Mr. Right Next Door. Arlene James

news that I’ve changed jobs unexpectedly instead of, ‘I’ve been canned!”’

      Denise held up a cautioning hand. “It’s not a done deal. You could blow this if you go in there with the wrong attitude.”

      He chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m a salesman, and my top product’s me. It’s been a rough few months, but I’m ready to be on top of the heap again. In fact, I haven’t been this raring to go since I got out of college. Maybe this chance is just what I need.” He patted his pocket before saying, “I’ll just pick up that letter on my way out.”

      Denise got up and extended her hand. Ken took it in both of his, held it, and said meaningfully. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.” And then he walked out of her office, his step decidedly more spry than when he’d come in. As the door closed behind him, Denise felt an overwhelming sense of loss.

      It didn’t make much sense. Ken Walters had never been a buddy. She was his superior. He had only this moment begun to think of her as even human, and that had been completely by her own design, so then why should she feel lonely now that he was gone? Nothing had really changed. Nothing would. She had her career, and that was all she needed. Wasn’t it?

      

      Denise watched out her window as Morgan whizzed the Frisbee through the air, laughing as his big dog Reiver launched his ninety-pound body into flight and snatched it in his powerful jaws, white teeth flashing against his brown-and-black muzzle. The dog landed lightly on all fours and loped toward him, ears flopping. Morgan opened his arms and bent forward in offer of reward. Reiver leaped at him, knocking him flat on his back and depositing the disk on his chest before lapping his face with a long, pink tongue. Morgan howled, trying to fend off the dog and hug him at the same time, too weak with laughter to do anything but endure. Then he turned his head and saw her, and the laughter died. Denise felt a twinge of guilt for having ruined his mood. He pushed the dog off and sat up, staring at her window. She tried not to let on that she had been watching, sipping from a coffee cup and petting her cat with one hand. Obviously he couldn’t stand the sight of her now. He got up and went into the house.

      Denise turned away from the window with a sigh. She should be glad. She hadn’t wanted his attentions or any man’s, so what was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her to feel so...bereft. Well, not in a long time, not since she’d so painstakingly rebuilt her life, not since... She got up from the armchair, unceremoniously dumping the cat from her lap, and wandered over to the bookshelf, torn between taking down the photograph album and passing it by. She took it down, set aside her cup and opened the cover.

      Jeremy smiled up at her, a little blob of baby fat in a blue one-piece shorty, that little eyebrow quirked just so. She turned the page. Jeremy pushed his walker around the room clad only in his diaper, his little face utterly gleeful. She couldn’t bear any more. She closed the book and briefly hugged it to her before sliding it back into place on the shelf. She couldn’t bear to see again how he’d grown and changed and matured, how the baby fat had gradually become thin, hard little muscles, how his face beamed with secret knowledge and avid intelligence. She couldn’t bear, especially, that the pictures would stop there, frozen in time forever. At eight. There would never be a picture of Jeremy at ten or twelve or twenty-one. There would never be another picture of Jeremy ever. She closed her eyes against the searing pain, no longer expecting it to soften or lessen. The years had shown her that losing one’s child never got easier or better.

      A knock at her door provided welcome distraction. She left her cup where it was, wrapped her sweater tightly about her and walked into the tiny foyer to answer it. Morgan Holt smiled down at her, a casserole balanced on one palm.

      “Got a minute?”

      A minute? she thought wryly, pathetically grateful that she had misjudged him. Old habits died hard, however, and she heard herself saying, “Just. I have some paperwork to go over tonight and—” The cat made a bid for the door, slinking between her ankles and elongating its stride. “Smithson, get back here!” She caught at the regal bluegray tail. Morgan quickly stepped inside and pulled the door closed.

      The cat immediately twined itself around his ankles, meowing. “Russian blue?” Morgan asked, maneuvering the casserole in order to look down at the cat.

      “Somewhere along the way, I imagine,” Denise said, leaning down and plucking up the cat. He was a big, arrogant male, completely unconcerned that he’d been declawed and fixed. At a sleek fourteen pounds, he considered himself emperor of the world even though he seldom left the apartment and only then in a locked carrier. He ducked his head and turned away as Denise attempted to stroke between his ears. To further indicate his disdain, he hooked his only remaining claws, those of his back paws, into her abdomen and pushed away, leaping to the floor and wrapping his long body around Morgan’s ankles in another examination of the door.

      Morgan laughed. “What’d you say his name was?”

      “Smithson.”

      “Smithson?”

      “Yeah, as in ‘son of Smith.”’

      “Ah, so his father’s name was Smith.”

      Denise lifted both brows in a gesture of surprise. “Very good. Most people don’t get it.”

      “That you had a cat named Smith,” Morgan clarified, “and now have raised one of his kittens.”

      “Exactly.”

      He smiled. “There, see, we have more in common than racquetball and residence.”

      “And that would be?”

      “Obviously we’re both animal lovers.”

      Denise made a doubtful face. “I imagine we’re about as compatible as cats and dogs.”

      He laughed. “You never know.”

      But she did. She felt certain that she did, and instinctively she began turning away.

      “Uh, about this,” he said, holding aloft the steaming ceramic dish. “It’s an apology. I shouldn’t have used your name to get into the gym without your permission. I’m sorry. Sort of.”

      She couldn’t help smiling. Sorry, sort of? What kind of apology was that? She said, “Funny, it doesn’t seem much like an apology. Actually, it looks and smells like a casserole.”

      He laughed. “An apology casserole. I thought...I hoped... Well, let’s just say I’m reconciled to being friends. Casual friends.”

      Denise was unprepared for the disappointment that arrowed through her, but she instantly dismissed it, seizing instead on the peace offering. Friends, even casual friends, was something of a compromise, but she wouldn’t let herself think of that, not tonight. She peered down into the casserole dish. “What is it?”

      “Chicken,” he said, “all white meat, cheese, rice, broccoli and cauliflower. Very low fat.”

      It smelled wonderful, but she lifted an eyebrow at the low-fat part. “Low-fat cheese?”

      He sketched a cross over his heart. “And skim milk. Scout’s honor.”

      She eyed him warily. He didn’t look much like he needed to worry about things like fat in his diet. She remembered the hard, well-defined muscles of his bare chest and thighs, and for some reason the memory made her uncomfortable. She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, saying, “Am I suppose to believe that you eat so sensibly all the time?”

      He slid the casserole and the hot pad on which he carried it onto the countertop, slapping his flat middle. “Hey, keeping in shape at forty-five isn’t as easy as you might think. You’ll find out one of these days.”

      Forty-five. She blurted, “You’re older than I thought.”

      He grinned. “Thanks.”

      She quickly washed her hands before pulling a plate out of the cupboard, then she reached up and pulled out another. What the heck. Even casual friendship required some reciprocation.