Книга - Ticket To Love

Ticket To Love
Jen Safrey


A DOLLAR AND A DREAM…Acey Corelli was as saucy and unforgettable as the pizza she dished out in her Long Island hometown. So when she found out that the shy Southern man down the block was the winning ticket holder in the $35 million lottery, what else could she do but become his friend and coax him to claim the prize? What Acey didn't know was how he'd win her heart….Harry Wells had more secrets than Acey suspected…including a troubling past that he wanted left back in Texas. But despite their differences, Harry couldn't get the feisty New Yorker out of his mind. Had he hit the jackpot–in more ways than one?









If this were a date, Acey thought, this would be the moment I kiss Harry.


Acey, her mind chastised, kissing and related activities are not part of the plan. The plan is the priority. Follow through.

She forced herself to smile with her own lips stretched thin, tight and unapproachable. Very difficult, considering that her libido was screaming at her to do the opposite.

Acey was fast realizing that being with Harry was becoming more and more of a challenge. She was going to have to kick it up a notch. Maybe more for her sake than his, at this point. She feared losing her senses if she hung around him much longer. She was going to fast-track him to that money, so she could fast-track herself away from him. Acey lifted her chin in resolution.

Harry Wells was about to get a healthy dose of tough love.

Love?




Dear Reader,

It’s hot and sunny in my neck of the woods—in other words, perfect beach reading weather! And we at Silhouette Special Edition are thrilled to start off your month with the long-awaited new book in New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber’s Navy series, Navy Husband. It features a single widowed mother; her naval-phobic sister, assigned to care for her niece while her sister is in the service; and a handsome lieutenant commander who won’t take no for an answer! In this case, I definitely think you’ll find this book worth the wait….

Next, we begin our new inline series, MOST LIKELY TO…, the story of a college reunion and the about-to-be-revealed secret that is going to change everyone’s lives. In The Homecoming Hero Returns by Joan Elliott Pickart, a young man once poised for athletic stardom who chose marriage and fatherhood instead finds himself face-to-face with the road not taken. In Stella Bagwell’s next book in her MEN OF THE WEST series, Redwing’s Lady, a Native American deputy sheriff and a single mother learn they have more in common than they thought. The Father Factor by Lilian Darcy tells the story of the reunion between a hotshot big-city corporate lawyer who’s about to discover the truth about his father—and a woman with a secret of her own. If you’ve ever bought a lottery ticket, wondering, if just once, it could be possible…be sure to grab Ticket to Love by Jen Safrey, in which a pizza waitress from Long Island is sure that if she isn’t the lucky winner, it must be the handsome stranger in town. Last, new-to-Silhouette author Jessica Bird begins THE MOOREHOUSE LEGACY, a miniseries based on three siblings who own an upstate New York inn, with Beauty and the Black Sheep. In it, responsible sister Frankie Moorehouse wonders if just this once she could think of herself first as soon as she lays eyes on her temporary new chef.

So keep reading! And think of us as the dog days of August begin to set in….

Toodles,

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor




Ticket to Love

Jen Safrey





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is for New York, a city powered by millions of dreams. And I especially dedicate this book to Valley Stream. I’ve noticed most people have a love-hate relationship with where they grew up. This book was written in my moments of love.




JEN SAFREY


grew up in Valley Stream, New York, and graduated from Boston University in 1993. She is a nearly ten-year veteran of the news copy desk at the Boston Herald. Past and present, she has been a champion baton twirler, an accomplished flutist, an equestrienne, a student of ashtanga yoga and a belly dancer. Jen would love to hear from readers at jen02106@lycos.com.


Milk, Juice, Eggs…Jackpot?

You’d better believe it, readers—some lucky person picked up more than pantry staples at the Bread and Milk bodega right here in Valley Stream, Long Island. Last night, the New York Lottery picked a winner for the $35 million-dollar jackpot. That ticket was sold by the owner of this humble neighborhood grocery, who hopes that this news will be good for her business.

Unfortunately, the Post is unable to reveal the identity of the winner. That’s right, winner—lottery officials determine that only one winning ticket was sold. So be kind to your neighbors, because you could be talking to a brand-new millionaire!




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue




Chapter One


“A aahhh!”

A piercing, someone-is-being-ax-murdered scream shattered the early-evening peace in the apartment Acey shared with her younger sister.

“Yeow!”

A startled Acey accidentally pressed her scalding curling iron against her cheek. “Damn!” she said. She tried to untangle a lock of long thick black hair from the contraption. “Stephanie! Are you all right?” she called.

“Acey!” Steph screamed. “Get in here! Quick! Fast!”

Between Steph’s shrieks, the smell of scorching hair ends and the rising red blotch on her cheek, Acey was getting agitated. Steph was even-keeled, polite, quiet. Acey knew the one prone to the trademark Corelli excitement and hissy fits was herself. It was disconcerting, to say the absolute least, to hear Steph screaming like a banshee.

Acey finally dropped the hot iron onto the bathroom countertop and fled down the short hallway as Steph kept screaming. “Acey! Acey!”

Acey screeched to a halt in the small living room, where Steph was standing in front of the television, hands now covering her mouth in disbelief. “What? What is it?” Acey demanded.

Steph pointed at the TV, which was showing a picture of Bread and Milk, the convenience store two blocks away where the sisters constantly ran for food-and-drink emergencies. Acey shook her head, not understanding. Steph turned up the volume just as the reporter thrust a microphone into the face of Rosalia, the store’s owner. Acey panicked a moment at the sight of one of her favorite people on the news.

“Is she okay?” Acey asked, then realized she should just listen.

“Yes, we’re very excited,” Rosalia was saying in her Colombian accent, still thick despite her many years just outside New York City. “It’s a very good thing for our store.”

The camera cut away and Acey yelled, “What? What’s a good thing?” Then a series of numbers flashed against a blue background. “These are the numbers,” the anchorwoman trilled, “that are worth thirty-five million dollars. So if you are a Bread and Milk customer and haven’t taken a good look at that ticket you bought yesterday, now might be the time.” Then she turned to the meteorologist and asked him for the weekend forecast.

Steph was scratching the numbers into the notebook she always kept handy, then muted the television. The sisters stared at each other.

“Did I hear that right?” Acey asked quietly.

“They picked the thirty-five-million-dollar numbers in the New York lottery last night,” Steph said. “There was one winner. One winning ticket. And it was bought at our store.”

Neither woman moved. Acey could tell from her sister’s wide-eyed expression that they were thinking the same thing. They talked about it every week when they cashed their meager paychecks up the street. They talked about it every month when they had to decide which bill was going to have to be paid late.

It shimmered in the air there between them, dancing for them, teasing them that it could be real.

Both women bolted.

They flew down the hall and reached their bedroom doorway simultaneously, smashing into each other and crushing through together, each wanting to be the first to touch the ticket. They flung themselves at the dresser, and the mirror on top shimmied precariously. They both frantically searched the top of the dresser but came up empty.

“Where is it?” Steph shouted.

“I always put it here! Right here!” Acey cried in a panic. She picked up various porcelain trinket boxes, shaking the cheap gold-plated chains inside, finding nothing but a thin layer of dust under each one. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“We did buy one yesterday, right?”

“We have not forgotten one Thursday since you were legally old enough to go halves with me. And you were with me when I bought it yesterday, remember? They had no lemon Snapple and you had to get raspberry?”

“Check your purse!” Steph screamed. “Check your pockets! Check everything!”

Acey was distracted by her sister’s histrionics. For the first time, Steph seemed to be able to outfreak Acey herself. It was like long-awaited proof that she was a Corelli, too.

Acey leaped onto her bed and dumped the contents of her purse. She rifled through gum wrappers and uncapped pens and ATM receipts. Steph was flinging clothes out of the laundry hamper, searching, Acey guessed, for the jeans she’d worn yesterday. Acey flipped open her wallet and pulled out the only two dollars in there, then held the wallet upside down, willing something she couldn’t see to magically fall out of it.

When it didn’t, she began to wail. “It can’t be missing, it just can’t, it can’t…”

“Keep looking!” Steph barked, thrusting her hands into denim pockets. “Don’t stop. Just shut up until you find it!”

The next twenty minutes were a blur. Acey and Steph were driven to turning over sofa cushions and searching in unthinkable places like the freezer and the mailbox. Acey could hear her sister chanting softly, “Thirty-five million, thirty-five million,” and Acey’s own heart felt as if it might stop.

