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

with that chicken-tuft hair and a swollen jaw, how can I possibly be jealous about a slugged lawyer and a dead movie star? Even as these thoughts tumbled through her mind, some internal voice offered an answer. Because Marilyn Monroe represents everything you aren’t—she’s sensual, sexy, and has a body that could stop a herd of stampeding cattle.

      Rosie put the pot aside and grabbed the My Fair Lady mug for herself. Audrey Hepburn—as Eliza Doolittle—wore an ill-fitting jacket, a wrinkled skirt and a smudge of soot on her nose. Is that how I look to men? Rosie tried to forget the clump of mud that had stuck to her forehead yesterday. She turned the mug and stared at another picture of Audrey Hepburn as the suave, refurbished Eliza Doolittle—an elegant, classy lady who eventually wooed her man.

      Rosie stared longingly at the image. Maybe if Mom hadn’t been so busy helping run a farm and raising five kids—four of them boys—I might have learned the secrets of being feminine and elegant. Rosie slid a glance at the receptionist, who was carefully outlining her lips with some sort of pink-leaded pencil. I could never draw a straight line, much less outline my mouth. I’d slip, skid off my top lip and end up drawing a big wobbly circle around my nose.

      As Rosie poured coffee into the My Fair Lady mug, a yearning filled her. A yearning to be a new Rosie. Not a lip-lining, movie-star Rosie. But an adventurous Rosie whose dreams were bigger than the gulch, bigger than Real Men magazine. Isn’t that what Boom Boom and Mr. Real had done? Escaped from humdrum to bongo drum?

      Picking up the mugs, Rosie grinned. Too bad there wasn’t a goddess named Boom Boom, who inspired women to bongo their way from a mediocre life to an exciting one. Rosie paused. Just as she stirred sugar and milk into her coffee, why couldn’t she also stir a little Boom Boom into her Athena?

      With an extra oomph to her step, Rosie strutted into Ben’s office.

      5

      “I DIDN’T ASK YOU to bring the coffee,” Ben grumbled, pressing the ice-filled napkin to his jaw. He warily watched Rosie place a steaming mug in front of him.

      “I’m not your pal?” she asked sweetly.

      Too sweetly. Either she overdosed on sugar in her own coffee, or she wanted something. Like to take over the parking space. Just the way Meredith was taking over his bathroom. Nice, mediating, peacemaking Ben had had it. “You’re a thief.”

      “Okay, you’ve had a bad morning. But I’m not a thief. I didn’t steal that spot—today’s my day.”

      Now what was she trying to do? Pacify him? Oh, she was one to take the high road. Yesterday, when she’d been the mud-splotched one, different story. He opened his mouth to say as much, but when she crossed her legs, all he could focus on were a pair of shapely calves that tapered to a pair of slim ankles. Those were the kind of killer legs that would look fantastic in a pair of… “Loafers?”

      “What?”

      She wore a pair of scuffed brown loafers. His gaze shot back to her face as though he hadn’t done the leg-loafer tour. But his mind reeled that a woman with supermodel legs dressed like a spinster librarian. The combination was startling. Titillating. After being married to a woman who changed styles more often than Cher, it was stimulating—mentally and physically—to meet a woman who exuded practicality and sensuality.

      “What are you thinking about?” Rosie asked.

      “Cher?”

      Rosie frowned. “Share…the parking space?”

      Now he frowned. “She’s a parking space?”

      “How hard did that guy hit you? Maybe you should see a doctor. I could drive you—my car’s nearby.”

      Nearby. If his jaw didn’t hurt so damn bad, he’d growl. “What’d you do,” he asked menacingly, “park there all night? Sleep in the car? That’s against the law, you know.”

      “Hardly! I got here early, that’s all.”

      “How early—3:00 a.m.?”

      She sputtered something unintelligible before speaking up. “A little before seven, if you must know. Didn’t realize there were time constraints on my parking day.” She took a swig of coffee, but kept the mug at her lips like a barrier behind which to observe him.

      “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, “Tomorrow is my day.”

      “That’s right,” she responded eagerly, emerging from behind the cup. A dark, spirally curl toppled over her forehead. “Today was my day, tomorrow’s your day.”

      Women had toyed with his affections, stolen his objects, and he was determined to hold on to something, anything, even if it was the simple fact that tomorrow was his day. His. He had the urge to say as much again, but when he opened his mouth, a pain shot through his jaw. And this damn napkin was turning into a soggy mess. He tossed it into a nearby trash can where it landed with a soggy whomp.

      “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,”