Chapter Ten

Even with a fuzzy, barely-awake brain Meg could smell cinnamon.

Her eyes still closed, she sniffed the air appreciatively and considered rolling out of bed.

Then someone chuckled softly, and the scent got tantalizingly closer, only to retreat.

"What are you doing in my room this early?" Meg mumbled, kicking her legs under the covers in a vain attempt to make contact.

"Breakfast. It doesn't taste as good when I eat it in my apartment."

Meg cracked an eye open and squinted at Charley. "Is that right? Funny. You didn't have this problem until Whitney moved in."

Charley just grinned at her and took another bite of his cinnamon roll. Meg had never seen someone enjoy a breakfast pastry that much.

"Shouldn't you be in the kitchen waiting for your love bunny to wake up instead of sitting on my bed and getting crumbs all over the sheets?"

He shrugged. "I didn't want to wake her up too early." He stuffed the rest of his roll in his mouth, licked his fingers clean, and stretched his legs out until his feet were propped beside Meg's head. "That was good," he sighed. "You should really get more of those."

"I should never have given you a key," Meg said drily, struggling to sit up. "You waltz in like you own the place and empty my refrigerator."

"You should just let me set up camp on the deck. It'd make things a lot easier."

"Easier for you, maybe."

Charley looked like he wanted to press the point, but changed his mind. "What happened to all the flowers in the front yard? It looks like someone face planted in them."

Meg stared up at the ceiling and tried not to laugh. "I don't know, exactly," she told him. "They were like that when I went outside yesterday afternoon." She wasn't sure why she didn't just tell him that Harvard had, in fact, stuck his head and half his upper body in the flower bed, but she didn't. Perhaps it was because this information would give Charley more ammunition for future torment.

It was probably good that neither one of them had ever been blessed with a younger brother.

Charley narrowed his eyes at her. "You're not telling me something."

Lifting a shoulder, Meg started to unwind herself from her covers. As soon as she was free and out of bed Charley snagged her pillow with one last suspicious glance in her direction. He wadded it up, flipped over on his stomach, and stuck it under his chin. "You'd better hop in the shower," he told her, and rolled his eyes at her when she smiled innocently in his direction. "And don't forget to use that conditioner I made you buy. You're starting to get split ends."

Meg rolled her eyes, but once she was standing under the hot water she inspected her hair and sighed. She hated it when he was right.

When she emerged Charley sat up and took her brush off the dresser. He waited until she'd situated herself cross-legged on the bed in front of him before slowly running it through her wet hair. Meg sighed and let her eyes drift shut. Charley was the best hair-comber in the world – all gentle strokes with an occasional scratch at the scalp. It was really too bad that he only did it when he had something heavy on his mind.

"You know I love you, don't you, Meggie?"

Meg turned her head so quickly the brush skidded across her cheek. "What?"

Charley grimaced at her and pushed her head back into its original position. "You know that, right?"

She stared at his reflection in the mirror hanging over her dresser. "What did you do to my car?"

A strange noise, almost a mix between a laugh and a strangled cough, came from behind her. "I didn't do anything to your precious car," he said, snapping the water out of the brush and onto her robe. "Just answer the question."

It seemed a little ironic that Charley used the word 'precious' when referring to her car, Meg thought, but the light mood from before her shower had disappeared and he no longer seemed to be interested in snappy retorts. "I love you just as much as you love me," she said, hoping she sounded as sincere as she felt. "I've never doubted that."

Charley snorted. "I can think of one or two times when you weren't too sure about that. Remember Bryan?"

"I still think I should have been the one to break up with him," Meg said. "Just because he wanted to put a turret on top of his apartment building so he could attack poor, unsuspecting people with a potato gun hardly gives you the right to – "

"We've been over this before," Charley interrupted mildly. "And for the record, he wasn't after poor, unsuspecting people. He was after any guy that happened to glance your way."