If only they didn’t do Quick Picks all the time. If she and Steph had played their own numbers, they’d have known right away if it was necessary to rip the apartment to shreds. But maybe they had hit, and it was gone, gone…

No. She couldn’t freak out. Steph would kill her. Of course, if they didn’t find the ticket, it was highly likely Steph would kill her anyway, but… Acey lifted the lumpy braided throw rug, and their cat, Sherlock, darted out from underneath it. He glared at Acey with affront, then raised his back leg and licked himself. “Sherlock,” Acey said, “the cat without a clue.”

Sherlock stopped licking and looked glad he couldn’t understand English because he suspected he was being insulted. “I wish we had a dog,” Acey said through gritted teeth, replacing the rug. “A bloodhound. So it could help us. But, no. All you do is nap and play with—” Paper!

Acey ran to her sister, who was emptying the silverware drawer. “Steph, you’re the mystery writer. Solve this case. It involves a cat who loves to play with little bits of paper.”

Steph dropped a handful of forks and streaked back into the bedroom, Acey on her heels, until she got to Sherlock’s cat bed, between the girls’ beds. And there, in the center, was the ticket. Acey and Steph moved toward it with a reverence reserved for the Holy Grail. And just as Acey was lowering her hand toward the hair-covered cushion, from out of nowhere Sherlock bounced off a bed and landed on the ticket.

“No!” Acey whispered.

Sherlock, apparently in revenge for Acey’s sarcasm two moments prior, clamped down on the ticket with his teeth.

Steph grabbed Sherlock’s feather toy, which was lying nearby. She shook it, and Sherlock was distracted, mesmerized by the motion and the little tinkly bell. He dropped the ticket. In slow motion, Acey crept her hand toward him, and had one finger on the ticket when she got scratched.

“Ow!” she said, pulling back her freshly bleeding hand. Sherlock circled once and sat on the ticket.

Steph, still on her hands and knees, crawled behind Sherlock and lifted him up. Acey reached again for the ticket, crooning, “Nice kitty, nice kitty,” and pulled her hand away before the next swipe could get her. Steph adjusted her hold on the cat so both his front legs were spread wide. He wriggled, but not quickly enough. Acey had it in her hand.

Jackpot.

Steph lowered Sherlock, and she and Acey stared down at the ticket, which was a bit wrinkled but miraculously had no punctures.

“Go get the numbers,” Acey finally said. “I’ll check the date and make sure it’s the right ticket.”

Steph scampered off. In Acey’s palm, the ticket felt heavier than a piece of paper, and her hand shook with exhaustion and anticipation. She found yesterday’s date—May 24—and took a deep breath. Steph stepped back into the room and Acey saw her steady herself.

“Ready?” Steph asked.

“Ready.” Acey squeezed her eyes shut.

“All right. Here I go. The first number is…four.”

Acey opened her eyes and looked at the first number on the ticket.

Eight.

“Argh!” She threw the ticket as hard as she could. Being paper, it just floated to the floor at her feet. Acey stomped on it. “I can’t believe it! After all that!”

Steph picked up the ticket and checked the numbers against her notebook. “Sheesh. We didn’t even get one number.”

Acey flopped onto her bed as dramatically as she knew how. “In twenty-seven whole years on this planet, why can’t anything good happen to me? Ever?”

“Join the club.”

Acey shook her head. “No. Everything I try goes to hell. At least you’re writing books.” In fact, that was why Steph had caught the lottery story. She religiously parked herself in front of the news every single night when she got back from her receptionist’s job at the local hair salon. She considered the news a treasure trove of ideas for the mystery novels she’d been writing since she was about fifteen. Acey was jealous of her smart, two-years-younger sister sometimes, knowing deep down that if one of them was going to be successful, it wouldn’t be Acey.

“I’m writing books, but I’m not selling books. I got another rejection letter two days ago.”

“So what? At least you’re doing something. I’m doomed to struggle every day at the pizza place for the rest of my life.”

“Acey, there are a million things you could do if you really wanted to. You always make all these plans and then you never follow through. Maybe you could—”

“If you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about my dim future. I’d rather dwell on the deep disappointment of not winning thirty-five million.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you would have had to give me half.”

Acey sighed loudly.

Steph went to sit down on her bed, but the contents of two dresser drawers were piled there, so she nudged Acey over and sat down next to her. Now that the craziness had passed, Acey noticed, Steph was back to her calm, rational self. “Listen,” Steph said, “it’s not as if we expect to win when we buy lottery tickets. Not really. It’s just a dream.”

“But I thought it was us just now, finally. Didn’t you think it was us?”

Steph lay down. “Yeah. I thought it was us.”

Acey stayed silent for a few minutes, her heartbeat slowing from thumping to unnoticeable. “If we’d won, we could have hired a maid to clean all this up. Now we’re stuck doing it.”

Steph chuckled. “Let’s just be glad Ma and Dad are in Florida now. The sight of this place now would kill her.”

Acey smiled. “‘Annamaria Christina Corelli!’” she mimicked. “‘This place is a disaster!’ But, Ma, it’s Steph’s fault. ‘Stephanie Cara Corelli!’” Acey giggled. “Like our full names are supposed to scare us into picking things up.”

“My name did scare me in kindergarten,” Steph said. “Too many letters to learn to write.”

“At least Dad made it easier for me,” Acey said. It was true. Daunted by his elder daughter’s mouthful of a name, and perhaps with a part of him longing for a son, he nicknamed her A.C. Many years of her parents’ shouting it up the stairs had morphed it into Acey.

Acey grinned, but remembered a moment later that this was a somber occasion. Stretching her arms over her head, she said, “Well, whoever won, it’s still pretty cool that it’s one of us. Someone who lives here in Valley Stream.”

“Could be anyone. Could be an out-of-towner.”

“No,” Acey said. A plane passed low over their building, and she listened until she couldn’t hear it anymore before adding, “I just have a feeling it’s a neighbor. Someone like us. Someone who works hard and who’s probably kind of nice.”

“That does make sense. Bread and Milk isn’t exactly a tourist attraction. It’s probably someone we see in there all the time.”

“But who?” Acey tried to conjure up memories of anyone she’d ever noticed in there. The idea that the future millionaire had walked among them left Acey flummoxed. “Wow, I’m dying to know who it is now.”

“Maybe you’ll have to wait,” Steph said. “It was just last night, after all.”

“True. No one with thirty-five million dollars is going to just want to keep living a boring old life around here.” Acey sighed. “No one.”



Harry unwrapped his Italian hero and regarded it with love as it sat in its white paper nest. Salami pieces and shreds of provolone had fallen out of the thick sandwich, and oil was forming a little puddle around it. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, and he’d just about seen it all.

Whenever a little corner of his heart began to yearn for his Texas life, whenever a section of his brain began to wonder if leaving behind everything he knew and coming to New York wasn’t a lunatic idea, Harry just went out and found himself a sandwich. New York tasted better than any place he’d ever been.

He hefted the huge hero to his face and his biceps actually strained. He inhaled the scent of the oil. Ah. He opened his mouth and took a tremendous bite of his new life. Oil dribbled down his chin. He grabbed one of the fifty-seven napkins the deli guy had tossed into his bag, wiped his face and picked up the remote. He flipped around before deciding on the local news.

He dived into his sandwich again and looked over it to numbers blinking at him from the TV screen. “These are the numbers,” the anchorwoman was saying, “that are worth thirty-five million dollars. So if you are a Bread and Milk customer and haven’t taken a good look at that ticket you bought yesterday, now might be the time.”

Harry ceased chewing, and the food just floated around his mouth as he sat, frozen. He felt something greasy run down his hand into his sleeve, but still he didn’t move.

Something about the newswoman’s voice. So happy. Delighted to be reporting what everyone must consider good news. Someone who wasn’t a millionaire yesterday is a millionaire today.

He looked at her smiling plastic face, now listening to the weatherman saying something about a warming trend. She doesn’t think at all that she just delivered the worst news of the day, Harry thought. The newscast before this story was undoubtedly filled with fires and famine, wars and woes. Clearly, they’d saved the “happy” story until the end.

Harry dropped the sandwich back onto the paper on the coffee table in front of him and sat back. He knew, knew for a sad fact, that the person with the winning ticket was the unluckiest person who ever lived. He, or she, didn’t know it now, and they wouldn’t know it when they were cut a nice big check, and they wouldn’t know it when they bought their new enormous mansion in Beverly Hills or the Hamptons or in the south of France. But slowly, over time, the money, the privilege, would turn them into something else, something not even human, something that was a danger to others.

