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

“No.” Rosie giggled. “Just got a bad case of the lonelies.”

“Mom’s Everything Stew could give you a bad case of something else. Li’l sis, if you miss it that much, we’ll gladly send you a batch. The entire batch.”

Rosie laughed. “No thanks. It was a weak moment, not a special request. So what’s up? Usually you call on Saturday mornings.” Every Saturday morning, to be exact. Seven-thirty sharp. Rosie had an inkling it was her brother’s way to ensure she was safe. Not staying out too late—or worse, not coming home. Actually, it wasn’t just Dillon who called. All four of her brothers called, each taking a turn as though she wouldn’t catch on they were keeping tabs that way. But she didn’t mind. Such over-protectiveness meant they loved her. Wanted to watch over her. After all, she was the baby sister in a family of four boys.

“Thought you’d like a friendly reminder that this Sunday is Father’s Day,” Dillon said. “Pops checked the mailbox at lunch, then again before dinner.”

Dillon didn’t need to explain further. Her dad was looking for a card from Rosie. Her father was a big, rough-handed farmer with an even bigger, sensitive heart. More than once she’d caught her father brushing aside a tear while watching a sunset or listening to the church choir.

“It’ll be in the mail tomorrow. Promise.”

“That’s my Rosie Posey. How’s everythin’ going?”

She sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the workday. “Busy. Got a promotion. Temporary, but at least I get to write for a while.”

“Write? You’re one of them magazine writers now?” Dillon, unlike her other brothers, had never pursued an education beyond high school. He loved the farm, which everyone knew he’d take over when her father couldn’t manage the land or care for the stock any longer. As her other brothers had their own careers, no one minded that Dillon would take over the family farm.

“Yes, I’m one of the magazine writers.” A minor exaggeration. But it didn’t seem necessary to admit she was actually the columnist filling in for Mr. Real.

“Writing articles about big-city life?”

“Sort of.” Didn’t seem necessary, either, to admit she was writing man-to-man advice on how to fend off ex-wives and ex-fiancées and space-nabbing women. Remembering her own space-nabbing adventure this morning, she stared at the splotches of dried mud on her skirt. That litigating lummox.

“Life treating you good?”

“Except for a certain guy, yes.”

There was a long pause on the other end. “What guy?”

She brushed at a stubborn splotch of dirt. “A jerk.” She’d only worn this skirt once, but now she’d have to take it back to the dry cleaners. Forget that he heated her imagination with fantasies of naked writhing; that jerk was costing her money!

“Jerk?”

“Yes, a jerk who’s trying to invade my space.”

“What happened?” Dillon asked gravely. “He still botherin’ you?”

“He’s going to bother me until he gets his way, that space-barging, space-stealing—” she was running out of space words “—mud-splattering jerko.” She glanced up at the clock and gasped. “It’s almost seven! Damn—” She squeezed shut her eyes. “I mean, darn. I forgot about Pam coming over. I told her I’d fix dinner and I haven’t done a thing.” There was some leftover chicken, a jar of pickles, and a half-eaten piece of cherry pie in the fridge. Suddenly she understood the reasoning behind her mother’s Everything Stew.

“Invaded your space? Bothering you until he gets his way?”

“Dillon, gotta go! A card will be in the mail to Dad tomorrow. I love you!”

She waited for his murmured “Love you, too” before she hung up.

THE SOOTHING STRAINS of a violin woke Ben up from a dream filled with moving men dressed like geishas, who were carrying orange cones, couches and commodes. He blinked sleepily at the clock radio and turned up the volume. Brandenburg Concerto no. 1. He smiled to himself. Was there a better way than Bach to get up in the morning? For a fleeting moment, he thought about waking up with Rosie, her warm body nestled against his. Those sleepy hazel eyes blinking at him, those luscious lips whispering, “Good morning.”

That definitely beat Bach as a better way to wake up.

Trying to ignore the hard jolt that seized his groin, Ben slid out of bed. He had to get up, get to work, not fantasize about that territorial, strong-willed—okay, and titillatingly attractive—woman. He headed across the carpeting to the bathroom, flipped the light switch and halted.

Something was different.

