Ticket To Love. Jen Safrey
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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