Harry’s left leg twinged, and he glanced down at it. Encased in jeans, ending in a sharply pointed cowboy boot, it looked like any other leg. If he took off the denim, and peeled off skin, he knew he’d see an abnormality—a steel pin, the best money could buy, which was ironic since money was what sent him to the operating room in the first place.

He hated when he remembered. He tried not to remember, ever, but the littlest thing could set it off—a person at the bus stop on crutches, or a horse-race recap show on cable. Then his mind swirled him away from his living room or the street or wherever he was, and threw him back under his horse, the animal writhing and crying out in ceaseless pain, crushing Harry’s bones as it struggled and failed to get up.

Money, the bottomless money that was his birthright, the money he had tossed around full-time on ski slopes and cliff edges, had eventually ended the life of a beautiful animal. Lying in a hospital bed, reading a magazine account of those awful moments, Harry had wished it had ended his own, too.

Harry bolted up from the sofa and lurched into the kitchen, weighted down by his own memories. He stood in front of the refrigerator and there, under a magnet among photos of his sisters, was yesterday’s lottery ticket. He’d never bought a lottery ticket in his life. He’d even laughed a little bit at the irony while standing in line at Bread and Milk. But he’d wanted to pick one up for Joe, his downstairs neighbor, who was in Boston this week visiting his daughter. Joe had spent the better part of last weekend helping Harry fix his air conditioner. He’d refused payment so Harry, knowing Joe religiously played the lottery, figured the least he could do was offer to pick him up a ticket. “I’d appreciate it, man,” Joe had said with a grin. “I’ll throw you a couple mil if I hit.” Harry had winced at the irony—he could’ve thrown Joe a couple mil any day of the week. But he bought the ticket.

He looked at it now. The first number was eleven. He remembered a four on the television. So that was that.

The eleven seemed to stare back at him. One-one. Like two people, two identical people, standing side by side. Like Harry and the new millionaire. One person nearly destroyed, and one person about to be. Harry slid the ticket out from under the magnet and went to toss it in the trash, but for some reason, he couldn’t let it drop out of his hand. Instead, he just folded it over so he didn’t have to see the eleven, or any of the other numbers, and tacked it back up to the fridge. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of root beer and carried it back to the living room.

His sandwich was there, at least as appetizing as before. His life here was okay. He could handle an occasional reminder, as long as he didn’t dwell on it, he told himself. He grabbed the remote and changed the channel, and found talk of the lottery on the competing news station.

“I can’t wait to see who it is,” this woman was bubbling to her coanchor.

“I can,” Harry told her, picking up his hero again. “That poor, unlucky slob.”




Chapter Two


A cey was late for work, which was why she was running.

Acey loved her cute little slide-on white sneakers, which was why she was wearing them.

But her cute little sneakers were not meant for running, which was why, halfway to work, she fell.

She picked herself up from her sprawl across the hard, scratchy sidewalk, wincing. She examined her knee, now dirty with a thin rivulet of blood trickling down her calf.

“Are you all right?” she heard a man ask behind her.

“Oh, yeah, I just love falling on my butt in pub—” she raised her head and looked up at the man “—lic.”

“Don’t worry, it’s hardly public,” the man said. “No one’s around. Can you stand?”

I’m not sure, she thought. If she had already been standing, she would have gone weak in the knees with one look at this guy.

His hair was—well, she would have guessed light brown, but a bit of angling sunlight lightened it to the color of Long Island’s South Shore sand. The short strands were silky. Acey wished she knew what shampoo he used. His chin appeared chiseled from Italian marble and his lips were curved in a wide smile. His eyes were blue. Very blue. Bluer than the bluest crayon she and Steph had ever fought over, and his long, long eyelashes curled away from his profile.

“I can stand. I didn’t break anything. Just skin,” she finally said. The man took her hand, which was shaking a little bit, as she rose to her feet. She winced again. “Oh, it stings. I hate these sneakers. They always make me trip.”

“Why do you wear them, then?”

“Because,” she said, smoothing down her top, “they’re cute.”

“Ah.”

“But now they’re filling up with blood, which isn’t very cute.”

“Listen, come into my apartment. You can wash your knee and bandage it up.”

Come into his apartment? Oh, no. She’d learned a thing or two watching the news with Steph.

“No, thanks, but I can’t,” she said. “I’m late.”

“You’ll be really late,” he drawled, “if you lose all your blood before you get there.”

“That wouldn’t happen.” But Acey, despite her reservations, was having a hard time turning and limping away. She lingered. “I shouldn’t be talking to a stranger anyway.” She couldn’t help teasing, late or not. “Not just a stranger to me, but to this state, I bet. Southern?”

“Texas.”

“Uh-huh,” Acey said, thinking. “Well, I do like steak. And sometimes I catch the rodeo stuff on cable. You do that kind of thing?”

He appeared to be holding back a grin. “Not really.”

“Too bad. It looks cool. Been here long?”

“A few months.”

“Why Valley Stream?”

“Why not?”

She nodded. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I work from home.”

“Doing…?”

“Grant writing.”

“What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“Last name?”

“Wells. Is the interview about over? I think it’s time to clean your knee.”

“I guess it’s all right.” She extended her right hand. “I’m Acey Corelli.”

“Interesting name.”

“I’m an interesting person.” Harry stared at her, and Acey blushed. He took her elbow.

“Go on ahead, Acey. The door’s open.”

She took one step and stopped. “Just so you know, I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t just meet men and get myself invited in. It’s only because I’m a…a damsel in distress right now. And you seem to be a genuine Southern gentleman.”

Harry was charmed. “I am. And your self-analysis is duly noted.”

“Okay, then.”

She walked ahead of him to his door, and Harry forced himself to look at the back of her head so he wouldn’t look at her…oh, forget it. No use fighting biology.

“It’s open,” he said again, and Acey pushed through the door. She leaned against it so he could pass through, and then she followed him up to his apartment. Harry said, “The bathroom is that way. I’ll show you.”

“I’ll find it,” Acey said, her tone implying she didn’t need any nursing, and left the room. “Where are the Band-Aids?” she called a second later.

“Cabinet above the sink.”

“Anything in there that might scare me?”

Harry thought for a moment, decided the athlete’s-foot cream wouldn’t be too disconcerting, and answered, “No.”

He heard the bathroom door close, and he leaned against his table. This was a little strange. He’d never had a woman here, in this apartment, before. He wandered into the living room.

The water shut off and, almost immediately, Acey emerged. Her knee was covered with two crossing Band-Aids, marring the perfect landscape of her leg. She smiled, and said, “Nice place you got here. It’s, well, it’s really clean. A hospital’s not even this clean.”

Harry laughed. “Clean” was pretty much the only thing you could say about it. It was devoid of decoration, a purely functional white-walled enclosure. Thanks to the influence of many maids in his mother’s employ, Harry was only happy in sterile surroundings. “I don’t really like a lot of clutter. Or even a little clutter.”

“That’s all right. I’m not criticizing, just curious.” She shifted her feet, a bit uneasy. Harry knew he was capable of putting her at ease with a gesture, a conversation starter, a drink. He’d done it a hundred times in his life. But he just couldn’t right now.

Another two beats went by. “Well,” Acey said, “I really should be on my way.” She glanced at her watch, perhaps just as an excuse, but then her eyes opened very wide. “Oh, crap, I really should be on my way.” She practically ran to the front door. “This was very decent of you, cowboy. Thanks. See you around.”

Harry fumbled for something to say, but before he could, Acey Corelli winked and was out the door even faster than she’d literally fallen into his life. The strange thing was, he already missed her.



“Sicilian pie, peppers and mushrooms!” Acey shouted over her shoulder while adding up the total on the register. She waited for a middle-aged woman to count the money out of her wallet and took stock of the now-empty restaurant. The lunch crowd started before eleven on weekdays, and the time always flew by until two, leaving Acey with her face and neck sweating from the ovens.

“Sicilian, peppers and mushrooms,” Anthony repeated, sliding the pizza onto the counter. Acey folded the cardboard box like an origami expert and placed the pie inside. “Thanks for coming to Focaccia’s,” she said to the customer.

No one else stepped up to the counter. Acey could actually hear herself think again, and could now hear the piped-in easy-listening music. Acey sang with Carole King as she threw a rag down on the counter and wiped it clean.