He rubbed his eyes, then scanned the white walls, white porcelain sink, the white—

“She stole my commode!” he barked, staring at the hole in the floor left by Meredith the Bathroom Marauder. His gaze swerved to the left. “And the shower door!” Shuffling from one foot to another on the cold tile floor, he recalled the cold facts from the night before.

He’d marched into the bathroom and first noticed the water. On the walls, the floor. While Max thumped his tail madly, Meredith had hurriedly explained something about the movers unbolting the commode, but forgetting to dismantle the main water pipe. With water spewing everywhere, they’d had to turn off the main water valve to the house.

But Meredith had promised everything would be better than new. She promised a plumber would fix the main pipe today. She’d left a case of bottled water. And she’d promised to show Ben some pictures of new commodes.

He hadn’t asked—hadn’t wanted to know—further particulars. It had been one hell of a day. He’d told Meredith, her orange-cone lips quivering, to fix things ASAP. Then he’d fixed Max’s dinner, fixed himself a Scotch on the rocks, then gone to bed, setting the alarm thirty minutes early so he could get to work early and shower, shave and dress in the exercise club located in his work building’s basement.

He glanced at a wall clock. Six-thirty. He had to step on it. After throwing on a pair of sweats and tennis shoes, Ben conversed with his dog while fixing his food. “Your master’s first wife—and God help me, last—wasn’t satisfied re-covering my office couch,” Ben grumbled, setting the dog’s bowl on the floor. “No, that woman had a demented need to tear apart my bathroom as well.” Ben gave Max a male-bonding pat on the head. “Take my advice, buddy. Don’t get married. And if you do, marry a dog who doesn’t need to control or redecorate you. This is your castle. Stand up for your rights.”

Max licked Ben’s face before chowing down.

Ben ran back upstairs and grabbed his workout bag—which he’d packed the night before with work clothes and bathroom supplies—then raced through the kitchen, stopping only to turn on the kitchen radio to keep Max company. Moments later, Ben backed out the driveway while wisps of orange and pink threaded the eastern sky. He could be at work by seven-fifteen, park, shower and dress, then move his car before Rosie showed up.

Twenty minutes later Ben careened down Clark before swerving sharply down an alley. After his car sailed over a bump, Ben cut the wheel sharply to the right…

“Wha-a-a-?” He slammed on the brakes, his front bumper nearly kissing the rear end of a tacky green economy car. Gripping the steering wheel, Ben glared through the windshield at the offending vehicle.

“What in the hell is this car doing here?” he yelled. How many people was Archibald Potter renting that space to?

Seething, Ben quickly went over the facts. At yesterday’s meeting, Potter had checked his computer records. The space had been rented to only two people. Which meant…

“That tacky green Neon belongs to Rosie,” Ben muttered ominously. Forget the earlier waking-up-in-bed fantasies, this was reality! “What is it with the women in my life? They’re either redecorating or invading my space!”

Ben slammed the gear into park and hopped out of the car.

Splash.

He blew out an exasperated breath before looking down. His sockless, sneaker-clad feet were standing in a pothole of muddy water. “Now I know where her mud-splattered look came from.” He stepped out of the hole. “But before I repark, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.” He sloshed his way to the back doors of the building.

Minutes later, Ben returned to his car to find a square yellow truck halted behind his BMW. Even in the early-morning haze, he could clearly see the scowl on the truck driver’s face.

“Hey!” the guy yelled out his window, jabbing a cigarette at Ben. “Just ’cause you drive a Beemer, you think you can block traffic?”

Ben shrugged. “I had to use the men’s room.”

“What?”

Ben didn’t want to repeat the reason—the last thing he wanted was his entire office building to hear him yelling that he’d had to take a leak. But the slovenly, burly truck driver looked as though he’d kill if he didn’t get a valid excuse. Ben cleared his throat. Raising his voice, he repeated, “I had to use the men’s room.”

The driver blinked with great exaggeration. “How unusual—like the rest of us don’t.” He took an angry puff off a cigarette, letting the smoke stream out of his nostrils while he continued talking. “Other guys take leaks without causing traffic jams. You’re costing me time and money!”

“You’re right,” Ben answered, putting on his best mediating voice while putting his hand on the door handle. “I’m leaving.”