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

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