“Come on, Lydia, for God’s sake,” Acey heard behind her, and rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought. Anthony and Lydia were like a broken record.

“Shut up,” Lydia said, then stomped over to Acey. Her bleached-blond hair was in a neat, sleek ponytail. “Acey, tell that gorilla I hate him. And we’re never speaking again.”

Since Lydia was clearly relying on her as a fellow woman, Acey at least tried to be tactful. “Um, you both work here. I don’t think you can get away with not talking.”

“I’d rather quit than work with that…that…”

“So, why don’t you?” Acey asked, knowing the answer never changed but also knowing she was expected to show interest every time drama arose.

“He should be the one quitting,” Lydia said. “My father owns this place.”

“I don’t think he’s quitting.” Acey patted Lydia’s shoulder and Lydia grabbed Acey’s hand.

“Hon, that’s a nice set of tips. Look at that color.” Acey grinned. No Long Island girl worth her salt went without fake nails. They were a bit of an expense, but Steph worked at a salon, so Acey got a good deal. Lydia examined the little rhinestones and said, “He’s such a Scorpio. He’ll never change.”

So much for getting her off the topic. “You know,” Acey said, “I think you two are the perfect couple. So you fight—” all the time “—but everyone fights. I heard that the couples who fight the worst are the ones most in love. Because they know how to push each other’s buttons.”

“Who said that? Dr. Phil?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe. Just be nice to him. I know he loves you.” This was true. As often as they argued, Anthony was always doing nice things for Lydia. Buying her little gold charms, taking her bowling even though he hated it, bringing her flowers. Acey thought they were the nicest couple, when they were being nice. Their fights were only over stupid things, but they escalated because they both enjoyed yelling.

“Yeah,” Anthony said, coming around behind Acey and giving her a platonic kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.” He glanced at the sulking Lydia. “You should listen to your friend here. I’m a good guy.”

“Please. I wouldn’t come back to you if you were the lottery winner.”

“That’s interesting, huh?” Anthony said. “No one came forward yet.”

“Nope,” Acey said. She’d planted herself in front of the news every night for almost a full week with Steph, but no word. That no winner had revealed himself was becoming more of a story than the fact that there was a winner.

“What kind of a moron doesn’t take the money?” Lydia asked. “I’d run to the lottery office.”

“Maybe someone who’s out of the country. Doesn’t know he won,” Anthony said.

“Or maybe someone who doesn’t speak English, and didn’t hear it on the news,” Lydia suggested, temporarily forgetting the silent treatment.

Acey didn’t remind her. “Maybe the winner is scared.” This was her new theory, after discussing it last night with Steph.

“Scared? Of what? Being rich?” Anthony laughed.

Two junior-high-age boys approached the counter and asked Acey for zeppoles. She submerged five dough balls in the deep fryer. Lydia was saying, “It’s true. Like, if you’ve been dirt-poor your whole life, suddenly having all that money would be a jolt to your system.”

“I’m sure I could handle it,” Anthony replied. “Besides, I don’t think anyone around here is dirt-poor. Just average.”

Acey lifted the crispy zeppoles from the fryer, dropped them into a brown paper bag, and sprinkled in a generous amount of powdered sugar. She folded the top of the bag and shook vigorously, then handed it to one of the boys. Taking their money, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Both boys looked supremely guilty.

“Next time you come in here during school hours, I’m going to charge you double. Got it?” she said. The pair scampered off.

“What about you, Acey?” Lydia asked.

“What about me?” Acey wiped her hands on her filthy white apron.

“Would you take the thirty-five million dollars in one lump sum, or the yearly checks?”

Acey considered a moment. “Yearly checks. That way, you’d always have a little something to look forward to. Or, a big something.”

“Not me,” Anthony said. “I’d take one payment. That way, if I ever got hit by a bus or whatever, my family would have the money right away.”

“If only you’d get hit by a bus,” Lydia muttered, and Anthony smiled as if she’d said something quite sweet.

“Anyway,” Acey interjected before any more yelling could commence, “I’m really dying to know who it is. Aren’t you guys?”

“No,” Lydia said, staring out the window at the busy avenue. “All I know is, it isn’t me.”

“I don’t care,” Anthony said. “Winning would be great, but I got something worth more than a lousy thirty-five million.”

Lydia looked back at him, and he winked at her. She threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him backward. “You’re worth a hundred million,” she mumbled, kissing his mouth.

“You’re worth a million million.”

She pushed him against the counter, grabbed the back of his head and kissed him even more deeply.

“Guys, seriously,” Acey said, “take it to the back. People are coming in.”

The lovers stumbled together toward the restrooms, pressed together and running their hands all over each other. Acey fanned herself with one hand.

It had been so long since she’d had any kind of feeling for any man. Charlie had been the last, and after the way he and his family had treated her, it was easy to never want to have those feelings again. In fact, the first time she’d since felt any real stirrings was today, with that cowboy. And those had been the most genuine stirrings she’d ever felt. Too bad she hadn’t had time to do some more flirting. Well, he lived in the neighborhood now. She was sure fate would put him in her path again.

Acey stepped up to the counter and cut slices to order from the ready-made pies. But she took a second to peer once more at Romeo and Juliet in the back, and she knew that she, too, would rather have someone to love than a million million.



When Steve showed up to relieve Acey at seven, she scrunched up her greasy apron, tossed it in the employees’ coatroom and, with one wave over her shoulder, strolled out of Focaccia’s. Usually the walk home took her fifteen minutes, but today she was detouring around the corner.

Right through Bread and Milk.

Her week-old curiosity had nearly killed her, but now it was time for action.

Acey peeled off her denim jacket as she walked. The last couple of days had been unseasonably chilly and rainy, but now that June was here, it seemed the weather had decided to cooperate with the calendar.

She turned a corner, stopped and regarded Bread and Milk from across the street. There were haphazard signs in the window for sales and specials, and one was misspelled. “Corn mufins, 75 cents.” It wasn’t unusual, but this neighborhood didn’t care. Rosalia’s store was open from six in the morning until eleven at night, and Rosalia herself was almost always in the store.

Bread and Milk seemed to sparkle a bit now that it had sold the winning lottery ticket. Acey crossed the street. The door was propped open and no one was behind the counter. Acey wandered over to the refrigerator case and grabbed a carton of orange juice. Rosalia came out from her stockroom, hauling a box that had to be twice as heavy as she was.

“Hi!” Acey cried, putting the orange juice on the front counter and rushing over to take the box from her friend.

“Oh, Acey, don’t do that,” Rosalia scolded, but Acey ignored her and took the box, straining to hold it straight.

“Where does this go?”

“By the register there. You’re so sweet.”

“No problem,” Acey said. She dropped the box where Rosalia had indicated—really dropped, when it slipped out of her fingers—but she didn’t hear anything break. She turned to Rosalia and flexed a bicep. “Strong, huh? Check that out.”

Rosalia laughed. “Stronger than my boys. Wish you worked here and not my no-good bums.”

“I’d love to work here,” Acey said, and it was true. It was a friendly store, where everyone said hello and made small talk, and it was a thousand times quieter, without the soap operas that went on at Focaccia’s.

Rosalia put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Rosalia had a way about her, a way of carrying herself that made Acey ashamed of her own slumping. Rosalia was at least five foot ten, and walked with the book-balancing poise of a Miss Colombia. Her still-long hair was graying with middle age, but it looked so fashionable on her that Acey was sure she inspired other approaching-senior-age female customers to follow suit. Her clothes were nondescript sweatshirts and jeans, but Acey thought that even if she dressed in the trendiest fashions, no one would notice them once she flashed her always-lipsticked smile.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Acey.”

“Oh, but I’ve seen you! On TV, eh?”

Rosalia tried to appear nonchalant, but her grin was an easy giveaway. “Just lucky. Really. You won’t believe how lucky.”

“Sure I’d believe it. The store gets a nice cut, right?”

“I’ll get what’s coming to me, yes.” Rosalia moved to the other side of the counter and rang up the juice.

Acey slid the top half of her body across the counter with her money and lowered her voice. “Tell me. Do you know who it is? Who won?”

“No one knows, huh?”

“No, not officially, but…” A man plopped two rolls of toilet paper on the counter and asked for cigarettes. Acey stepped aside until his purchases were bagged and he was on his way. Then she leaned in again. “You must have some idea who won, Rosalia.”

“Why you say that?”

