Ticket To Love

“As well it should.”

“I thought, for someone so convinced that money causes problems, he still bought a ticket. If he’s so antimoney, why did he pay a buck to play?”

“Good question.”

“Isn’t it.” Acey plopped herself down on the floor and put her fuzzy-slippered feet on top of her sister’s bare ones. “The thing is, he’s so…” Her voice trailed off.

“Amazing? Sexy? Wonderful? Gorgeous?”

Acey looked into Steph’s face.

“It’s okay, hon,” Steph said. “I knew you had a thing for him the first time you saw him. You’ve been going on and on about him even before today’s little encounter. Maybe you can ask him out?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Acey jerked her head from side to side, and her towel turban collapsed. She threw it to the ground. “What if it turns out he’s the one? That he won all that money? And I think that’s the case.”

“That would be great, right? You wanted it to be a nice person who won. From your description, he’s the nicest man who ever walked the streets of New York.”

“It would be terrific for him, but I couldn’t go out with him. I couldn’t have a relationship with him.”

“Why not?”

Acey was quiet for a minute. “You know why not. I hate talking about it. Even after all this time, I still hate thinking about Charlie and what he—” She cut herself off before beginning again. “I’m never dating a wealthy man again. I will never again be accused of being a gold digger.”

“Listen, Charlie’s parents had their heads up their behinds when they said that.”

“Charlie didn’t exactly rush to my defense.”

“I think that was less a consequence of his being rich and more a consequence of his being an utter bastard.”

“I’m not taking any chances. No rich guys.” Acey lay down on the floor. “I liked Harry. Dammit.”

“Should we hope he didn’t win? That doesn’t seem right.”

“No.”

“Besides,” Steph said, “if everything you said is true—that funny business with the ticket, and the weird stuff he said—he does sound like the secret winner.”

“I know.” Acey lay quiet for a moment. “Remember the other night? When we were wondering about why the winner wouldn’t come forward and then we thought he might just be scared?”

“Yeah?”

“That could be it. Harry could be scared to have all that money. Scared it will corrupt him somehow. Cause problems, he said.”

“Sounds possible.” Steph glanced at her watch. “Time for the news.” She hit the power button on the remote and grabbed her notebook. Acey sat watching with her sister through stories on accidents and homicides and world tensions before the lottery took precedence once again.

“Still no word on the winner of the thirty-five-million-dollar lottery jackpot, who bought the lucky ticket at a Valley Stream convenience store,” the TV said.

Steph looked at Acey, who took the remote from her and muted the set.

“I can’t pursue Harry. I liked him,” Acey repeated. “And I’m pretty sure he liked me, at least as a friend. So I can be his friend, and—”

“And what?” Steph asked suspiciously.

“And help him see the light. I can help him—come out of his shell of an apartment and see that having money will be a good thing for him, and he can help other people with it, which I’m sure would be important to him.”

“You can’t let on you know it’s him.”

“Obviously, no. Then he’d assume I’m out to get my hands on it.” She sighed. “God knows, I’ll never win the lottery, but if I help him accept his destiny, it will feel in some small way like I won, too. You know?”

Steph chewed on her lip. “Yeah,” she finally said. “I see what you mean. Especially if he’s like you said—a hero, always saving the day.”

“Maybe this time,” Acey said, “the hero needs someone to save the day for him.”

Chapter Four

T he door buzzer startled Harry out of slumber. It was just as well, because pressing his right cheekbone against his desk blotter probably wasn’t considered an ideal place for a nap. A long nap, he realized, glancing at his clock and seeing it had gone from midafternoon to early evening.

The buzzer blared again and Harry jogged to the living room. “Who is it?” he called. He knew he’d probably have to go outside anyway because the quality of his intercom was terrible, something he had learned when he ended up buying thirteen boxes of Girl Scout cookies his second week here.

What he heard was garbled but sounded an awful lot like, “Pizza delivery!”

“Uh, I think you have the wrong apartment,” Harry replied, and listened.

“Pizza,” he heard again.

“But I didn’t order a pizza.”

“That’s the problem, sir.”

Huh? Wait…

Harry went down to the front door and there was Acey, holding out a huge flat box.

“Howdy,” he said with a grin.

“Hey, there. Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone—repay your niceness yesterday and prove to you how right I am about Focaccia’s.” She handed him the box. “There you go.”

Harry patted his pockets. “Sorry, I’m wiped out. I can’t tip you.”

“What a cheapskate,” she said, laughing.

“How about I offer you a slice? If you don’t have dinner plans, of course.”

“As it happens, I don’t.”

“Unless you’re tired of pizza.”

“I never get tired of pizza,” Acey said, following him into his apartment. Harry lifted the lid on the box and took a big sniff.