She's Got Mail!

Rosie let that sink in before continuing. She had definitely overstayed her “few minutes” but Paige hadn’t kicked her out…yet.

“Of course, there’s the small issue that I’m not a man—”

Paige arched one eyebrow in response.

“—but I sat only ten feet from William Clarington these past seven months. I heard everything he said, proofed much of what he wrote, both of which give me an edge to fill in for him until, of course, the magazine hires a man.” If Rosie wasn’t mistaken, Paige looked interested.

Paige stood, smoothed her silk jacket, then walked around the desk. Leaning back against it, she crossed her arms and leveled Rosie a look. “You’re hungry. I like that. And you put your nose to the grindstone and learned from your past mistakes. Like that even better. I’ll make a deal with you. You can be the interim Mr. Real on two conditions. One, not a single goddesslike word can touch that column, you understand?”

Rosie nodded.

“Two. It’s imperative the column’s tone sound like William, Mr. Real. We don’t want our readers—especially the growing number of men who write to Mr. Real—to ever suspect that he’s a woman. I think maybe you can pull off playing Mr. Real for a few weeks…if you agree to those two terms.”

Agree? She’d name her firstborn Paige if that’s what it took. “Yes,” Rosie whispered, not trusting her voice to behave.

Paige gave her a small smile as she headed back around the desk to her chair. Sitting down, she put her reading glasses back on. “Your few minutes are up.”

Rosie floated across the carpeting, past Jerome and down the hallway. She’d talked her way into being the interim Mr. Real! Goodbye gulchdom, hello writerville.

BEN SAT in the building office foyer, wondering if Rosie Myers remembered they’d agreed to meet here at noon, which was ten minutes ago. Except for the piped-in Muzak, he didn’t mind waiting. It was a relief to escape his office, where Meredith had spent the rest of the morning analyzing his couch, which should be a first in Freudian psychology.

Although considering Rosie was late, he should have asked her where she worked or how he might reach her. All he knew was her name, that she had an abnormal desire to possess his parking space, and that she favored the mud-splattered look.

He smiled, recalling the little spot of mud nestled in her hairline. Most women fretted if a hair was out of place or if their lipstick wasn’t on straight. At the other end of the spectrum was Rosie, who looked as though she’d just polished off a mud pie.

At that moment, Rosie charged into the foyer. Seeing Ben, she halted and heaved a few deep breaths. “Sorry I’m…late,” she said between pants. “I lost…track of time.”

She wet her lips, making him wonder if that was a nervous gesture because she was late—or if it was because of him. “That’s all right. I enjoyed the reprieve from Super-Ex.”

Frowning, Rosie swiped a curl off her forehead. “Super what?”

“Never mind,” he said, flipping his wrist to check the time. “The building manager has been waiting at least fifteen minutes. Shall we?” He gestured toward an open wooden door, upon which was stenciled in white block letters Archibald Potter, Building Manager.

Nodding, Rosie did a quick adjustment to her blouse, which was once again partially tucked into her skirt waistband. She must live alone, Ben surmised, because no one with a heart would let her leave the house looking as though she’d dressed in front of a wind machine.

After rectifying her wayward blouse, Rosie cocked her head and frowned. “Is that an orchestra playing the Rolling Stones?”

Ben glanced at one of the speakers embedded into the ceiling. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’?”

“Okay, but first let’s talk to Mr. Potter.” Ben avoided her eyes as he motioned her toward the office door. He shouldn’t have said that, but the urge to ruffle Ms. Mud Pie was too great.

She huffed indignantly, although he noticed circles of pink staining her cheeks. So she liked the idea of spending the night together?

“I meant the song title!” As she sailed passed him, he noticed the mud along her hairline had been removed. Also gone were the stockings that looked like a Rorschach test.

As they entered Mr. Potter’s office, Ben mused how Meredith would have a field day in here. It had no style, unless there was such a thing as a price-saver-office-supply theme. The room’s furnishings consisted of a fake ficus tree, a Write ’N Wipe calendar scribbled with illegible notes, two folding chairs, and a metal desk with a faux wood front. Behind the desk sat a spectacled Mr. Potter, wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Besides the emerald-green leaves on the ficus, the only other piece of color in the room was Mr. Potter’s flaming red hair.

“Hello, hello,” Mr. Potter said, motioning them toward the folding chairs. “I told Mr. Taylor to bring you in when you arrived,” he said to Rosie.

They all three sat at once, the creaking of the chairs sounding like a metallic chorus.

When the creaking stopped, Mr. Potter pushed the bridge of his frames up his nose. Placing his elbows on his desk, he steepled his fingers and looked at them. “Mr. Taylor said there’s some issue over a parking space?”

“Yes,” Rosie answered matter-of-factly. “He stole mine.”

She makes cutting to the chase seem like a detour, thought Ben. But he kept his mouth closed because Rosie was off and running, explaining the entire ILITIG8, rear-ending adventure to an astonished-looking Mr. Potter, who probably heard few such colorful stories in his beige life.

Sitting close enough to rub elbows, Ben had his first real opportunity to look more closely at his parking-space nemesis. She had a clear, glowing complexion—the kind that looked as though it had been scrubbed with soap and water. Impossible. Didn’t all women buy expensive creams and bottles of gooey stuff to slather on their faces? It was a throwback to another era for a woman to simply wash her face and call it clean.

Simple. Efficient. He liked that.

Plus, the fresh pink of Rosie’s skin nicely set off the dark mound of curls that framed her face like a wiry halo. Halo? He almost laughed out loud at the thought of the parking space fanatic being an angel. Maybe a recent fall to earth accounted for all those muddy slosh marks he’d seen earlier.