“Because you know just about every single customer by name around here. Did someone tell you? Tell me. I’ll keep it a secret, I swear.”

“I bet.”

“I will!” Acey protested, but Rosalia’s eyes were sparkling. “Come on. Spill it.”

“I don’t have anything to tell you. Still a mystery.”

With one last scrutinizing gaze at Rosalia’s face to see if she was holding out, Acey slumped her shoulders. “I was so certain you’d know.”

“I am surprised, it’s true,” Rosalia said, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “If someone win, I think they would come in here and be—” she waved her arms around “—woooo…”

“Exactly. But no?”

“No. It is a mystery,” Rosalia repeated.

Acey picked up her plastic bag. “Oh, well. I guess I’ll just keep wondering.”

She took one step toward the door and was about to say goodbye when Rosalia said quietly, “But.”

Acey whirled around.

“I am thinking someone.”

Acey rushed back and dropped her bag on the floor. “Aha! You do have a suspect!”

“I know nothing,” Rosalia said in a stern mother’s voice. “I am only thinking.”

Acey circled her hand in an impatient “go on” gesture.

“There is a man. He started coming in here maybe six months ago. About your age. Not from here.”

“He has an accent?”

“Yes. And so nice. He asks about my daughter’s daughter all the time after he once seen them here. And in February, that big snow, he shoveled the front for me. He helps me, like you do.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. He asks about me but keeps so silent about him. But he, he bought a ticket that day. For some reason, I think…everyone else would come tell me if they win but he’s so quiet, maybe he’s keeping quiet on that, too.”

Acey thought a moment. “Has he been in here since the numbers were picked?”

“Yes, but he acts the same. Nothing different but I have a feeling about him.”

“Huh.”

“Maybe,” Rosalia said, “you can look at him, tell me if you have the feeling, too? He comes every day, at almost exactly five minutes after one, for lemonade.”

“Interesting. Okay,” Acey decided. “I’ll be here tomorrow at five after one. Just point him out to me.”

“You won’t miss him,” Rosalia said. “I think no girl would miss him.”



“You won’t even notice I’m gone. Twenty minutes, Lydia, please?”

Acey glanced nervously at the clock. As usual, the time had flown by and it was now five of one.

“Oh, crap, Acey, it’s crazy in here,” Lydia complained, slicing a pie and boxing it.

“I know, but I have a…a…” Acey struggled. “A doctor’s appointment.”

“Twenty minutes for a doctor’s appointment?”

Acey hated to lie, so she hardly ever did. Which was why she was so awful at it. “They’re squeezing me in.”

Lydia paused and studied her. Acey squirmed with guilt. Why was she doing this anyhow? Wasn’t Lydia right yesterday? Why should you care who won the lottery if it wasn’t you? But Acey did. For something so wonderful to happen right up the street…it was like a miracle almost, and Acey was a pilgrim. She just wanted the tiniest glimpse at the lucky person. And she desperately wanted it to be someone nice, because people who had piles of money, like Charlie, so often didn’t deserve it.

“You never skip out like this,” Lydia said. “Is it serious?”

“Um, not really, but like I said, he’s fitting me in, so…”

“Are you pregnant?”

Acey handed a customer some change. “Thank you,” she said to him. “I’m not even answering that,” she said to Lydia.

“Just checking. I mean, I didn’t think you’ve been getting any action since Charlie, but…”

“Can you please cover for me?” Acey asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, it’s not going to be easy. Okay. I’ll do it on one condition.”

“Yeah?”

“That you tell me the truth. This is no doctor visit. This is about a guy, right?”

The minute hand edged toward one o’clock.

“Yeah,” Acey said. “It’s about a guy.”

“Then go, girl.” Lydia grinned. “Twenty minutes.”

Acey pulled off her apron. “Can I borrow your sunglasses?”

Lydia pulled them off her head and handed them to Acey, who grabbed them and sprinted out the door.



Acey peeked over a box of Cap’n Crunch and watched the door. She held a shopping basket, but just for show. Lydia’s sunglasses were enormous for her face, but they made Acey feel covert. She was on the case. Like Nancy Drew. Nancy Drew with big hair and acrylic nails.

She checked her watch. Four minutes after one.

“It’s almost time,” she heard in her ear, and jumped about three feet. She turned to find Cassandra, wrapped in her nubby black cardigan, rocking back and forth. “The end. It’s upon us.”

“Oh, okay,” Acey said weakly. Cassandra had been a regular for at least a dozen years. Acey didn’t know her real name. Steph had nicknamed her Cassandra a long time ago because of her constant doomsday prophesies.

Acey humored Cassandra each time she saw her, which was more and more seldom as the woman aged. The end was probably near for her, and it made Acey a little sad. Not for the first time, she wanted to offer Cassandra something, like coffee, but she never knew how to ask so that it sounded more friendly than pitying. The old woman shook her head and shuffled away. Acey sighed, turned back to the cereal and saw that someone had come in. Rosalia was already deep in conversation with him.

Cowboy boots. Really scuffed up, too. As if he’d just left Silver hitched to a mailbox outside.

Acey got a funny little prickly feeling.

Her gaze traveled up long legs. Long legs. That ended in a…wow, nice ass. Much smaller than her own, which usually daunted her but for some reason, she had the urge to slip behind him and see if she could fit that butt in both her cupped hands. Then she could slide one of those hands over his hip and check the size of…

“Oh, my God, Acey,” she said out loud. The man looked over his shoulder and Acey dropped to a crouch. She shifted a few boxes of elbow macaroni around so she appeared to be a legitimate shopper. She rose to her feet and peeked at the counter, where Rosalia and the man were chatting again, but now he was leaning one arm on the counter as Rosalia flipped through photos.

It was no shock when Acey saw his face. Harry Wells.

Rosalia glanced up, saw Acey and raised her eyebrows. Acey suspected the thick stack of photos was deliberate on Rosalia’s part, to keep their target there long enough for Acey’s assessment.

Her assessment? Same as the first time she met him. An Ebert and Roeper two-thumbs-way-up.

Being careful to stare at the shelves of sundries, Acey moved up an aisle closer to the front. Yes. Much better. Now she could hear them.

“She’s beautiful,” Harry was saying.

“She looks just like my daughter,” Rosalia said with pride.

“Actually, I see so much of you,” Harry answered. “Definitely that smile.”

“The end.”

Acey realized Cassandra had sneaked up behind the man and repeated her usual proclamation. Harry didn’t even seem surprised when he turned around and Cassandra said, “Are you ready? For the end? It’s here.”

“If the end is truly here, then at least they sent the most beautiful angel to tell me,” he told the soothsayer. Cassandra studied him, nodded, and left the store.

Acey’s jaw hung.

“Thank you for showing me your pictures,” Harry said to Rosalia. “They really made my day.” He grinned. “Now, I guess I should get what I came here for and let y’all get back to work.”

Harry took a step in Acey’s direction, and her head snapped back around. She pulled open the refrigerator case, yanked out random items and dropped them into her basket. Harry was getting closer, and Acey stared at the floor and silently berated herself. She’d known he was coming here for lemonade. Why was she hanging around right next to the lemonade? Nancy Drew would have hung her red head in shame.

She peeked over her shoulder and saw Harry go down the next aisle. She dropped the basket and darted for the door before he could see her. She gave Rosalia a hasty wave she hoped her friend would interpret as “talk to you about this later.”

She hopped out the door and jumped into the nearest doorway on the left. Mission accomplished. Rosalia wanted her to get a feeling about Harry? She got a feeling, all right. Right down between her thighs. Damn.

Her watch said twelve minutes after one. She was about to cross the street to head back to work when she spied the cowboy coming out of Bread and Milk. He was on the opposite corner, walking away from her. And away from Focaccia’s.

Acey turned her head toward her place of employment, then walked the other way, following Harry, keeping half a block’s distance. Just two minutes. She’d turn back in two minutes.

After about only a minute, Harry ambled up the walkway of his brick apartment building. Acey dashed across the street, tucked herself into the doorway of an orthodontist’s office and watched him through the dark glasses. If only she had a good pair of binoculars.

Holy crap. Was she insane? She was like a crazy stalker. This had to stop.

But before she could head back in the direction of the hot ovens, a plastic Wiffle ball hit Harry lightly on the shoulder, and a boy of about eight rushed up. He looked as if he was apologizing, but Harry held on to the ball, a smile on his face. Then he began to demonstrate a pitch, arcing his muscled arm and letting his body follow through.

