LITMIR.BIZ

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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,

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