They didn't say anything for a long time. Charley moved the brush steadily through her hair, and Meg was on the verge of dozing off when his quiet voice broke through the silence. "I think I'm falling in love with Whitney."

Meg smiled at his reflection. "I know you are."

Charley dropped the brush. "What – I didn't – how do you know?"

She leaned back and kissed his cheek affectionately. "I'd have to be dead not to figure it out," she told him, and laughed at his shocked expression. "The Whitney? Really, Charley. You can't tell me that was Harvard's idea."

"It could've been," he protested.

Ignoring him, Meg slid off the bed and opened her closet. "And I saw the way you looked at her outside the restaurant. Either you were in love or you were developing an ulcer."

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Charley flopped back on the bed in an attitude of defeat. "Is there anything else I should know about myself?" he asked, plaintive.

Meg considered this as she pulled a skirt off its hanger. "Nothing that I'm willing to tell you." She grinned at him over her shoulder and ducked back into the bathroom. "Why were you so worried before, anyway?" she called as she got dressed.

"I wasn't worried about anything."

What was it about men that made them unable to admit to awkward emotions? "Then why did you want to make sure I knew you loved me? Are you sure you didn't do anything to my car yesterday?"

Charley pushed the door open just as Meg was smoothing her sweater over her stomach. "Will you stop obsessing over your car? It's fine. Not a scratch on it. I just wanted to make sure you knew that just because I have feelings for another woman, that doesn't mean that you've been replaced."

"Oh, sweetie." She hooked an arm around his neck and squeezed tight. "It's okay if Whitney pushed me over a little bit in your heart. Your wife is supposed to be your best friend, after all."

Charley stiffened and pushed away from her. "Who said anything about a wife?"

Smirking at him, she took her makeup bag out of the drawer and pretended not to notice his flabbergasted appearance. "You never do anything by halves, Mr. Grimm," she said, and then, in her best impersonation of his mother, continued, "and men have biological clocks too, you know."

He banged the back of his head against the wall and laughed. "I think you should stop talking to my mom."

Meg just smiled at his reflection serenely. It hadn't escaped her notice that he hadn't said her assumption was dead wrong. "You're not allowed to move in after you two get hitched," she warned. "I can only stand so much lovey-doveyness in my home."

Sighing, Charley started to twist her hair into an intricate know at the nape of her neck. "Yes, ma'am." He concentrated for a minute before saying, in a too-casual voice, "I met Whitney's dad yesterday."

That brought Meg's head snapping up. "Her dad?" she asked. "Whitney never mentions him. I kind of figured he'd passed away or something."

Charley's tugging became more languid. "No, he's around. He and Squeaky got divorced when Whitney was little, and there was a huge custody battle. Whitney says Mamie only wanted the girls so she could collect money from their father. She's probably right," he added, pulling angrily on a strand of her hair and making Meg wince. "Sometimes I wish she wasn't a woman so I could deck her."

"I guess it's good that your mother instilled proper non-woman-beating values in you."

Charley huffed out his breath and started sticking bobby pins into his creation. "She might make an exception for this particular woman. Anyway, Whitney used to spend summers with her dad until Mamie decided he was putting ideas into her head."

Mamie was the queen of unoriginal thought, so this didn't surprise Meg a whole lot. It did, however, explain a few things about the way Whitney acted when she made a suggestion. She'd have to remember to be more encouraging, especially when they were in the shop. "What did you think of him?"

Charley sat on the counter next to her, his hands behind his head. "Surprisingly normal, considering who he married. I didn't get much of a chance to talk to him, unfortunately. He had to run off to a class."

"Class? What's he studying?"

Charley shot her a surprised look. "He's not studying anything. He's a philosophy professor at Oakland University."

*** *** ***

All the way to the store that morning, Meg plotted ways to tell Mamie she could take her blasted list and shove it . . . well, somewhere very unpleasant. She couldn't seem to get her mind around the fact that Mamie had blackmailed her by inferring that she could keep Whitney out of college – when Whitney's father was a college professor. And, according to Charley, tenured.

