared past her ear. _He was shy._

She smiled. "I'd like that, too."

When they reached her car, he hesitated. "I'll be here next week. Maybe I'll see you?"

"I'm sure you will," Rose said. She climbed in and drove off, watching him in her rearview mirror. He stood on the curb, motionless, until she rounded the corner.

♥ ♥ ♥

The following Sunday, Richard had his sketchpad, and Rose posed on the grass beneath the fountain, between beds of cream-colored _Timeless_ and pink _Carefree_ _Delight._ He worked without speaking, although the glances they exchanged were more frequent than the previous week. She dismissed it, telling herself it was an obvious necessity—he was drawing her, after all. Of course he'd have to look at her.

Eventually, her self-consciousness faded, and she read several chapters of her paperback, although the blue-eyed, baseball-capped detective in the novel kept turning into a golden-eyed artist wearing a straw hat. When Richard invited her to lunch again, Rose accepted but insisted on paying her own way, despite his protests.

"Do you garden?" she asked him over lunch.

He shook his head. "Seems a waste of time. Anything I plant always dies."

Rose thought about his words that evening when she checked on the cuttings she'd brought from Orlando. Two of the three had rooted and were in pots on her patio. "Soon you'll be ready to go out in the yard," she said. "It's very nice there. You won't be lonely."

Was she lonely? Rose wondered. At work, Linda was always trying to get her to date. She'd gone out with a couple of Linda's selected choices and returned home feeling the same as before she left. Not lonely, really. More like empty.

She fingered one of the cuttings, just beginning to leaf. "Once you're in the garden, you'll be happy. Gardens are happy places."

How could Richard not enjoy gardening? She and Doug had spent hours in their yard. She couldn't imagine being with anyone who didn't. She paused, surprised at her thought. Being with? Was she attracted to Richard? He never gave her any signals he was interested in anything more than friendship, which was what she wanted, wasn't it? She contemplated her plants, reaching out for the warm feeling she always got when she thought of Doug and the day they had planted them.

"I'm not trying to replace you," she said. "You were my one true love. But a friend might be nice."

The next Sunday, Richard didn't bring his sketchpad. His hand brushed against hers as they meandered among the rose beds. Rose peered up at him and smiled. His Adam's apple bobbed and the tips of his ears reddened when she dovetailed her fingers with his, but he didn't let go. She stepped closer to him. He smelled like grass, roses and man. A pleasant combination.

The Sundays passed, and a comfortable friendship bloomed. Linda kept fixing Rose up with dates, and Rose kept finding them lacking. She'd relive them with Richard on their Sundays.

"I don't know why Linda thinks I need a man. I had my turn. Twelve wonderful years with Doug."

"Do you like being alone?" Richard asked.

"I'm happy enough. I have my work, my garden, and my Sundays here with the roses."

He paused at a rosebush and lowered his head to sniff the blossoms. When they continued walking, he wasn't quite as close as he'd been before.

Autumn surrounded the garden now, and the trees dropped leaves. Yet there were always varieties of roses in bloom.

"I was married once," Richard said one Sunday.

Rose stopped at the abruptness of his words. It was as if he'd barricaded them inside until they erupted of their own accord. She put her hand on his arm and walked toward one of the benches.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Didn't work out, that's all." His face closed.

They talked about the weather, books and movies for a while, until the skies clouded over and the wind grew chill.

The next Sunday, Richard's arm snaked around her waist, and Rose moved closer, accepting his silent overture. He told her about his ex-wife, a woman who'd belittled him until he took refuge in his computers and stopped seeking permanent female companionship. Rose told him about losing her parents.

"Both my parents died when I was at college," she said. "My dad was killed in a car crash. Mama died about two years later. She had pneumonia. I always thought she didn't take proper care of herself after he died."

"It must have been hard."

"It was. It was even harder when Doug died. It taught me something, though."

"What?"

"That I have to rely on myself."

That I can't let anyone get that close ever again. People who I love, who love me, die.

"I'm here for you, Rose."

He trapped her with his golden eyes, and for half a moment, Rose thought he would kiss her. She leaned away. Then, afraid she'd hurt his feelings, she touched his cheek. Smooth-shaven. She tried to remember when he'd started shaving on the weekends.

"I'm glad we're friends, Richard."

He stared over her shoulder for a long moment. "I'm glad, too," he said. "I like talking to you."

