She's Got Mail!: She's Got Mail! / Forget Me? Not

“Your jaw!” Rosie eyes glistened with concern as she stared at him. “It’s swollen and red!”

“You should see the other guy,” he mumbled.

“He’s in worse shape?”

“Oh, yeah. When I fell to the ground, I think my right foot brushed against his. Doctor thinks he’ll walk again, though.”

“Really?”

Ben stared into those big, hazel eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such an untainted look. What kind of woman grew to be Rosie’s age and retained such innocence? “No,” Ben said, determined to hold on to his anger, “the other guy is fine. I was kidding.”

“Oh.” She swiped the curl off her brow. “Then why did he slug you?”

“He doesn’t seem to like lawyers.”

“Who does?” Rosie pursed her lips. “I mean—”

Ben raised his hand. “Please. My morning has been difficult enough without digressing into why people hate lawyers. Let’s finalize our parking space agreement. Alternate days, right?”

Rosie nodded.

“I’ll put that in writing.”

“A legal agreement?” She frowned.

“It’s to protect you, too, of course.”

Rosie felt her fury sparking, but stuffed it back down. After all, Athena wouldn’t react angrily: Athena would negotiate with the man as an equal. “What if I have to run into work early one morning—like you did today—and I zip into our parking spot for, say, ten minutes? Will you sue me?”

Ben took a sip of coffee, his blue eyes focused intently on her face. They were warming from frosty blue to a kind of summer-sky blue, the color of Kansas skies on an easygoing summer day.

Taking advantage of his moment of reflection, Rosie charged ahead. “You know, this morning was a fluke. I had to get in extra early because I was mega-late yesterday. And I knew I’d be meeting with you at sevenish, so I also wanted to make sure we’d have enough time to chat.” Chat? Men didn’t say chat. Especially lawyers, she bet. “I mean, time to talk. Discuss. Negotiate.”

Ben set down his cup. “More parking spaces will eventually be available.”

The last word—negotiate—must have done the trick. Eager she was on his good side, Rosie rushed on, “Right! Probably soon, too. Maybe in a week or so.” She had no idea what she was talking about, but he wasn’t glaring at her, which was enough encouragement for her to continue. “Kind of silly to write up some petty legal document when there’ll be no need to share that space in a week or so. Maybe even a day or so.”

Ben started to respond when Heather poked her head in the door. “Your eight o’clock’s here. Well, technically, your 8:10 now.” She disappeared.

“Great,” Ben murmured. “New client and I look like a bum.”

“Not true,” offered Rosie. “You only look a little rough around the edges. A little dangerous.” The last just slipped out, but it was true. The man had looked clean-cut and professional yesterday, but she almost preferred his look today. Unshaven. Rumpled. Dangerous. Her heart thumped erratically. “Looking dangerous is good for a lawyer, right?” she said, trying to cover her slip.

He gave her a look that escalated her heartbeats from mere thumping to wild boom-booming. When he raked a hand through his hair, she felt her own scalp prickle. God, what would it be like to be touched by a rumpled, dangerous man like Ben? To writhe nakedly in some exotic locale?

“Let’s skip the agreement and just mark the schedule on our calendars.”

“Yes,” she said, a bit too breathlessly. She was losing it. Rosie Myers, who could beat guys at Ping-Pong, sprints and the long jump was losing it, big time, in front of Benjamin Taylor.

“And as we discussed, tomorrow’s my day.”

Yes sir! Nothing like a little bossiness to put a damper on a heat rush. Sheesh, this guy was more territorial than ol’ Mr. Harrison, the pharmacist who gave his own tickets to people who parked in front of his drug store. Even though the police continually warned Mr. Harrison that the street was city property, he still gave tickets, griping that he had parking rights in front of his business. Because of his age, everybody in town put up with cranky Mr. Harrison. Some people even paid their tickets.

“You know,” Rosie said, rising. “I could give you my phone number so if you ever needed a quick ten minutes, even an hour, you could call me.”

Ben set his cup down so hard, a ceramic blue fish on his desk shook. “I, uh, don’t think that will, uh, be necessary.” But his head-to-toe devouring look said something else—that maybe he’d like that?