Maybe Mamie didn't really believe Meg was living with her daughter.

After all that thinking and planning (and a healthy amount of anticipation that was most likely not very healthy after all) Mamie didn't even have the common courtesy to show up for her tongue lashing.

In fact, she didn't come into the shop until nearly closing time, and when she finally sauntered through the back door Harvard was there at the front, clutching a formal-looking envelope and grinning at her like he held the keys to Krispy Kreme's production plant in his hand.

Meg stood in the middle of the shop and waited as they converged on her from opposite directions. To her surprise, Harvard spoke first. "Good evening, Miss Bailey," he said, and winked a second. Seconds later an eager-looking Mamie sidled up and snatched the envelope from him. "Ms. Steppe. It's a delight, as always."

Mamie batted her eyes at Harvard and fanned her face with her free hand. "Oo, Harvard, you're so sweet to say such lovely things to an old lady like me."

Harvard's eyes rolled ever so slightly upward and he plastered a fake smile on his face. "I'd hardly call you old, Ms. Steppe."

Eyelashes fluttering even faster, Mamie stuck one extra-long fingernail into the envelope and slit it open. "Is this an invitation?" she cooed before glancing down at the paper she pulled out.

Harvard nodded and stole a quick glance at Meg, who was trying not to gag. The corners of his mouth quirked up so slightly that she was sure she'd imagined it – until she caught the glint of humor in his eye.

"Oh, my," Mamie gasped. "Brittany will be so pleased to get this. She's been dying for a reason to wear that new dress she bought when we heard you were coming to town."

"I hope all of your employees will be able to attend. Please send your RSVP to – "

"Oh, I can tell you right now." Mamie placed her hand on Harvard's arm and squeezed. "Brittany and I will definitely be there, but I'm afraid Meg Bailey and Whitney will have to work." She giggled at him and leaned closer. "Working girls have to earn their privileges, you know."

Harvard untangled himself from Mamie's grasp with the grace of a man who had found himself in that particular situation so often that disengaging had become second nature. "I could be wrong, but I believe my father is inviting all employees not needed in the stores," he told her, placing his hands behind his back and out of sight. "The festival is a week from Friday. Surely Miss Bailey and Miss Steppe still have that day off work."

Mamie's smile froze on her face, making her look like a giant, overblown Cabbage Patch doll. "Naturally. Please put down four attendees from The Glass Slipper." She glared at Meg, who was sure she'd hear about this once Harvard was no longer in earshot. "Please excuse me." With that, she turned and flounced out into the mall.

Meg and Harvard watched as the crowd parted to let her through. "That went better than I was expecting," he said once she'd turned the corner.

"Really?"

He sank into a chair and rubbed his temples. "I was sure she'd fight harder about letting you and Whitney come."

The last customers were scurrying down the hallway, and Meg pulled down the security gate and locked the door. "What exactly are we attending again? I'm afraid I didn't get to see the invite before Mamie started drooling over her future son-in-law."

Harvard grimaced. "You could be struck dead for saying things like that. For your information, we're throwing a festival a week from Friday, in the park behind the mall. It should be lots of fun," he added when he saw Meg's skeptical look. "Jugglers, acrobats, carnival games, elephant ears, fortune tellers . . ."

"Kissing booths?" she asked, and grinned when he pulled a face in disgust.

"No kissing booths." He got to his feet and walked toward her. "Any kissing I do will be free and completely voluntary. Would you like a sample?"

Meg's ears started ringing, and when he touched his index finger to her bottom lip she could feel her head tilting back. "I never kiss on a first date," she stuttered.

"Then I guess it's good that we've had several."

He leaned in closer still and whispered, "So can I put you down as a 'yes' for the festival?"

At this point Meg would have agreed to move to Antarctica if he'd asked her. "Yes," she whispered back.

Harvard's eyes dropped to her lips. "Good," he breathed. His hand fell to her shoulder, inching her closer still, and –

"Meg? Did you sign for these boxes by the stairs?"