In January and February, the garden was closed for pruning. Richard came to Rose's house on Sundays. They'd work side-by-side in her garden. Or he'd draw. She'd fix him lunch. Or dinner. Sometimes both.

The first Sunday in March, Richard didn't show.

After she called him and got his answering machine, Rose wandered through her house, wondering why it felt empty. It wasn't like they'd made any commitments. Rose considered Richard a special friend. They'd never set their dates in stone. When he left, it was always, "I guess I'll see you next week."

She'd been looking forward to the reopening of the garden, and thought he had, too. Was something wrong? Was he tired of gardens and gardening? Those were her loves, not his. Maybe he'd found a new place to draw, a new subject. Maybe he'd found a woman to be his one true love.

The thought of losing Richard's friendship saddened her, yet she knew couples rarely had single friends, and the male half of a couple could _never_ have a female friend. She found her keys. With or without him, she'd go to the rose garden. To connect with her mother.

She was halfway there before she understood how wrong she was. It wasn't about her mother. Mama's story had brought Rose to the garden, and might have nudged her to accept Richard's first lunch invitation, but it was Richard who had taken a place in her heart. She almost ran a red light when she realized he _had_ taken a place in her heart.

Waiting for the light to change, Rose tried to decide what on earth she was doing. Despite her newly admitted feelings for Richard, cold reality said she'd jumped to conclusions assuming he felt the same way. What was she thinking? Until a few moments ago, she hadn't even understood how she felt. She drove around the block and headed in the other direction.

She stopped at the garden store and filled her trunk with bags of fertilizer, mulch and weed killer. When she got home, she changed into her gardening clothes, adding a sweatshirt against the damp winter air. She'd always found solace in her garden.

Solace? Why did she need solace? Because a man who'd made no commitment had missed a single non-date? She knew he lived in Santa Monica, but she'd never tried to pin it down beyond that.

With renewed determination, she loaded the wheelbarrow with the garden supplies and steered the wobbly contraption along the path to the shed in her postage-stamp backyard. She selected her pruning shears from the rack above the narrow potting bench and went to do some serious dead-heading.

She snipped, collecting the dead blossoms in a basket to save for her compost pile. That done, she stood, hands on hips, and surveyed the yard, seeking the perfect place for her Florida roses. She strode to the pots sitting in her back garden.

"It's time," she said to her cuttings. "You've been out here in pots, but it's time to settle down. I think you'll like it under my bedroom window."

As always, the world faded to a nebulous blur while Rose gardened. The smell of the earth centered her. Picturing the roses in bloom, she set the plants in their holes, covered them with her special soil mixture and declared it a job well done. For another hour, she pitched mulch, giving her garden a blanket of fragrant pine bark.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a red glow over the yard. Her muscles ached, but it was a good kind of pain. A soak in a hot tub—maybe a bubble bath—and she'd consider the day worthwhile. More than worthwhile. Physically and mentally productive. A step forward with her life.

Entering her house through the mudroom, Rose stripped off her dirty jeans and shirt. When the doorbell rang, she grabbed the smock hanging on a hook, fastening the buttons down the front as she hurried to the door.

"Who's there?" she asked.

"Me. Richard." His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Rose yanked the door open. Red-rimmed eyes, a three-day growth of beard. Torn jeans, a threadbare sweatshirt. But it was the way he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders that twisted something inside her. "Come in. What's wrong?"

He held a leather strap in one hand. At the other end, Rose glimpsed the big, brown eyes of a chocolate Lab studying her from behind Richard's legs. "Oswald?" she said. The dog panted and flopped down, resting his head on his front paws.

Richard nodded. Rose glanced toward the street. No sign of his car.

"My God, Richard, did you walk? From Santa Monica? That's more than five miles."

Ignoring Richard for the moment, Rose crouched. "Hey, Oswald. I'll bet you'd like some water." She took the leash from Richard's hands. He didn't seem to notice.

The dog whined, looking back at his master, but followed Rose through the house, to the mudroom where she filled a bowl with water and set it on the floor. He lapped it greedily, tail wagging.

"Good boy," she said. "How about if you stay here while I talk to Richard."

The dog flopped down again, but he'd stopped panting. Rose refilled the water dish. "There you go." She made a quick stop in the kitchen for a glass of water.