Or maybe she’d imagined that look, just as she’d imagined too many other things with Benjamin Taylor. “No—no,” she stammered, trying to clarify, “I meant if you ever needed a quick ten minutes in the parking space. For parking. Not for…” She suddenly felt as though she were running a fever. Hot. Too hot. She’d never invoke this new Boom Boom goddess again. “To-tomorrow’s your day.” Not waiting for any response, Rosie speed-walked out of his office, past his eight o’clock—some guy dressed in a three-piece suit—and out the door.

Only when she was outside did she realize she had stolen another mug. My Fair Lady. Feeling anything but, she jogged toward the elevators.

“BENNY, you look so-o-o much better!” Heather cooed, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck while filing her nails. “I’d hardly know you’d been slugged except for your red jaw!”

Ben, showered and dressed in slacks and a shirt, halted in the doorway and closed his eyes. “Not while you’re on the phone, Heather,” he admonished quietly.

“Not what?”

He opened his eyes. “Don’t say such…personal things to me. I’d prefer my reputation at work to remain professional.” He was one to talk. He’d interviewed his 8:10 appointment dressed in a wrinkled, muddied sweat suit.

Heather stopped filing. Waving the receiver, she said, “It’s Carla, not one of your clients!”

How long had they been having this discussion? A hundred, a thousand times? Maybe he should quit fighting it. Save his energy for commode filchers and parking space thieves. “Tell Carla hello,” he mumbled, crossing to his office. Stepping into his inner sanctum, he tossed his workout bag into the corner before sitting behind his desk. To the right was a stack of folders, each holding relevant papers for a case in progress. He reached for the top folder when a white envelope in the center of his desk caught his eye.

On its front, in black ink, was boldly printed “To: Wishing to Move from Venus to Mars.”

Mr. Real wrote back! Finally! Ben wasn’t alone in a world of women. Ben ripped open the envelope, wadded and tossed it into the trash can. Pulling out the letter, he began reading: “Mr. Mars:”

Ben had liked that in all of Mr. Real’s responses. The guy had class. No matter the tone of the writer—and some got heated—or how the writer had signed his name, Mr. Real always called everyone Mr., Mrs., or Ms. Not only was he a man’s man, but a gentleman. Ben read on: “You ask why women are so needy? My conjecture is that you still seek those same types of relationships with other women.”

“Get down, Mr. Real!” Ben whispered to himself. This guy isn’t just a columnist, he’s a shrink. Leaning back in his chair, Ben continued reading: “Other types of women exist in the world: independent, adventurous, a man’s equal. Too many men look for the superficial and miss the substance.”

Ben pondered that last sentence for a moment. A woman being a man’s equal? He wasn’t born yesterday. He knew all about Gloria Steinem and the women’s movement. It’s just that Ben had never experienced a relationship with a woman who was his equal, who wanted to be his equal. He’d always taken care of women, been absorbed into their problems, issues. “No wonder I became a lawyer,” he murmured, reading on. “For whatever reasons in your background, it’s evident you’re feeling trapped. Let’s investigate that. You say you’re a nice guy. That you have a couple of manipulative exes and a strange woman who wants your space. My question to you: What is your space? Your world, your home, your office?”

Ben looked around at the variety of decorating themes in his office. This wasn’t a space—it was a high-end flea market. Shaking his head, he went back to the letter. “Right now, you’re wanting to move from planet to planet. I’m impressed. That’s one big move. I suggest you first pick a different space—a vital space. If you can’t share it, then place your stakes. As with most things in life, it’s best to start small, then think big. After all, every journey begins with a single step. Respectfully yours, Mr. Real”

“You should have seen my journey this morning,” Ben muttered, thinking of the hundreds of steps he took along those long blocks into work. He probably could have handled it if he hadn’t been slipped that quarter. Forget the insult—what could a quarter buy in today’s world? Ben made a mental note to give a dollar to the next homeless person he met.

But back to the letter. Share a space…He already did! His bathroom, his office. But find a space to mark his territory? Good thinking. A small, first step. Ben tapped his fingers against the desk. Small space. Small.

The parking space! Which was definitely small compared to Mars and Venus. He nodded to himself. He’d build from there—like, next claim his office, then his bathroom. Soon he’d be claiming his right to take on the world, to dust off his kayak and discover regions unknown.

A warmth flooded his veins, a feeling he hadn’t known in years. Satisfaction? Anticipation? If he didn’t know better, it was almost like falling in love, something he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time. Of course, this wasn’t really falling in love—it was luxuriating in a moment of euphoria. One small step for Benkind, one giant step…

“To Mars!” he said out loud. “I’m building a new life!”