Meg jumped away from Harvard, and he blinked a few times before shaking his head in confusion.

"Is everything okay?"

Whitney stood uncertainly in the doorframe. She glanced between them before she blushed furiously. "Oh. Oh. I'm so sorry. I'll be in the back if you need me," she stammered before stumbling backward and disappearing into the back room.

It took a second for Meg's mouth to catch up to her brain, and even then her words were pitched several keys higher than normal. "I need to – I'd better – I really should – "

Harvard ran his hand through his hair and cleared his throat. "Yeah, me too. Are we still on for this Friday?"

At her dazed nod, he smiled before sticking a finger into his collar and pulling it away from his neck. She wondered, through the haze that had taken over her grey matter, if he needed a new set of shirts. Either that or he was developing a nervous tick. She wasn't sure exactly what kind of doctor took care of things like that, but she added it to her growing list of medical professionals he needed to see.

"Good," he said, relief evident in his tone. "I'll see you then." He turned around and was a foot from the door when he remembered that she'd locked it. "I'll just let myself out the back." He grinned at her lopsidedly and almost sprinted through the shelves of shoes and out the door.

Meg, who hadn't moved since he'd stalked toward her a few minutes earlier, let her back fall against the counter. If almost kissing Harvard Kingston could be so mind-blowing, she was fairly sure she'd spontaneously combust if he actually did it.

Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.

*** *** ***

Harvard's phone rang just as he got his keys in the ignition, and he groaned when he saw the name flash on the display. "Hello, Mother."

"Darling!" she chirped. "How was your day?"

A grin exploded on his face so fast he was sure his jaws would unhinge. "Great. Absolutely fantastic."

Jillian didn't miss a beat. "So Meg agreed to go to the festival with you." It wasn't a question, the way mothers always ask questions that they already know the answers to.

"She might have." Harvard's grin got impossibly wider when his mother sighed into the phone. "All right, she did. Just a few minutes ago. And I'm making her dinner on Friday."

There was a long pause. "Sweetheart, you can't cook."

Harvard was mildly offended. "Yes, I can. How do you think I survived through college?"

"Well, I distinctly remember at least one case of salmonella poisoning and a frantic call about a stove on fire. You were making ramen noodles, I believe."

That made Harvard's excitement dim, but only slightly. "That was a long time ago," he said loftily, pulling out into traffic. "I've had a lot of time to perfect my culinary skills since then."

Jillian obviously thought his line of reasoning left a lot to be desired. "I'd better come out there and take care of things for you," she decided, tapping her fingers against the receiver. "Otherwise Meg may kick you out of her house, assuming you haven't killed her, and I'll never be able to buy all those cute little outfits all my friends insist on shoving in my face every time one of their offspring brings a baby home from the hospital."

Harvard groaned inwardly. No wonder Jillian was getting on his father's nerves. She'd only been on the phone for forty-five seconds and already he was beginning to wish cell phones had never been invented. "Mother, please. I can take care of it. By myself," he stressed when Jillian's tapping got faster.

"You seem awfully sure of yourself. She must have succumbed to the Kingston charm. Did you kiss her?"

Harvard's mind flew back to the scene in Meg's shop just thirty minutes earlier and his fingers relaxed around the steering wheel. "Not quite," he sighed. "One of her co-workers interrupted us."

"Harvard Dartmouth Kingston!" Her voice was scandalized. "Since when do you go around kissing girls in public? Haven't I taught you anything about proper romancing?"

Sometimes his mother could be terribly old-fashioned. It was probably good that she didn't know how many girls had 'succumbed to the Kingston charm' -- in public, no less. "Mom, I don't think she minded." He let his mind replay the moment his hand drifted to her shoulder and jumped when the person behind him honked angrily. He snapped back to attention and concentrated on getting home.

"It doesn't matter if she minded or not. I hardly think a shop is the right place to kiss the Girl of Your Dreams for the first time. Honestly, Harvard. And you call yourself a romantic."