Richard sat on the couch in her living room, head bowed in his hands. She sat beside him, running her fingers through his hair.

"What happened?" She gave him the drink, wrapping his hand around the glass. He seemed oblivious to its presence, although he gripped it like a lifeline.

"Sorry. I started walking. Didn't know where I was going, but I ended up here."

"Why? Please, tell me what's wrong." She lifted the glass to his lips. "Drink this. Or do you want something stronger? I have some brandy."

He shook his head and sipped. When he set the glass down, his voice was stronger. "My mom. She didn't want to tell me. Thought it was nothing. They opened her up, and ...." His voice cracked again. "There was nothing they could do. It ... cancer ... had spread ... too far. I flew out Monday. She ... the funeral ... Thursday."

He stood, paced the small living room. "She hated doctors. Dammit, she told me she was getting regular checkups, but when I talked to the doctor, he said she hadn't seen him in five years. Five goddamn years! If they'd caught it earlier, she'd probably be in total remission now."

He sank to the floor, rested his head on his knees. "I didn't mean to lose it like that. I'm sorry for intruding. I should go."

Rose knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous. First, you're not walking back to Santa Monica, if for no other reason than Oswald's exhausted. Let me fix you something to eat. I can drive you back later."

He didn't answer, but he didn't move, either. Rose checked the freezer and found a pan of lasagna she'd made a few weeks ago on a cooking binge. She put it in the oven and worked on a salad, stopping to peek at Richard in between tearing lettuce and peeling cucumbers.

After opening a bottle of Merlot, Rose poured two glasses before exchanging her smock for lightweight sweats. Back in the living room, she sat on the floor beside Richard, handing him a glass of wine. For the first time since he'd arrived, he seemed aware of her presence.

"Thanks," he whispered. His fingers lingered over hers as he accepted the glass.

"Dinner's in the oven," she said. "It was frozen, so it'll be a while."

"I'm not hungry."

"You'll eat. You want to sit on the couch? It's more comfortable than the floor."

"I guess."

When he still didn't move, she took his wine glass, set it on the coffee table, then grasped his hand and pulled. He stood, allowing himself to be led to the couch the way Oswald had followed her to the mud room. Her heart twisted.

She sat beside him, absorbing his warmth. His eyes had lost some of their haunted appearance. He gulped half a glass of wine like it was water, then set it down again. When his eyes met hers, nothing remained of the haunted look. It was heat. Pure animal heat.

She accepted it. Admitted she shared it. Returned it by straddling his lap and pressing her lips against his. He groaned, and when his lips parted, she probed with her tongue, tasting the wine. His tongue sought hers, begging for as much as she would give. She offered what he needed, tongues entwined, teeth nipping, his whiskers scraping her cheeks as hunger intensified the kiss. Her hands sought his hair, pulled him closer. Aware of his growing arousal beneath her, she slid her hands under his shirt. Stroked the planes of his chest. His coarse chest hair on her fingers sent electric pulses to her groin.

She shifted on his lap, rubbing against him. Her own need burned, pooling hot between her legs. Feelings she thought reserved only for Doug surfaced, boiled. Overwhelmed with urgency, she slid his hands under her shirt. Strong fingers found her nipples. Tormented them to rigid peaks. With a throaty growl, Richard drove her to the couch beneath him.

"Rose. God, Rose." He yanked at her shirt.

Somehow, she wriggled out of it. His hands kneaded her breasts. First through her bra, then he simply lifted them from their confines, lowering his mouth to suckle. Freeing a hand, Rose unfastened the clasp and slid the garment to the floor.

His ragged breathing echoed through her ears. She arched her back, giving him total access to the delightful agony his lips and fingers created. Her thigh moved against his erection. He groaned. Fumbled with her waistband. She stilled his hand.

"Let me." She slipped her sweats down her legs, taking her panties along.

He released his jeans. She reached inside, found his heat. Took the hard length of him in her hand. Her thumb found a drop of moisture at his tip. She swirled it around the velvet head.

His breath caught in a half-sob. "Oh, Sweet God."

"Do you have a condom?" Rose whispered in a brief instant of rationality.

He groped for his jeans, found his wallet, and extracted a foil square. Seconds later he was sheathed.

She reached between his legs. Cupped his tightness. "Please. Now." She tilted her hips upward and guided him to her entrance.

