The Bachelor and the Babies. HEATHER MACALLISTER

person. I learned that when I was a psychology major.”

      Harrison didn’t want to hear about it. Psychology was the major Carrie quoted most often in her runins with the condo board. “Then you’ll have to make an appointment.”

      “Well, I would if you had any openings when I’m awake.”

      He blinked. “You’re awake now.”

      “That’s what I was telling her.” Carrie hooked a thumb over her shoulder, and shot a disgusted look at Harrison’s secretary.

      “Sharon knows that I have a very tight morning schedule, and you aren’t on it, either awake, or asleep.”

      “This will only take a minute, unless you plan on being pigheaded and unreasonable.”

      Absolute silence was punctuated by the distant warbling of office telephones. Everyone within earshot of Carrie’s voice was ignoring work to stare.

      How often had Harrison preached keeping business and personal life separate? And standing in front of him, looking like an escapee from a gypsy camp, was Personal with a capital P.

      “If you wish to discuss time-management techniques, then please make an appointment,” he enunciated clearly for his employees’ benefit. “If you wish to discuss anything not related to my business, then please contact me during evening hours.”

      “I work during evening hours!”

      “And I work during daytime hours. You are interfering with that work.” He turned to walk back into his office.

      “Then I’ll sit right here and wait until you take a break.” She sank onto the floor outside his office, her skirt billowing around her.

      She was making a scene. Carrie Brent was deliberately making a scene at his place of work.

      She was wasting time. His time. His employees’ time.

      It was obvious that Carrie Brent was not familiar with effective time-management techniques. Harrison pointed to his office.

      Carrie got to her feet and sauntered inside.

      “Show’s over,” Harrison announced to the room at large, then firmly shut his office door. “You may have the six minutes left of the phone call you interrupted, which is five more minutes than you deserve,” he snapped at her.

      “How generous of you.” Bracelets clanked as she dug into a shapeless sack that was apparently serving as her purse. She pulled out a crumpled, folded piece of paper. “That’s where it went. Receipt,” she told Harrison and continued babbling while she searched. “I bought these great hip-hugger jeans, but I was in a hurry and didn’t try them on. They didn’t fit. I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been a size eight hoping to be a size six for as long as I can remember and the jeans don’t fit! Then I realized they were from the petite department.” She looked up at him. “I was so relieved when I saw the tag, you know?”

      No, Harrison didn’t know and he didn’t want to know. He had to restrain himself from yanking the bag from her and dumping the contents on the floor. “You should have made an appointment. I don’t allocate time to deal with disorganized malcontents.”

      “But you have time to cite me for—” she whipped out a folded piece of paper “—displaying hanging plants in unapproved containers?”

      “Is that what this is about?” He didn’t want to hear it. Carrie lived a lifestyle continually at odds with the conservative community at the condos. He didn’t know why she insisted on living there, but she did, and the result was continual friction. “Make an appointment for an appeal to the board. I do not conduct personal business—”

      “You and your appointments!” She waved the citation in front of his face. “By the time the board agrees to listen to me, the plants will be dead from lack of sunlight!”

      “Not if you transfer them to approved containers.”

      “And approved would be white or green plastic?” She grimaced. “You people would prefer plastic to original pieces of Mexican pottery? We’re talking art here!”

      “White and green preserve the integrity of the outside appearance.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest. “Plastic integrity. I knew it.”

      “Carrie...” Shaking his head, Harrison shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the credenza. “Those are the rules.”

      “The people who wrote those rules have no soul. I’m trying to...to...” She threw up her hands in frustration.

      But Harrison knew exactly what she was trying to say. Carrie had lived in the complex longer than he had. He remembered the first time he’d met her. She’d arrived at his door with a pan of hot, vegetarian lasagna and a bottle of cheap chianti.

      Since she lived on a downstairs corner, she’d watched the movers unload the few possessions that had survived the flooding at his former home. When she saw the secondhand couch and chairs, and the water-stained table legs, she’d apparently decided a soul mate was at last moving to White Oak Bayou Condominiums.

      Harrison had enjoyed the evening too much to correct her impression.

      But she figured out her mistake when Harrison had tried to repay her hospitality by inviting her to dinner after the decorator had finished replacing the furniture and changing the curtains in his new home.

      Carrie had stepped inside the door, gazed around the room, then wordlessly stared at him with an expression he interpreted as betrayal. She’d handed him another straw-wrapped bottle, then left.

      He’d never opened the wine, but he still had it. He didn’t know why. Maybe as emergency fuel if his car ever ran out of gas.

      “I didn’t think my pots would bother anybody. Nobody can see them from the street.”

      “They are not approved containers.”

      “Pottery is better for the plants, anyway. Didn’t anyone notice how healthy mine look and how anemic everyone else’s look? Wait!” She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Plastic flowers! Of course. Has the board thought of that?”

      “Carrie, this isn’t the proper venue for your complaints.” How could she think that coming here today and wasting his time would win his sympathies? Again, Harrison wondered why Carrie Brent wanted to live in a place where she so obviously didn’t fit in. He made a show of consulting his watch. “Since I can’t act without the rest of the board—”

      “Can’t, or won’t?”

      “Both.”

      They locked gazes. “In other words, I’ll have to miss work if I want to challenge this citation,” she said.

      “If you’re working at seven o’clock on the third Thursday of the month, then yes.”

      “And if I don’t challenge it, then it goes into my file with all the other citations, until they reach critical mass, also determined by the board, and I’m evicted. Do I understand the plan correctly?”

      Before answering, Harrison drew two deep breaths. It was a technique he found useful to keep from engaging in useless arguments. “I know of no plan to evict you.”

      Carrie looked at him as though he was as dumb as dirt. “You know...” She held up the citation. “For anybody else, one of you would have knocked on my door, or left me a note telling me to take down the pots. But no. Because it was me, the board issues a formal citation.” She jammed it back into her purse.

      She was right, he had to admit. The board seemed to enjoy catching her in minor violations, such as when a car with her visitor tags parked in the covered area instead of the visitors’ lot.

      Or the fact that she’d set her recycling bin out too early because she didn’t get home until after the morning pickup. When she’d petitioned the board,