He tuned in to the Earth Angel’s animated monologue.

“Then, after trudging eight long city blocks from the only other parking spot I could find, I visited Mr. Taylor in his office—”

“Eight?” Ben interrupted. “I don’t recall your saying ‘eight’ before.” Earth Angel might simply wash her face with soap and water, but it appeared she got elaborate when it came to words.

She smiled demurely. “You’re right. It was actually ten….”

And she was off and running again. Quite the storyteller. But rather than correct her, Ben leaned back in his chair. He’d wait until she wound down—after all, he had a receipt.

From behind his desk this morning, he’d have thought she wore makeup. This close, he saw the most she wore was a dab of lipstick. Her lashes, thick and dark, complemented her mink-brown hair and hazel eyes. And beneath that pug nose were lips that naturally puckered, as though ready for a kiss. Reminded him of his favorite Manet oil, Portrait of a Woman. A painting of an alluring, dark-haired woman with luscious lips poised for a smile…or a kiss.

Amazing. Rosie’s lips kept their delicious shape even when she talked, which at this moment she was doing at quite a clip. He imagined how those lips would feel against his. Pliant, soft. She’d taste sweet and hot, like sugar and coffee….

“Mr. Taylor?” Even through Mr. Potter’s thick lenses, Ben caught a beady-eyed look that was half confused, half annoyed. It reminded Ben of the innumerable times in school he’d been caught fantasizing about some girl, the teacher looking at him in much the same way as Mr. Potter was now. And Ben would have to rapidly piece together whatever the heck was under discussion—or simply wing it. Fortunately, he was brilliant at winging it. No wonder he ended up a lawyer.

And considering his appreciation of women’s beauty, no wonder he ended up on Venus.

“Mr. Taylor?” Mr. Potter was looking more and more confused. “Is that true? You stole her parking space?”

Her parking space? She’d obviously done an outstanding job presenting her side of the argument. “My space,” Ben corrected. “I rented it yesterday and have the receipt with me.” He fished in his pants pocket, feeling mildly idiotic that he’d let a pair of lips sidetrack him from the topic under discussion. “Here it is,” he said, trying to sound extraordinarily professional as he handed over the slip of paper.

Mr. Potter read it, nodded to himself, then gave that confused look to Rosie. “C1001. That’s the space we’re talking about…and it clearly says right here that it’s Mr. Taylor’s space.”

Her face flushed. “That’s impossible.” She tapped her loafered foot against the floor. “Could you please look up my transaction from yesterday? I left my receipt at home.”

Mr. Potter swiveled, typed something on his keyboard, then scrutinized the computer screen. He made a tuneless humming sound, probably one of his side effects from listening to Muzak all day long. “Well, well,” he finally said in a surprised tone. “Looks as though you were also rented C1001.”

“The space next to the stairs in the back of the building,” Rosie clarified.

“The same.” Mr. Potter leaned a little closer to the computer screen as though his eyeglasses couldn’t be trusted one hundred percent. “Yes, you were definitely rented C1001.” He leaned back and blinked at the two of them. “Appears my office assistant rented the same space to both of you.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” Rosie shot a meaningful glance at Ben as though it were time for him to metamorphose into Super Lawyer. Interesting how she expected him to jump to her defense after trying to put him on the defensive.

But he also liked her needing him. Had always liked it when an attractive woman needed him. He’d never leave Venus if he didn’t come to his senses. “Perhaps,” Ben said, “it should belong to whoever paid for it first.”

Mr. Potter stuck out his bottom lip, thought for a moment, then shook his head no. “Sometimes my assistant will go into a file and add missing information, which changes its time stamp.”

“Meaning, the time stamp on a file doesn’t necessarily reflect the actual time of transaction,” Ben said.

“Yes, yes. Correct.” Mr. Potter typed something on his keyboard, after which the screen blipped to gray. “I am sorry. This is clearly our error. Unfortunately, there are no other available spaces to rent at this time.”

“You need to fix this,” Rosie said, scooting forward to the edge of her seat.

Mr. Potter steepled his fingers again. After a moment’s reflection, he said, “I’m not Judge Judy. I can’t just say one of you is right, the other wrong. Someone needs to back out of the space, so to speak.”

“I think Mr. Taylor should back out,” Rosie suggested.

Ben, still taken aback at the Judge Judy reference, gave her a belated double take. “Why?”

“Because I need that space. It ensures that I’m on time.”

“So if your car were parked in that space, you would have been on time to this meeting?”

She huffed something unintelligible. “In the mornings it helps me get into work on time. You own your business, so you can come and go as you please. I, on the other hand, must be to work by a certain time, so I need to park close to my office.”

This mumbo jumbo logic was rubbing him all the wrong way, reminding him of variations of every conversation he’d had with his exes, even before they were exes. Good ol’ reliable, dependable Ben should give or abstain or forgo so the woman could have whatever she needed—or thought she needed. Well, he was tired of being the caretaker for planet Venus, which now had a new member, a Miss Rosie Myers.

“I also require that space, for both myself and my clients. Do you have clients?” She opened those luscious lips to say something, but Ben kept talking. “My clients get irritated if they can’t park nearby. And if I lose my clients, I lose my business. So if that space means either you’ll be on time for work or I lose my business, I should retain the space.” He folded his arms for effect.

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

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

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

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

Both of their mouths dropped open.

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

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

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

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

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

“Take alternate days?” Ben suggested.

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

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

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

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

He stood with her. “After you park—?”

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

“Uh, right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inner sparkle and fire? Diamond?

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

The Muzak swelled into a heartrending love song.

Love.

Venus.

It was time for Ben to make a planetary move.

3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better, Ben-n-ny?” repeated Heather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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