He thrust inside her. Long unused muscles protested at first, but his passion, hot and frenzied, fed hers, and she adjusted to accommodate him. There would be time for finesse and tenderness later, Rose knew. She raked her fingers down his back, clasped her hands around him, drawing him deeper.

His hips pistoned. She raised hers, wrapped her legs around him, and dug her heels into the flesh of his buttocks, making him a part of her. Sweat dripped from his hair. Flesh slapped against flesh. His tempo increased. Rose writhed against him, her pelvis grinding against his, sending him toward the release he so desperately craved.

Eyes squeezed shut, gasping, he gave one last thrust. He groaned her name, collapsing on top of her, his face buried beside her neck. She caressed his back with long, gentle strokes until his breathing slowed.

"God, Rose, I am _so_ sorry." He levered himself off her, grabbed something from the pile of clothes on the floor and padded to the bathroom. She lay on the couch, getting her own breathing under control. Richard reappeared, clad in his boxers. Suddenly self-conscious, Rose reached for her clothes. He sat beside her.

"I think I should call a cab," he said.

Wearing only her shirt, Rose bolted upright. "Whatever for?"

"I don't ... not like that ..." He tugged at his hair. "I'm no good at this."

"No good at what?"

"Talking about how I feel. I'm a computer geek, remember?"

"You're an artist who works as a computer geek, Richard. She scooted next to him and held his hands. "Was what we just did so terrible?"

"God, no. But you ... I didn't ... I was selfish. An animal. Rutting."

Her heart tumbled in her chest. Poor, sweet Richard. "How can you think I wasn't a willing partner? I seem to recall being the one who started it."

"I was a brute. I've always believed two people should be equal partners."

"A noble thought. But sometimes the equality is spread out over time. Tonight, you needed something. I tried to give it. Do you feel better than when you got here?"

He gave a shy grin. "Oh, yeah."

"Good." She nuzzled his chest. He slid her across his lap, wrapped his arms around her.

"I like the feel of you against me, Rose."

Rose felt the stirring from his boxers. She nibbled his earlobe. "I can tell. Did you bring only the one condom?" The color that flooded his face answered her question, even before he shook his head.

"I've had some in my wallet since the third week in the garden. I didn't want to seem ... pushy."

"I understand they have a shelf life," she said. "But if yours have passed their 'use by' date, I might have a few newer ones."

His eyebrows lifted to his hairline.

She ruffled his hair. "I had my turn at love with Doug. I wasn't sure I wanted to go there again. But I thought it might be smart to be ready, in case I changed my mind."

"And?"

"I'm a woman. Mind-changing comes with our DNA." She kissed him. Gently, slowly. "If you're still feeling guilty, perhaps you'd like to atone in the bedroom."

He scooped her up and carried her down the hall.

This time, there was finesse. And tenderness.

♥ ♥ ♥

After dinner, Rose, Richard and Oswald strolled through the neighborhood. Richard spoke about his mother, and Rose warmed at the way he'd begun to handle his grief.

"You got to say good-bye," she said. His arm snugged her against him. "Be thankful you had those last moments to tell her you loved her. I missed that chance with my parents, and with Doug. He was on the treadmill. An aortic aneurism. He never regained consciousness. He was only forty-two. The same age I am now. There are no guarantees in this world."

Richard stopped. Oswald sat at his feet, gazing up with chocolate-brown eyes. "Stay," Richard said. He dropped the leash, stepped on it, and then turned Rose to face him. He crooked a forefinger under her chin and tipped her face up to his.

Rose tumbled into the depths of his golden eyes. Shy Richard lowered his lips to her mouth, and right there on the sidewalk, in front of God and everybody, kissed her until her toes curled.

Hating that she had to stop to breathe, Rose broke the connection. But only at the lips. She kept her hands firmly around his waist. He touched her forehead with his.

"Come home with me, Rose." There was less hesitation in his voice.

"Of course," she said. "We both have to go to work tomorrow. And Oswald's probably hungry. I'll drive you back."

"That's not what I meant. I have a few more days of personal leave," he said. He held her shoulders. "I'd like to walk along the beach with you."

Common sense said it was late. She had to be at work in the morning. Then again, he had come to her in need. She stared into the starlit sky and the almost-full moon. Telling herself it was to avoid doing anything to shatter his fragile emotional state, that she could function for a day on little sleep, she agreed.

"A moonlight stroll sounds nice," she said.