“Leave,” Acey said out loud. “Now.”

An elderly man came out the building’s front door, weighed down with two bags of trash. Harry handed the ball back to the boy, sprinted over and grabbed a bag. As soon as his back was to the street, Acey skipped out of the doorway and ran back up to Focaccia’s. She hopped behind the counter and looked up. Twenty-five after. Whoops.

“You’re late,” Lydia said, and before Acey could apologize, added, “and I should hope so. How is he?”

Lydia’s face was expectant. Acey took off her friend’s sunglasses and handed them over.

“I can’t believe it myself,” Acey said. “But he’s…he’s…”

Possibly stinking rich. And therefore, not for me.

“You’re speechless,” Lydia said with a chuckle. “This one must be a real winner.”

“Funny you should say that,” Acey replied.




Chapter Three


H arry pushed his swivel chair back from his tiny, lopsided desk and wiggled his cramped fingers. He found he could only type for about three hours before he needed to stretch them out. It was pretty pathetic, but it was better than a few months ago, when he began his career as a grant writer. Back then, it only took about sixty minutes before his hands, stiff with the privilege of leisure for most of his life, ached.

Harry’s new work carried some irony. He was now writing grant letters to the government for charities and small businesses requesting money that his former self could have just donated if he felt so inclined. But he’d left his inheritance behind, and now his job was to work on behalf of these organizations. He had plenty of fundraising and networking experience from just being a wealthy Wells, but he didn’t know, until he began toiling away for a living, that he’d have a knack for doing it full-time.

When he came to New York, he’d brought enough money to give himself a financial cushion while he freelanced. The money was a better reserve than most people had, but was nowhere near the amount of money he was actually entitled to. As he had no résumé to speak of, he’d planned on a period of figuring out what he was capable of. So far, he’d made the right decisions. A rarity for someone accustomed to having accountants and attorneys make his decisions for him.

He checked his watch. One o’clock. Lemonade break. He’d missed his lemonade yesterday when a call to the current charity he was working for ran long. Thank God the call hadn’t occurred a day earlier, or Harry might have missed seeing that…that vision on the street outside, and the opportunity to run and help her.

Harry rose and stretched his arms over his head, thinking of Acey Corelli, the wild-haired, fiery-eyed temptress. The way she called him “cowboy,” like he was a character actor in an old romantic Western. He wanted to see her again. He hoped his street was her regular route to work, because he’d been glancing out the window every two minutes for the past three days.

He knew her name. He supposed he could look her up…

No, said his relentless conscience. Aside from his vow to build his own life and make his own way in the world, he’d also secretly decided, upon leaving Texas, that he wouldn’t get mixed up with any women for the time being. He’d proved to be a danger to himself, and to others. It was too hard to remember the horse, and the pain, and the horror on Lara’s face, which had shone so adoringly five minutes earlier when her man and her horse had pranced out into the jumping ring together.

Harry couldn’t bear to hurt another woman, and it seemed that was all he knew how to do. He’d made up his mind to just pull himself out of the dating game until he’d convinced himself he’d changed. It had been only six months since arriving here, but Harry had let his old easy habits with women die out.

Harry went to the window and looked out. Dark clouds had been hanging in the sky since late morning. He noted the still-dry sidewalk and decided against his umbrella. But then he saw one other thing on the sidewalk, something that his lemonade could damn well wait for.

It was her. It was Acey, walking along his street, weighed down with a plastic bag emblazoned with a supermarket logo. She was carrying it in her arms, and Harry guessed the bag had a hole in it. Lucky for him, because now he could watch her bare, olive-skinned legs as she put one foot in front of the other.

If he hadn’t been hypnotized by her swaying walk, Harry wouldn’t have noticed her slow down, just a tiny bit, in front of his building. But yes, her pace was definitely waning as she inclined her head toward the brick facade.

Was she admiring Mrs. Stein’s purple lilac bushes out front? Harry imagined a woman might be taken with them, but Acey’s gaze traveled around the front yard and up the side of the building. Harry took one step back from the window, so he could still see her from the second floor but she hopefully couldn’t see him.

Was she possibly looking for him? No. Harry scoffed at his own ego. He had gotten a little too used to beautiful women skulking near his Texas mansion, hoping for a glimpse. Maybe Acey was looking for someone else?

She shrugged, her smooth shoulders lifting the straps of her black tank top up and down. Then she continued on her way, but her bag chose that moment to split open, spilling apples and boxes of raisins all around her.

Without thinking twice about it, Harry hurried outside.

“Acey Corelli,” he drawled, “once again cast in the damsel-in-distress role.”

“For crying out loud,” Acey said. “Do you believe this? I’ll have to walk home a different way tomorrow so lightning doesn’t strike me right here, too.”

Harry squinted up at the blackening sky. “I’d say that’s a possibility right now.”

“Great. You’d better stand back to avoid being hit.”

“I think it would be better if you came in and let me give you a new bag.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t put you out again.” She seemed more flustered than she ought to.

“You’re right,” Harry said. “The best thing for you to do, obviously, would be to gather up all your groceries in your arms and just go on home. Here you go. Can you put this mac-n-cheese in your purse? And you can probably fit this in the pocket of your shorts.”

Acey laughed. “If you try to slide that banana in my pocket, you’ll be seeing me in court, cowboy.”

Harry was mortified. “I didn’t mean that as a—as a, you know…”

“Hey, I know,” Acey said. “I’m just teasing you. You’re right. I can’t really walk home like this. I’ll make it quick.”

“Don’t,” Harry said, but changed it quickly to, “I mean, you don’t have to.”

He led her up to his apartment for the second time in their brief acquaintance. They had just finished piling groceries on his kitchen table when a clap of thunder crashed, so loud that her hands flew to her ears. Then she checked around the room. “God, I thought that hit us.”

He liked the way she said “us.”

Then, as if from a giant overturned bucket, rain dumped down, pouring over the windowsills. Harry jumped to close a window and Acey closed the other one while the drops slammed into the glass like BB-gun pellets. Harry said, “I can’t let you go out in this. I hope you don’t have anywhere you need to be.”

“No, it’s my day off.”

“That doesn’t seem too unusual for a Saturday.”

“It is where I work.” Acey sank to the floor and crossed her legs lotus-style. “Saturday’s busy from dawn till dusk. I’ve been there five years, and I finally got the seniority for Saturdays off.”

“Where’s this?”

“Focaccia’s.”

“Oh, up the street? The pizza place? I haven’t tried it yet.”

“You’ve been here a few months and you haven’t been there yet? What’s your problem?”

Harry laughed. Acey was so in-your-face—so open and honest. “I’ve been eating tons of sandwiches. Heros, that is. I guess I never was much of a pizza person.”

“Who’s not a pizza person?”

Harry shrugged.

“Come by and order a large pie with everything,” Acey continued, “and I guarantee you will become a pizza person after the first bite.”

“Does your boss pay you for advertising like this?”

“It’s not advertising, it’s just the truth. It’s the best in New York.”

Harry thought that even if Acey had said it was terrible pizza, the worst ever, he would still have planned a trip there. Purely for the service.

The two fell silent for another few minutes. Harry was the sort to enjoy companionable quiet but it seemed his talkative guest might not be, so he said, “Would you like some music?”

Acey brightened. “That would be great.” Then she frowned. “Oh, but not if you’re going to put on some twangy country stuff. I can’t stand it.”

Harry walked to the stereo and flipped through his CD collection. “Were you born here, Acey?”

“Born in Queens, then my family moved a whopping ten miles to Valley Stream when I was about four.”

“So then, what does a city slicker like you know about country music?”

“Loads.”

“Uh-huh.” He paused. “Y’all watched Urban Cowboy a couple of times and that’s it. Am I right?”

Acey looked guilty. “Okay,” she admitted. “But how much do I have to hear to know I don’t like it?”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Harry said, sliding a CD in and pressing Play. “I don’t like country music, either.” The first chords of a Bruce Springsteen hit filled the room.

Acey grinned. “Now that’s more like it, cowboy.” She looked down at his boots. “That is some secret. I bet you’d have to turn those boots over to the Texas authorities if I ratted you out.”

“I trust you.”

“Mistake number one.” She laughed. “Actually, I’m joking. I’m good with secrets. Got any others you’d like to spill while you’re at it?”

