Making Mr. Right

Parker straightened in his chair. “That’s exactly the kind of stuff I need to learn, isn’t it?”

“You’re going to have to turn yourself into Mallory’s lapdog,” Flo muttered under her breath. “Cindy’s only agreed to turn you into Prince Charming.”

Cindy laughed at Flo’s succinct summary of the whole situation and instantly felt traitorous. “Prince Charming’s enough of a challenge, don’t you think,” she managed to say brightly.

“More than enough.” Flo returned, rising to her feet and excusing herself to get back to work.

“That’s enough,” Parker echoed with a contented sigh. “Prince Charming—” he preened “—I think I can handle that.”

CHAPTER TWO

CINDY’S first step on any project was making a list. This one she titled: Parker Project.

With little input from him, Cindy’s list grew. Every item she added, she expected him to defend himself, as she would if someone decided to take her apart, piece by piece. He sat instead, looking fascinated while she squirmed. At last, the column of items she’d written seemed complete.

“Can you think of anything else?” she asked him, turning the pad so he could look her list over.

It wasn’t as long as Cindy had anticipated and some of the items would be simple.

“If I knew what I needed to change, I wouldn’t need help from you, would I,” he teased, then scowled as he looked at it.

“What?”

He pointed to the first item on the list.

Workaholic? He hadn’t gotten past the first item?

“What can I do about that?” he asked as if the problem was something he couldn’t possibly help or change.

“Quit working around the clock,” she said. “Don’t worry,” she added at his blank look. “I’ll remind you several times between now and the reunion.”

“And who, do you suggest, will do my work?”

“You. It would help, PC, if when you aren’t working, you could actually pay attention to other things. Like the person you’re with,” she added as an example. “You could occasionally think of your friends. You just can’t ignore people for months on end.” She grinned to salvage her pride for bringing it up.

His scowl deepened.

“Like me,” she tried again. “We’re supposed to be friends, but I often don’t hear from you for months. I didn’t even know your new address.” She gestured at their surroundings.

“My phone number didn’t change. You can call me any time.”

She ignored him. “Friends—and especially someone you might want to marry,” she clarified so he wouldn’t realize it was personal, “tend to want to know they’re important to you, that you think of them from time to time. They want to know what’s going on in your life.”

“You never seem to mind,” he pointed out.

Cindy bit back the words she wanted to say. Instead she took a deep breath. “I know you’ve been busy. But I don’t count in this discussion,” she said calmly. “You didn’t say you wanted to marry me. Someone you expect to marry will want your attention.” Her lips twisted on the words as if she was eating a sour pickle.

But he was still on the last subject. “I consider you my closest friend,” he said.

“But I never know on a regular basis what’s going on with you.” She let him draw her in. “Why didn’t you tell me Flo was working for you?” she asked. “Or invite me over to see your house after you moved?”

“She just started since I last saw...” He let the words trail off.

“And that’s been?”

“Maybe two months,” he said sheepishly after mulling it over.

“Six weeks,” she told him.

“You can call me anytime,” he told her again.

“I know,” she agreed. “But until you decide to call me, your head is so far in the clouds it’s a waste of time trying to find out what’s going on with you. You’re working whether you’re at work or not.”

“I’ve been there when you needed me,” he said half defensively.

“Yes,” she admitted. Since junior high, he’d listened to every problem, helped her study for tests, been there in hundreds of ways. The only thing she hadn’t been able to talk to him about was boys, probably because he’d always been the only one on her mind. Three years ago, when she’d been trying to get up the nerve to buy her first house, he’d listened for hours on end. He’d made a mathematical chart only a genius could figure out to prove she could afford to do what she wanted. He’d given advice when needed and when asked. But day to day, if she didn’t have a problem or he didn’t have something specific he wanted to talk to her about, he was zoned out. “You’ve always been there when I needed you, PC.”

“That’s another thing,” he said, raising one finger. “Do you think I should insist my old classmates call me Parker? Doesn’t that sound more...more...”

“Like someone Mallory would marry,” she finished for him.

“More adult.” He frowned at her as if he wanted to argue with the way she’d said it. “Does PC sound too much like a childish nickname?”

Too much like who you were? Not like who you want to be. “It’s you, PC.” She smiled. “Parker Chaney. Politically Correct. Personal Computer expert. It’s even your company name,” she added.

“It seemed right at the time.” He shrugged.

“You could encourage everyone at the reunion to call you Chaney, like they did throughout the Times article.”

“They called me PC,” he reminded her.

“Just in the first paragraph,” she said, quoting, “‘Even the name Parker Chaney’s friends and close associates call him is synonymous with the industry his company dominates. Personal Computers. No one who owns or touches one has been untouched by PC, Inc. The company’s faster, smarter and better innovations barrage the technological market on an almost daily basis.’”

“You memorized it?” His sky-blue eyes lit.

“I read it enough times to remember it,” she said, lifting one shoulder.

His crooked grin matched the way hers felt. “I’m not an especially thoughtful friend, am I?” He reached across the table to cover her hand with his. Bracing herself for the normal electrical charge she got at his touch, she was pleasantly surprised when it didn’t happen. She’d managed to numb herself, she thought triumphantly. Or maybe the message that there was no longer any hope had gotten through to her brain and her body was shutting down her reactions to him in acceptance.

He looked dazed, as startled as she’d ever seen him. She squirmed self-consciously. Maybe her body hadn’t reacted, but had her expression given something away?

He lifted his hand, gingerly rubbing his palm, then laced his fingers together and rested his hands carefully on his side of the table.

“Whatever is happening with you, whatever you’re doing, you’ve always been a three-in-the-morning friend,” she told him. “That means a lot to me.”

He was scowling again. “And what, exactly, is a three-in-the-morning friend?”

“Don’t you remember my dad talking about that when we were young?” Since his own father had taken off when Parker was small, he’d hung around with her and her dad a lot.