She's Got Mail!. Colleen Collins

was getting nowhere. She didn’t have her receipt. She didn’t know C spaces from Z ones. And she really didn’t want to do the six-block trek again tomorrow morning. She wanted back her space, free and clear, today. For that matter, she wanted back her common sense—to not let some Michael J. Fox look-alike with a killer Harrison Ford grin get the better of her. She cleared her throat. “The building office has copies of our receipts. I suggest we discuss this with them at lunchtime. Shall we meet there at…noon?”

      He opened his appointment book. A few strands of his straight hair, parted neatly on the side, fell forward as he bent his head to scan a page. Looking up, he said pleasantly, “Noon’s fine.”

      “Noon, then,” she said. He had a receipt, an appointment book, two secretaries it appeared, matching mugs, a BMW, and a sweater with the same cornsilk blue as his eyes. Rosie, the mud-sloshed misfit, felt as though she had nothing, not even the space she came in here to get. To make up for it she irrationally vowed to have the last word, before she left.

      She downed another gulp of coffee, which she’d barely swallowed when she realized Ben was standing. She meant to set her cup on the carved coffee table next to her chair, but the bottom of the mug hit the table edge, causing the coffee to splatter onto her stockings and the carpet.

      Ben lunged forward, grasping the cup the same time as she stabilized it. They hunched together in the center of the room, like two coffee cup worshipers, Ben’s hands encircling hers. Rosie tried not to notice the warmth of his fingers. Or the musky scent of his cologne. Or the rising heat within her that had nothing to do with the hot coffee.

      “You spilled coffee on your tights,” Ben murmured, the tender roughness in his voice sending a delicious shiver down her spine.

      Belatedly, she felt the warm liquid on her legs. Looking down, though, it was difficult to decipher which splotches were mud and which were coffee. She sure knew how to make an impression.

      Ignoring her tights, she straightened. “See you at noon.”

      Ben, dropping his hands, stood with her. He had to be six feet to her five-three. “That’s right. Noon.”

      “Yes, noon.” She turned and headed toward the reception area.

      “I’ll be in the building office at noon,” he called out.

      Rosie stopped. He had to get in the last word, didn’t he? Looking over her shoulder, she said, “Yes. Noon.” There. He wouldn’t dare out-noon her again.

      “I was talking to Heather.”

      “Oh.” Rosie did a modified speed-walk through the reception area, passed the two women who were staring at the couch, and went out the door. Only when Rosie was in the hallway did she realize she was still clutching James Dean.

      2

      “MR. REAL RAN OFF with a woman named Boom Boom?” asked an incredulous Rosie, who had barely sat down before her best pal, Pam, rushed into the editorial department to tell her the office gossip.

      As Pam leaned closer, Rosie caught the familiar scent of her friend’s patchouli perfume. “Hold on,” Pam whispered, “it gets better. Boom Boom is a bongo-playing stripper.” Pam mimed playing bongos, a mischievous twinkle in her chocolate-brown eyes. At the end of her impromptu performance, she said, “I was dying to tell you the moment I heard, but you were awfully late….” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

      “Had to park six blocks away. Has Teresa been looking for me?”

      “Nope. She got pulled into a powwow. Bigwigs are brainstorming how to replace Mr. Real overnight.”

      Rosie’s mind reeled as the facts fully sank in. She didn’t know what was more shocking—that the graying, habit-driven Real Men magazine columnist known as Mr. Real had thrown his career into the air, or that Boom Boom could bongo while boom-booming. Back in Colby, the most scandalous occurrence of the past ten years was when Bobby-Joe Reed mooned ol’ Mrs. Ferguson, who hadn’t been able to talk for weeks afterward—a condition her doctor called post-traumatic stress.

      Perched on the edge of Rosie’s desk, Pam kicked one sandaled foot back and forth. “Six blocks away? Thought you rented a parking spot yesterday.”

      “A lawyer filched it,” Rosie murmured, focusing on the sleek oak desk in the corner. That’s where William Clarington, aka Mr. Real, had plied his trade writing the immensely popular “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column.

      As she’d speed-walked to her desk a few minutes ago, she’d wondered where William, never Bill, was. Every morning he arrived promptly at 8:10, carrying a latte and a bran muffin to his desk. Slightly stooped, with a pencil-thin mustache William referred to as his “cookie duster,” it astounded Rosie that he even knew anyone named Boom Boom, much less ran away with her. The thought of them jetting off to some exotic locale, where they were probably feverishly playing bongos and dusting cookies, unleashed within Rosie an unexpected, wild rush of yearning.

      “What’re you thinking about, Rosie?” Pam asked.

      Rosie met Pam’s concerned gaze. “The wildest thing I’ve ever done is fly to Chicago. Prior to that, I once tipped a cow.”

      “I hope not more than fifteen percent. Cows are notorious for bad service.”

      “No, in Kansas ‘tipping a cow’ is literally tipping it.” Rosie made a pushing motion with her hands.

      Pam stared at Rosie’s hands. “If that’s what you did for fun,” she said with a chuckle, “good thing you moved to Chicago, and better yet, became pals with me.” Pam was city savvy and had helped Rosie survive the culture shock of moving from a small-town farm to a metropolis apartment. Pam leaned over and helped herself to a tissue on a neighboring desk. “Please don’t tell me you were tipping this morning, though.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you have mud on your forehead.” She brushed at Rosie’s right temple. “All gone.”

      Rosie groaned. “I had mud on my face?”

      “Better than egg.” Pam tossed the tissue into the metal trash can next to Rosie’s desk.

      Rosie dropped her head into her hands. In a woebegone voice, she said, “I strode, full steam, into a lawyer’s office and called him a thief. If I’d known my face was covered with a mud pack—”

      “Mud speck—”

      “I’d have wiped it off!” She rolled her eyes. “Mud on my face. No wonder he gave me those odd looks.” And she’d hoped those had been looks of heated interest. Maybe if she dated more often, she’d know the difference between a heated look and an odd one.

      Pam’s gaze dropped. “Dirt on your legs, too. Good lord, girl! What’d you do before work? Practice mud wrestling?”

      “Mud sloshing. That’s when you step grandly into a pothole filled with mud and gunk. After that, I argued with a trucker, confronted a lawyer and stole a coffee mug.”

      Pam nodded slowly, fighting a smile. “Okay, I’ll accept everything but the theft. Stooping a little low, aren’t we, to steal a coffee mug?”

      “I accidentally walked away with it, but I was so flustered at the time….” She sighed. Nothing had gone right with Benjamin Taylor, P.C. She’d felt so in control—so self-righteous—when she’d barged into his office. But she’d left with a seriously unbalanced libido, receiptless, and worse, after accusing him of being a thief, a thief herself. “You’d think,” she said, looking at the family portrait that sat on her desk, “that after growing up with four brothers, I’d know how to handle a man.”

      “Honey, we all know how to handle a man. Worrying about that right now, however, is not the proper channel for your energy.” With a wink, Pam picked up a miniature windup dinosaur, dressed in a cheerleader skirt and holding tiny pom-poms,