Was it his imagination, or did she look as if she really knew something? Could she know him? No, he wasn’t nationwide famous. He’d just been locally famous back home. But her teasing tone had an undercurrent of something. “Nope,” he told her. “My life—as it is now—is an open book.”

“My younger sister writes books.”

“Really?” Harry sat down on the floor also, leaning his back against the sofa. “Have I heard of her?”

“No. She hasn’t sold one yet. But she’s really good. She writes mysteries. It’s only a matter of time before everyone knows the name Stephanie Corelli. Then we can move into a bigger place. Or she can just buy me my own.” Acey grinned.

“You live together?”

“Yes. Sisters and roomies. She was my only roommate my whole life, actually. I went to community college, and when I was…done, we moved out of our parents’ house.”

He noticed her hesitation, but didn’t comment. “You’re very close, then.”

“Yeah. It was just the two of us growing up. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”

“Two younger sisters. They’re in Texas, along with everyone else in my family.” Harry stopped. He didn’t want to get into this topic, get into how his sisters thought he was crazy to leave Texas, how his parents insisted he was not in his right mind, and how he’d yelled back that for the first time in his life, he was.

Acey waited. Harry supposed she wasn’t used to conversation with someone like him. Most of the people around here talked like she did, fast and loud and boisterous. It made Harry hyperaware of how he thought out every sentence before he spoke. It wasn’t a Southern thing, either—it was a conscious effort to be more deliberate in word and action. He opened his mouth, but was interrupted by another bone-cracking thunderclap.

Acey stuck her fingers in her ears again for a moment, then said, “I hate thunderstorms.”

Harry got halfway up, snapped on a lamp next to the sofa and sank back down. “Didn’t your parents tell you it was God moving the furniture?” That was the line he remembered from one of his well-meaning nannies.

“They tried to sell me some story like that but I didn’t buy it. So Dad got me this book on weather, and I looked it up. I still have to tell myself every time that it’s just this big sound of a shock wave made when air is compressed around the lightning. Knowing how it happens makes me feel a little less scared.”

“Sounds like your Dad knew what a clever kid he had.”

“I think he hoped I would turn out to be something. I did always have big dreams and intentions, but I have a problem with follow-through. That’s what Steph says.”

“What does Acey say?”

“Acey says, got anything to drink?”

“I know a subject change when I hear it. What’s your poison? Soda? Beer?”

“A beer would be excellent.”

Harry went into the kitchen, opened two bottles and brought them back into the living room, where Acey was staring out at the rain. Harry handed her a bottle and clinked his with hers. “To skinned knees.”

“And Southern hospitality,” she said. They both tilted their heads back and drank. “So,” Acey said. “Somehow you know about my job, my sister and one dumb hang-up I have. Start talking.”

“Oh, is it my turn now?”

Acey made a horrified face.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I like listening to you. You’re funny. In a good way,” he said, as Acey raised her bottle threateningly.

“At least tell me about your job. Is it freelance?”

“Yes, I’ve done a few projects now, most of them successful.”

“What are you working on today?”

“Right now I’m trying to get a grant for this new cat shelter a few towns away. It’s a great place, a no-kill shelter. But when you commit to keeping animals for a long time, you need money to do it.”

“Hmm. I admit I thought writing grants sounded boring, but not if you get to help places like that. Have you been to see the shelter?”

“Of course, several times. Every time I go I’m supposed to be there for business but I end up playing with an armful of the cutest cats.”

Acey’s eyes widened, and she turned her face to the side, muttering something that sounded like, “God, even animals love you.” But why would she say that?

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, nothing. I have a habit of talking to myself all the time.”

“You are a good conversationalist. I don’t blame you for wanting it to go both ways.”

“Very funny.”

The rain continued to beat down, and small talk kept Harry and Acey busy until their beers were finished.

“Another?” Harry asked, putting out his hand for her bottle.

“No, thanks. I didn’t have lunch yet. Any more alcohol and I may say things I’ll regret.” She stood and stretched her arms out to her sides, then walked toward the kitchen. “I’d better go bag my stuff.”

Harry followed her and pulled out two plastic bags from his cabinet. He gave her one, and they bagged her things together.

“Thanks. Hey, you do have photos!” Acey pointed to the refrigerator door. “Who are they?”

“Those are my sisters, Minnie and Corinne.”

“Do you miss your family?”

Harry chose his words carefully. “I miss my sisters, mostly. My parents, well…I love them, but distance is the best solution, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Acey said. “My parents finally moved to Florida this year. Though you’d hardly know it by the number of times Ma still calls. She can’t miss any quality nagging opportunities.”

Harry laughed. “My mother didn’t nag me, I’ll say that. She was too busy for that.”

“Lucky you.” And just at that moment, something else on the refrigerator caught Acey’s eye. “Hey, you have a lottery ticket.”

“Yeah.”

“And is it…? Yes, it is, it’s from May twenty-fourth. Did you buy it at Bread and Milk? You know that was the winning store, right?”

“It’s been the big story every night.” Harry couldn’t keep the wryness out of his voice. “Must be a slow news week.”

Acey tilted her head. “Don’t you think it’s exciting? Someone in the neighborhood? A homey?”

“There have to be better things to occupy the public’s mind than someone becoming a member of the rich elite.”

“Maybe.” Acey moved away from the refrigerator but kept her eyes on Harry. “Just think, thirty-five million dollars. All your financial problems solved. Like that.” She snapped her fingers.

“More like, his problems are probably just beginning,” Harry retorted, failing to keep annoyance out of his voice.

“What are you, crazy? Most people dream of hitting it big.”

Harry didn’t say, I’m not most people.

“I knew a rich guy once,” Acey added. “Trust me, he had no problems.”

“Did he cause any?” Harry asked.

Acey paused for a long moment. “I still think you should check your numbers,” she finally said.

Harry realized the last thing he wanted was to tip this woman off to his sad truth. He reined in his emotion. “The rain’s stopped.”

“So it has.” Acey picked her bags up off the table.

“I’ll throw out your apples because they fell in the street. Wait.” He reached into a silver bowl on the table and picked out two shiny apples, dropping them into one of her bags. “I bought these yesterday.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I always buy fruits and vegetables and never eat them. I just end up eating take-out food and letting the produce rot. Please take them.”

“A’right, thanks. I bet you can tell by my appearance that I never waste food.” She rolled her eyes.

Harry took her self-deprecating comment as an invitation to sweep his gaze over her body. She was not overweight. She was as lush and ripe as a piece of fruit herself, and when he turned his eyes back to her face, it was the color of the apples in question. She practically ran from the kitchen. Harry followed her but paused to peel the offending lottery ticket out from underneath its magnet. He went to drop it in the trash, but he’d forgotten to replace the bag this morning, so he chucked the ticket on top of the refrigerator. He didn’t want to have to see it anymore.

“Thanks,” Acey said, edging toward his door. “I mean it. This has been—”

Harry tried to help. “Yeah, it really has been, uh—”

Silence.

“Unexpected,” Acey finished, and Harry agreed. Acey was unexpected, filling his apartment with exuberance and light, which he was sure he’d miss again the second she left.

He wanted to ask her if she would come by again, or go out somewhere, just spend time with him in some way but his promise to himself was still there, humming through him, stopping him. Acey stood a moment, quiet, and with his untrained eye, he could almost see her own inner struggle. He wondered if it was the same, and he wondered at her reasons. He hoped she’d give in first. If she did, if she asked him out, he could cave. But if she didn’t, he knew his resolve was too strong for him to overcome.

She didn’t. She put out her hand. “It was so nice meeting you,” she said.

He shook it. “Y’all be careful going home now, all right? Walk slow on that knee,” he added with a half smile.

“I like that ‘y’all’ thing,” Acey said. Then she blurted, “Oh, I forgot my purse,” and she trotted back to the kitchen. When she returned, she looked at him a bit differently, with her head cocked just slightly to one side.

Harry narrowed his eyes with curiosity.

Acey picked up her grocery bags, stepped outside and said over her shoulder, “See ya around, cowboy.” Then she clattered down the stairs.

Harry grinned. Everything that woman did was noisy.



“I wasn’t stalking him,” Acey called, squeezing water out of her hair and into the kitchen sink. A second quick downpour had caught her two blocks from home, drenching her. She wrapped a towel around her head and entered the living room where Steph was sitting, her eyebrows raised in amused fashion.

“I wasn’t stalking,” Acey repeated.

“Uh-huh,” Steph said, leaning back on the sofa and lacing her fingers behind her head.