He didn't, actually, and wondered how in the world she'd made it sound like half the words in her speech were capitalized. "I'll try to do better next time," he said a little unsurely. Maybe his mom had a point. Meg did deserve romance and flowers and all that other stuff girls got all excited about. All of a sudden cooking dinner on Friday appeared more daunting than he was willing to admit – at least to his mother.

"Make sure you do. Oh, and I have bad news."

"Oh?" he said absently, parking his car in front of the house so Meg could have the driveway. "What's that?"

Jillian sighed heavily. "I won't be able to make it to the festival after all. Your father suddenly remembered a charity function he promised we'd attend six months ago."

Harvard made a mental note to send Joseph a case of his favorite golf balls. "That's too bad," he said as genuinely as he could. "It won't be the same without you."

"Really? I suppose I could tell Joseph to go by himself just this once if you need me – "

Harvard interrupted her before she could get too carried away. "I think we'll survive, Mother," he told her. "Besides, I'll see you in July. Unless you're coming to the next event."

"No," she said in distaste. "That's all your father's doing. I know he was planning on staying home, but I have a feeling that he'll change his mind."

She was probably right. "Have fun at your charity gig," he said. "I'm glad it's you and not me."

"Some things never change," she said affectionately. "I'm hoping Meg can make you see that getting all dressed up for a party isn't as bad as you think."

"She's amazing, but no one's that good."

Jillian just laughed. "You never know," she said. "You also told me a long time ago that you'd never listen to the oldies."

Harvard noticed that she didn't mention Peggy Lee by name, and was grateful for minor miracles. It was also to her credit that only a trace of motherly perception (along with a smidge of irony) escaped over the phone.

*** *** ***

"You're late."

Mamie's voice drifted into the back room the next morning as Meg shrugged out of her jacket, and she almost turned around and went home. It never boded well when Mamie beat her into the shop.

"Did you hear me, Meg Bailey?"

Sighing, Meg gave a last, longing look at her escape route and shuffled her way into the front of the shop. To her surprise, Brittany was sitting in front of the cash register, flicking through a fashion magazine while her mother paced around, glaring at shoes like they were the cause of all her problems.

"It's about time. Have your legs been fused together, girl? You move as fast as – "

"A penguin on downers," Brittany said absently. Meg stifled a snort of laughter. Perhaps there was a shred of Mr. Steppe in Brittany's genetic makeup after all.

Mamie ignored her daughter. "I would have thought you'd be in here at the crack of dawn, considering all the extra tasks you still have to complete."

Meg smiled broadly and took the list Mamie had given to her out of her skirt pocket. "Do you mean this list? I was about halfway through it when I found out that Whitney's father was a college professor." A look of dawning realization and horror spread across Mamie's face. "I was bound to find out sooner or later," she continued, knowing she would probably regret enjoying Mamie's discomfort so much but not really caring.

Mamie glared at her with narrowed eyes. "Brittany," she snapped. "Get me a large coffee. Black."

Brittany opened her mouth to argue but decided against it after one look at her mother's expression. She danced past Meg on her way out, sing-songing, "Someone's in trouble" under her breath and grinning wickedly.

The two women stared at each other. A detached portion of Meg's mind wondered when they were supposed to draw their weapons, and when they did, if Mamie was planning on fighting civilly.

"Do you know what makes me unhappy, Meg Bailey?" Mamie's voice was cold when she finally spoke. It made Meg shiver.

"Insubordination?"

That may not have been the wisest thing to say. "Ingratitude," Mamie barked, her nostrils flaring. "I've tried to be nice to you, Meg Bailey. I've done everything I could to make sure you were happy and content here at the store." Mamie pretended not to notice Meg's snort of disbelief. "But now I'm afraid you leave me no choice." She stalked toward the gate and rapped on it, tapping her foot impatiently while Meg pulled it open. Then she grabbed Meg's elbow and marched her through the empty mall, stopping in front of a discount shoe store that looked like the manager had been on vacation since the middle of the Cold War.