“What?” called out Heather from the other room. The thunk thunk of footsteps preceded a waterfall of blond hair as she peeked into his office. “You’re building something? In here?”

Ben looked at her platform shoes. Talk about building—Heather built an extra inch or three to her height when she wore those leg-tottering shoes. “I’m not building anything. I was just experiencing a moment of exuberance.”

She looked around the office. “Alone?” Flashing him a perplexed look, she added, “I’ve been worried about you lately, Benny.”

That confession took Ben by surprise. “You’re worried about…me?”

“Yeah.” She sidled into the doorway. Today she wore a shift covered with purple butterflies and pink flowers. Heather missed her calling as a flower child. “You seem—” she tilted her head as she scrutinized him “—more preoccupied lately.”

“Preoccupied?”

“Yeah. Like the couch. When Meredith has needed to redecorate before, you’ve let her do her thing. But this time, you got preoccupied with it!”

Preoccupied? Heather wasn’t worried about his well-being, she was worried about him setting a few boundaries. Unheard of before now. “What you two fail to understand is that it’s my couch. I love that couch. And Meredith needs to learn she can’t come back to me every time one of her love affairs goes bust. She has to learn that she has a strong heart, that she’ll be okay without re-covering or redecorating or stealing toilets.”

He meant to vent, but instead his on-the-fly analysis hit home. Meredith did have a strong heart. Damn it, she lived. She experienced life. Which meant she wasn’t afraid to love deeply, crash and burn, then pick herself up and love again.

Of course, during the picking-herself-up phase, a corner of his life got redecorated. Nevertheless, Ben had to hand it to Meredith—she had more guts to delve into life than he did.

After a long pause, Heather said, “See? You’re preoccupied again.”

“Maybe it’s time for me to be preoccupied,” Ben said quietly. “Time for me to figure out who Benjamin Taylor is, what I want.”

A second head appeared in the doorway. “Darling, what you want is to see some new commode samples!”

Ben flinched. What had Meredith done to her hair? Instead of chopsticks, she had small, bright, silver things sticking out of another wild bird’s nest number. For a mind-numbing moment, he wondered if she had stuck commode handles into her hair.

“You—” he tried not to stare at her hair “—you didn’t drag a bunch of toilets in here, did you?”

Meredith gave him an are-you-crazy look. “Do I look that strong?”

If you put your mind to it, you could drag in a herd of water buffalo. He offered a small prayer that Meredith’s next affair wasn’t with a safari tour guide. “Well, you have been lifting weights,” he muttered, eyeing the sheets she held in her hand. Photos of commodes? And he thought yesterday morning had started off strangely.

Meredith stepped jauntily into his office. Today she wore a red dress with a satin jacket embroidered with birds and bonsai trees. Good thing her business was lucrative, otherwise she couldn’t afford a new wardrobe every postaffair. Or afford these ex-husband redecorating binges. “Oh, you noticed,” she said, flexing one arm. “I’ve been working with a personal trainer—”

“Show me the pictures.” Ben didn’t need to see his ex-wife flex. He needed a commode and shower door, pronto.

The room filled with an incenselike scent as she walked into the room. Of course. New look, new perfume. “You’ll adore these commodes,” Meredith said. “Very European. Custom-mixed porcelain. This one is called the Renaldo. Notice the flowing, neo-Italian lines….”

It was too much. Truckers. Incense. A commode named Renaldo. “Meredith,” Ben barked, “if you put neo anything in my bathroom, I will throttle you with my bare hands!” He gripped the edge of the desk, resisting the urge to press one of those handles in her hair. “Just fix the pipe so I can turn on my water. And get me a square, white toilet. End of discussion.” To her stunned expression, he added, “And please close the door behind you. I need to make an important phone call.”

“NICE MUGS.”

Rosie looked up. Jerome slouched against her desk, wearing a pair of jeans, a white Gap T-shirt and a whiskey-colored leather jacket. Paige must be out of town. Jerome only dressed like Johnny Depp when his boss was out of the office. “What?” Rosie asked.

Jerome looked at the two coffee mugs, Rebel Without a Cause and My Fair Lady, on her desk. “Nice…” his dark-eyed gaze traveled up Rosie’s torso, lingering where they shouldn’t before meeting her eyes “…mugs.”