“I wasn’t.” Acey tucked the towel behind each ear to hear better. “The supermarket run happened to take me past his building. And then my bag sort of ripped open, maybe because I sort of absentmindedly picked a hole in the bottom of it with my nail.”

“Suddenly this all becomes more believable.”

“Listen, I had to meet him again. So my bag breaks, and he comes running like…like…”

“Like what?”

“Like the hero. Every time I see him, he’s saving the day. In the store, he was all sweet to Rosalia, and he said the nicest thing to Cassandra I ever heard, did I tell you?”

“About twenty-three times.”

“He helps kids, and elderly people, and me.”

“So, is his place papered with hundred-dollar bills?”

“No, it’s…totally nothing. It was like, white walls and brown chairs and that’s it.”

“Doesn’t sound very megamillionaire-ish.”

“No, I thought the same thing. I talked to him and I felt…” Acey stopped. She’d felt, and that was amazing in itself. She’d wrapped up and protected her heart since her bad breakup last year, and she hadn’t really enjoyed a conversation with a man in so long.

“Felt what?”

Acey shook her head. “I just figured, it’s not him. I mean, he’s in this little apartment, doing this freelance grant-writing work for nonprofits that can’t be paying him a whole lot, and if he did win, he’d probably be making some serious changes. But…” Acey paused for drama.

Steph, who knew her sister’s games, waited ten seconds before demanding, “But what?”

“But before I left, I was in his kitchen, and I saw a lottery ticket on the fridge. The date was May twenty-fourth.”

Steph jumped a tiny bit. “Did you ask him about it?”

“Yeah, but I tried to be cool.”

“Ha!”

“Shut up. I tried to start a conversation about it, but he reacted so strangely. He just about said that winning all that money would cause problems, not solve them. He sounded annoyed.”

“Did you recognize the numbers? They’ve been showing them so often on TV…”

“That was another thing. The numbers were folded under. I could read the date but not the numbers.”

“Maybe he’d folded it in his pocket when he bought it and stuck it up there like that?”

“Yeah, well, here’s the kicker. I forgot my purse, and when I went back to the kitchen to get it, it was gone.”

“Your purse was gone?”

“No. The ticket. Gone. Disappeared off the refrigerator. So I peeked in the garbage can. The can was empty, not even a trash bag in there. He’d followed me out of the room the first time, so…”

Steph was nodding, her mystery-writing, clue-analyzing mind jumping ahead. “So you think he swiped it out of your sight? Hid it in a safe place?”

“Exactly. Which got me to thinking on my walk home.”

“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.

“Everyone does that,” Acey said.

“It smells amazing.”

“I didn’t top it. I didn’t know if you were a vegetarian or had an aversion to anything. It’s best plain, anyway. Then you can taste it. Are you really sure you don’t mind my dropping in like this?”

“Of course not.” Harry put the box on the table and took two plates from the cabinet. “It’s real nice.”

“I’m glad. I was thinking it had been so long since I met a real friend.”

Harry’s hand stilled on a glass for a fraction of a second, then he carried on setting the table. There was no mistaking Acey’s emphasis on the word “friend.” It’s just as well, he thought. I don’t want any entanglements. And she’s real outgoing and probably has lots of male friends. And maybe a boyfriend. Though wouldn’t she be bringing pizza home to her boyfriend after work?

Well, if she was coming here and throwing the word friend around, Harry thought, then his problems were pretty much solved, weren’t they?

He turned. Acey sat at the table and smiled. She was wearing a low-cut white clingy shirt, and a tiny sliver of a pale pink bra strap peeked through. A strand of little pink plastic-looking beads dipped into her deep cleavage.

Harry was suddenly grateful for his impromptu nap. He had a sinking feeling another sleepless night was ahead.

“Care to eat alfresco?” he asked.

“Sure.”

“I have a little porch off the—” damn “—off the bedroom.”

Acey seemed unfazed. “Lead the way.”

“Grab the box.”

Hoping he’d left nothing offensive in plain sight, he led Acey through the apartment and out onto his tiny porch, where he had a table and two little folding chairs. Luckily, they had dried out in the sun today after yesterday’s downpour. He gestured to one. Acey sat and dished out two slices.

“I only have regular soda, not diet,” Harry said. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Do I look like I drink diet soda?” Acey asked. Harry wished she wouldn’t keep calling attention to her appearance, because it made it hard for him to try to ignore it. “Eat,” she commanded.

Harry took a bite, then another, then another, and was halfway through his slice before he remembered to look up. “Wow.”

“Did I lie?”

“No. It tastes… The sauce is almost sweet. It goes beyond expectations.”

Acey nodded.

“And now I’m very angry at you,” Harry added.

“Why?”

“Because now that I know how good this pizza is, I’ll have to buy new jeans when I gain forty pounds.”

Acey chewed and looked down at the street. “I’ve never paid full price for a stitch of clothing in my life. Let me know when you need those jeans and I’ll give you some tips.”

“Deal.”

“Although,” she said, taking another enormous bite and shielding her full mouth with one hand, “I must say it would be nice to afford some really fancy designer clothes. Just once. Don’t you think?”

Harry felt a twinge. Acey struck him as a very hard worker. Yesterday, she’d mentioned working weekends for years. She probably deserved to have any beautiful thing she wanted. Harry used to throw clothes, jewelry, expensive trinkets at women who barely looked at them, women whom he was merely passing time with. “But that outfit you have on now looks real nice,” he said.

Acey blushed a flattering pink. To match that insistent strap. “Well,” she said, “you probably wouldn’t be into that anyway. Clothes are mostly a girl thing.”

“Certainly.”

She fell silent then and Harry thought it odd. She seemed not to be relaxing within the conversation but rather to be searching for words, and after knowing her only a short time, Harry would have guessed she rarely ran out of words. Or questions.

He reminded himself he wasn’t on a date with Acey, but he wasn’t ever the kind of man who had circles of female friends, so he would have to rely on date techniques, at least in this get-to-know-you phase of talk. “What do you like to do?” he finally tried. “When you’re not working, that is.”

Acey swallowed, then she sighed. It was a great sigh. She used her whole head to do it—first sucking in a lungful of air through her open mouth, holding it for a hot second, then arching her neck and blowing the air through puffed lips up toward the sky. Then she rolled her eyes, like an ending punctuation.

Harry nodded with appreciation and clapped his hands four times. “Very nice. The Oscar for most dramatic moment goes to…Acey Corelli.” Acey curtsied with the top half of her body. “Now,” Harry added, “how about telling me why I deserved that?”

“Oh,” Acey said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that that question is always the first thing every guy asks me on a blind date.”

Oops. “I am interested,” Harry said quickly. “It wasn’t just idle shrimp-cocktail chatter.”

“You actually spring for appetizers on first dates? Very impressive. Grant writing must treat you well.”

Harry winced inwardly.

“Anyway, the sigh was not because you asked but because I never have a good answer.”

“Let me be the judge.”

Acey considered, and into Harry’s mind floated answers he’d heard over candlelit dinner dates past. What do I like to do? a collective breathless female voice said in his memory. I like to ski in Aspen…

“I like to play handball with Steph in the school-yard…”

…I like to party all night at the hottest clubs…

“…I like to sleep as late as possible and leave my pajamas on until it’s time to go to bed again…”

…I like to jet off to Monte Carlo or Paris for the weekend…

“…I used to like to have Sunday dinner at Ma’s once in a while, but I’d never admit that to her…”

…What do you like? I bet I’d like it, too, baby…

“…and I like to read and watch videos and just hang out. I’m boring as hell, when it comes right down to it.”

“I don’t agree,” Harry said. “In fact, those are the most intriguing and unique answers I’ve ever heard.”

“You must know a real bunch of airheads, then.”

“You have no idea.” Harry took a long sip of soda. “Why do you think you’re boring? Is it that you’d rather be doing other things?”

Acey regarded him with respect. “That’s pretty insightful. You’re saying if I was interested in my own life, then I would just expect it to interest you, too.” She paused. “I don’t dislike my life or what I do. It would just be nice to…enhance it once in a while. See places I’ve never been, and do things there I’ve never experienced.”

“Ski in Aspen? Shop in Paris? Play baccarat in Monte Carlo?” Harry couldn’t help himself.

“Not all the time. I would want beautiful exotic places to stay beautiful and exotic. But to know I could do that, once in a while, would be, well, it would just be nice,” she said. “Don’t you think?”





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