What Have I Done For Me Lately?

“But you know what they are.”

“Yes.” She gave him a “you-feeling-okay?” look. “I know what they are.”

“I could have used your help tonight.”

“You’re stuck on a knitting project?”

He laughed at her joke, feeling keyed up and happy, the way he always felt when a promising relationship was starting—though it had been well over a year and he’d had quite a few disappointments before this. His decision had made itself for him. “Have dinner with me tomorrow? Been a while since I had a good Thai meal. I’d like to share one of my favorite places with you.”

She looked astonished at first, then her sincere delight made him feel as if he’d been crowned king of a small nation. “I’d love that, Ryan. Thank you.”

“I’ll knock at seven?”

“Perfect.” She smiled again, and he watched her go through her doorway, then pause and half turn as if she wanted to say something or look back. She must have changed her mind because she continued on and the door swung slowly shut behind her.

Christine Bayer.

He lingered, staring across the hall, then went into his own place and tossed his keys on the cherry table in the foyer. Interesting. Unexpected. She’d been under his nose all along, and he’d never really seen her as anything but a friend. Okay, maybe a few times, he was a guy for Pete’s sake. But after tonight…

Christine could turn out to be not only what this evening had needed. But what his life did as well.

CHRISTINE WAITED UNTIL the door to her apartment had closed completely before she let her pleased smile widen into a joyous grin that verged on outright laughter. Yes! Yes! Yes!

She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes, breathing fast, occasionally breaking into a giggle.

Ryan Masterson had just asked her out.

Finally! After six months of putting herself in his path, of baking him treats, “bumping into him” time after time in the hallway here or at work on her lunch hour, asking for favors the odious building superintendent, Fred Farbington, would be only too happy to take care of, offering to sew on buttons or pick up something for him at the supermarket…In short, after gradually working them into a comfortable friendship before she took the next step…

Well, she’d finally taken that next step.

You couldn’t ambush men like Ryan Masterson, tempting as it had been the first day she’d laid eyes on him to say, “Hello, how are you? I’m Christine. How ’bout it?” For one thing she might as well get in line. Men like Ryan weren’t exactly a dime a dozen, and women definitely noticed. For another, the approach was too obvious, too easily ignored or rejected. Not to mention that if he did jump, it was too easy for him to jump away just as quickly.

Christine wasn’t interested in one night or one month or one year with Ryan. She was all for giving forever a shot, and forever had to be approached with caution. Those fools who dived into forever without checking carefully first were in danger of banging their hearts on the bottom and becoming emotional quadriplegics.

The trick with a man like Ryan was to insinuate yourself into his life slowly, nearly imperceptibly, then just when he’d gotten used to having you around, when his brain no longer sounded the “possible female in pursuit of a relationship” alarm, then you pulled out the stops. Not all the stops all at once. Slowly, a bit at a time, one, then two, then the rest, before he even knew what hit him.

Like wearing the kind of negligee that made men weak from lack of blood to their brains. But not acting as if she’d worn it on purpose. No seduction intended, no, of course not. Far from it, she’d been caught on what was supposed to be a surreptitious sneak down the hall. Oops! She was so embarrassed!

Yes, it was sneaky and manipulative, but oh the ploy had worked. She couldn’t even stand how terrified she’d been that it wouldn’t. Putting on the negligee, putting on enough makeup to camouflage flaws but not seem made-up, looking herself over in the mirror, straining for the sound of his footsteps and his key…she’d been a wreck.

What if he stared at her, then laughed? What if he merely glanced her way and didn’t react at all? What if he figured out what she was up to and the last six months of her painstaking groundwork—and their friendship—bit the dust?

She needn’t have wasted all that energy worrying. The encounter had been perfect, down to the last detail. Maybe she should pinch herself to make sure she was awake this time. Last night, she’d dreamed the scene again—only it had turned into a nightmare with Ryan morphing into her geeky sixth grade science teacher and then into Fred the super, overweight, balding, blue-collar, the near perfect opposite of her dream man.