"I'd like to wake up next to you tomorrow," he whispered. "Any chance you can stay?"

Rose's entire being smiled. If she'd learned anything, it was that you couldn't count on having too many tomorrows. "I haven't used any of my sick days yet."

They piled into her Civic, Oswald leaning out the window in back, and drove to Richard's house. Blocks away, the damp salt air filled her nostrils. Following his directions, she pulled into the driveway of a wooden A-frame house. The front yard was a vast expanse of grass. A scraggly boxwood hedge lined a flagstone walkway to the front porch.

Inside, the house overlooked the ocean. Rose set her overnight bag by the door. He opened the glass sliders at the back of the room.

"Enjoy the view while I take care of Oswald," he said.

She leaned on the rail, mesmerized by the rhythm of the pounding surf. Soon, Richard returned and wrapped his arm around her.

They stood there, squeezed together, watching the moon's reflection float across the ocean like a bride's veil.

"It's gorgeous," Rose said. "So powerful. So wild."

"I love this view," he said. "This is where I spend my time. I never get around to doing anything with the front yard. I tried once, but I can't seem to keep anything alive. Too much salt in the air, someone said."

Rose squeezed his hand. "You can't fight the climate," she said. "Maybe I can help. It'll take some time, though."

"I'm in love with you, Rose. I want you to know that. I'm going to remind you every morning, every night, for as long as you'll let me."

"I hope it's a long, long, time. I love you, too."

He pulled a pad from one of the lounge chairs onto the deck. "Shall we watch the sunrise?" he asked.

"The first of many, I hope."

Later, listening to Richard sleep, Rose gazed into the stars. "I've got another chance, Mama," she whispered. "I never thought of it this way. Maybe I'm Richard's one true love. And he found me in your garden."

#  A Note From the Author

I hope you enjoyed reading these stories. One thing readers can do to let an author know they've enjoyed a book is to pass the word along. If you're willing to let your friends know you think they might like the book, or tweet about it, or post it to your social media sites, that would be wonderful. Also, the best way to help readers find authors is to post a brief review. If you have a minute, I'd appreciate it if you'd go to the site where you bought this book, or any review site such as Goodreads, and let others know you liked it.

If you want to keep up with what's coming next, as well as sneak peeks and special offers, sign up for my newsletter.

Thanks!

Terry

#  Acknowledgments

To Dara and Julie, Karla and Steve, for reading the stories and offering suggestions. And to The Wild Rose Press for giving these stories their first public outings. I'm proud to have been one of your first authors, and thank you for giving me the chance to let these stories live again.

#  About the Author

Terry Odell began writing by mistake, when her son mentioned a television show and she thought she'd be a good mom and watch it so they'd have common ground for discussions.

Little did she know she would enter the world of writing, first via fanfiction, then through Internet groups, and finally with groups with real, live partners. Her first publications were short stories, but she found more freedom in longer works and began what she thought was a mystery. Her daughters told her it was a romance so she began learning more about the genre and craft. She belongs to both the Romance Writers of America and Mystery Writers of America.

Now a multi-published, award winning author, Terry resides with her husband and their adopted shelter dog in the mountains of Colorado. You can find her online at

Her website - http://terryodell.com

Her blog - <http://terryodell.com/terrysplace>

Facebook -<http://www.facebook.com/AuthorTerryOdell>

Twitter - <http://twitter.com/authorterryo>

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And to stay informed about new releases and other exclusive content, sign up for her newsletter.

#  More books by Terry Odell

See all of Terry Odell's Smashwords Titles here.

Deadly Secrets (Mapleton Mystery 1)

Deadly Bones (Mapleton Mystery 2)

Finding Sarah (Pine Hills Police 1)

Hidden Fire (Pine Hills Police 2)

Saving Scott (Pine Hills Police 3)

Finding Fire (Pine Hills Police—short story collection)

Nowhere to Hide (A Pine Hills Police Spinoff)

When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc. 1)

Where Danger Hides (Blackthorne, Inc. 2)

Rooted in Danger (Blackthorne, Inc. 3

Danger in Deer Ridge (Blackthorne, Inc. 4)

Deadly Connections (Blackthorne, Inc. 5)

Windswept Danger (Blackthorne, Inc. 6)

What's in a Name?

Seeing Red: From the Case Files of Detective James T. Kirkland (short story collection)