He could be such a scum. She’d witnessed his smarmy come-ons with others, but with her? He liked the type who giggled and walked provocatively in high heels. Rosie was the type who spoke her mind and speed-walked in loafers. Contemplating his motivations, she avoided Jerome’s gaze as she rearranged the mugs around her wind-up dinosaur with pom-poms. Suddenly it made sense to separate the rebel from the lady.

Which meant she’d act as though he hadn’t made that stupid mug comment.

Seemingly absorbed in her dinosaur-rearranging task, Rosie said nonchalantly, “Thanks for setting up that meeting with Paige.”

“You owe me lunch.”

“Yes, I owe you lunch.” And nothing else.

“Focaccio’s,” Jerome said, hitting the first syllable so hard, Rosie knocked over the dinosaur. One corner of Jerome’s mouth twisted into a lascivious grin.

Rosie clutched the dinosaur tightly. “We’re still talking about lunch, right?”

“Focaccio’s,” Jerome repeated in a husky whisper, “is a restaurant.”

“I know that.” He was pronouncing it differently this time. What a sneak.

“When we goin’?”

“When I get my paycheck.” She didn’t have to say which paycheck. Maybe it would be the paycheck she received in a year. Or two.

“Oh, right, I almost forgot.” Jerome reslouched so his other hip leaned against the desk. “You gulchers live paycheck to paycheck.”

She sensed danger. Just the way her farm animals back home sometimes sensed danger when no obvious threat was nearby, she sensed Jerome sneaking up for some type of surprise attack. “I’m no longer a gulcher,” she said, keeping her voice level. “Now I’m Mr. Real.”

Jerome looked surprised, then broke out in laughter. “Mr. Real,” he finally said, the words choked out as though it were a struggle for him to be serious. “That’s rich.” He reached over and stroked her clenched fingers, wound tightly around the dinosaur. “You’re filling in for Mr. Real only because of me, baby.”

Baby? A nauseating spurt of adrenaline shot through her. She eased her hand away. “You got me in to see Paige. I did the rest.”

“But you never would have had that opportunity if I hadn’t opened the door.”

Rosie was squeezing the dinosaur so tightly, she was sure she’d have a permanent imprint of a little dinosaur face on her palm. “So you opened the door….” she said calmly, determined to not let her voice shake as her hands were doing.

He leaned so close, she could see the lusty glint in his dark eyes. Smell his sweat. “I could open it again,” he said, his words thick with insinuation. “Help you get another opportunity.”

Through clenched teeth, she said, “Are you propositioning me?” Even after years of being told, “Watch your tongue,” Rosie couldn’t take this macho act any longer. He’d already blackmailed her for lunch—now he was blackmailing her for more.

Jerome stepped back, fast, and adjusted the lapel of his leather jacket so the collar stood up. In his best Johnny Depp “I’m cool” voice, he said, “I never said anything like that.”

“No, you implied it.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I came here to deliver a message from Paige,” he said, suddenly all business. “She wants stats on your Mr. Real answers. Number received. Number answered. Quality of responses. Quality of feedback.”

Sheesh. When Jerome got serious—or miffed?—he turned from a bad boy into a tough guy. She shouldn’t have accused him of propositioning her. What if he said some negative things to Paige about Rosie? There goes my great escape from the gulch. “I’ve only been Mr. Real for a day,” she said, forcing herself to sound light, professional. “When does she want these stats?”

“Tomorrow morning. First thing.”

“First thing?” She opened her cramping fingers, giving the dinosaur some breathing room. “How first is ‘first thing?”’

“Let’s see…I have two openings. Ten or seven-thirty.”

“Ten would be good,” Rosie offered. That’d give her more time to pull together statistics, print off a few of the questions and answers as examples, forecast estimates based on the number of outstanding questions in William’s inbox….

“Sorry,” Jerome said. “Ten’s taken. Your slot is seven-thirty. She can squeeze you in between a breakfast meeting and a senior management staff meeting. Don’t be late. If there’s anything Paige hates, it’s when people are late to meetings. She calls it passive-aggressive insubordination.”

Paige called it all that? “Seven-thirty,” Rosie repeated, deciding she’d be here early just in case Jerome had given her the wrong time. The last thing she needed to do was saunter into Paige’s office at seven-thirty and discover the meeting had been for seven.

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