This hadn’t been a dream. Ryan had been exactly as she’d fantasized him so many times—friendly, at first, and then when what she was wearing hit him…more than friendly. His eyes had darkened, taken on an intensity that—

Well, her heart was still pogo-sticking in her chest. Lord have mercy, was he sexy. Tall, way-masculine and fabulously built—the kind of guy that felt like a fortress around you in bed. Dark hair he tried to keep in a corporate-conservative style, but which kept escaping into a casual tousled mess across his forehead. Blue eyes that delivered heat or cool, depending on what mood he was in.

Don’t even get her started on how he looked weekend mornings, rumpled and unshaven, sometimes bare-chested, body stunningly muscled, picking up the paper on his doorstep.

She could lock herself in her refrigerator for an hour and not cool down by so much as a degree.

As if that weren’t enough? Pardon her for putting it right out there, but…he wasn’t exactly hurting financially. She had a very good job here, yet she was barely meeting the rent in this building after paying less than half this for a tiny dump in Queens. She hadn’t been able to furnish this place worth a damn. But it was important to be close to him, especially since her firm was moving early next month so she’d no longer bump into him at the office. Everything and anything she’d had to finagle for the sake of landing Ryan Masterson was worth it.

So far her plan was going perfectly. If she didn’t screw it up, and the miracle she so desperately wanted really came to pass—mercy, she could barely think about it without getting dizzy—maybe soon she wouldn’t have to pay rent at all.

She laughed again and came away from the door, feeling as if she could float around her apartment. That miracle was so huge and so precious and so out-there, she didn’t like to dwell on it. No point setting herself up for devastating disappointment. She’d plan and celebrate one small step and one small victory at a time.

The phone rang, and she drifted dreamily toward it, imagining Ryan’s deep voice. I can’t wait until tomorrow, care to come over for a nightcap now? Don’t bother changing….

“Chris?”

Fred. Her fantasy burst and splatted on the lush grey carpet. He persisted in using the short form of her name even though she’d corrected him countless times. Thank goodness he hadn’t come up with “Teeny,” the nickname her family and friends used in Georgia.

“This is Christine.” She chilled her voice enough to freeze nitrogen.

“Got your new showerhead. Thought I’d come put it in now.”

“Now?” She gave the phone an incredulous look before she put it back to her ear. “It’s nearly nine-thirty. Don’t you ever take time off?”

“Aw, you’re sweet to worry.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I’m a hard-working man, you know that. Building full of tenants I gotta keep happy.”

“I’d rather you came during the day.” When I’m not home.

“Can’t do that. This is a special favor to you—on my own time.”

Her stomach lurched. She did not want to be indebted to Fred Farbington.

“Right now isn’t convenient, how about…” Inspiration. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night it is.”

“Excellent.” She felt like giggling. She’d be out with Ryan. With Ryan! “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Chris.”

Christine. She punched off the phone disgustedly. Maybe if she started calling him Frederick he’d get the message.

Eight steps to her dining room and the bottle of Early Times she kept on a rickety table found on the curb. She poured herself a shot and downed it as if she were trying to wash out the taste of Fred, then poured herself another and raised it in a toast to her success tonight—to her and Ryan—before downing that one, too.

Three more steps toward her living room, and she paused in front of a print of one of her favorite paintings, Lovers Over the City by Marc Chagall. The picture was cheerful, colorful. In the foreground a round table with a meal set on a red-checked tablecloth. In the background, a romantic hilltop city with distinctive tiled orange roofs. And in the upper left-hand corner the lovers, colored passionate red, facing each other improbably astride a huge bird.

The symbolism and the message were probably deeper than anything she could get. She just liked the picture. She liked to imagine the bird’s immense wings beating, carrying the lovers in effortless flight. She liked the woman’s hand on her lover’s chest, his suggestively touching her hips.