The gate was already up and Mamie took a step toward it. Before she could get her foot over the threshold a small woman with a greasy bun materialized in front of her. "Mamie Steppe," she greeted sourly. "It's been a long time."

Mamie smiled a smile that made the hairs on the back of Meg's arms stand on end. "Meg Bailey, this is Susan Platt. I'm about to acquire her shop."

Meg took an involuntary step backward. "Another shop?"

The look on Susan Platt's face answered her question. "Yes, another shop," the woman said in disgust. "It seems like no one is safe from the Steppes these days. The papers won't be ready to sign until noon," she told Mamie, crossing her arms in front of her chest and scowling. "So unless you're here to tell me you've changed your mind, get off my property."

A sound almost like a purr emanated from Mamie. "I don't change my mind about these things." She was way too smug for her own good, Meg noted, and took another step back. "I'm here to teach a little lesson. You see, Meg Bailey, as much as you hate working for me, I do have ways to end your troubles. And as much as it'd pain me to do so, I'd be willing to help you find the happiness you deserve."

Susan cleared her throat. "I have work to do," she said pointedly. "Take your employment problems somewhere else."

"Oh, but Ms. Platt, you're the key to my plan." Mamie put a viselike grip on Meg's shoulder. "If she can't perform her tasks to my satisfaction, I'll have to assume that I am a poor employer. And the only thing to do, I'm afraid, would be to sell her precious shop. You wouldn't happen to know anyone interested in purchasing a high-end shoe store, would you, Ms. Platt?"

Meg felt the blood drain from her face. Susan's, however, lit up like she'd just won eternal youth. "You can't do that," Meg mouthed, unable to make any sound.

Mamie's grip on her shoulder tightened. "Oh, but I can, my dear. And while I may not be able to fire you, Ms. Platt would have no reason to let you stay." Her eyes bored into Meg's. "Do I make myself clear?"

Meg swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Perfectly," she croaked out.

Mamie's teeth glittered when she smiled. "And don't forget that you have an hour for lunch every day, as well as Fridays off. I'd hate for anyone to think that I was a bad boss and made you work straight through seven days of work. Not that anyone cares, but we must keep up appearances."

"Right," Meg whispered. Her mind was disturbingly blank.

Mamie gave her shoulder one last squeeze before she let go and turned to Susan. "Ms. Platt, what exactly would you offer me . . . "

Meg turned around and fled through the mall, her hands over her mouth to keep her scream inside. If she'd thought Mamie was horrid before, she now knew she'd had no idea exactly how evil she could be. Mamie would never sell The Glass Slipper, she told herself over and over. It was her first shop – and it made her more money than all her other stores combined. It'd be pure stupidity to dump it just because of a grudge.

Wouldn't it?

*** *** ***

The next few days were a blur of interviews and meetings. Harvard rarely had time to stop by The Glass Slipper, and on the few occasions that he pulled himself away from his duties to peek into his favorite shoe store Meg was always either helping a steady stream of customers or sequestered away in the back room and couldn't come out.

He did, however, see her at lunch when they were both in the food court. He'd found that most shop owners – at least the females -- preferred to talk to him over food. When Kyle from security had mentioned that every time Harvard purchased a woman a meal they felt justified in calling it a date, he'd groaned and stared at his list of names, doing some internal math. And then he groaned again. He didn't have much time, thanks to his parents, so lunch appointments were his best bet. "I'm going to have half the mall population thinking I'm dating them," he muttered, and scowled when Kyle clapped him on the back.

Meg was sitting next to the window when he entered the food court on Monday, and he positioned himself so he could see her out of the corner of his eye. At least he'd have her laughing eyes to look at while he listened to inane chatter from his dining companion. Sure enough, when his first interview of the day appeared, all heaving, scantily clad bosom and heavily painted lips, he caught Meg smirking at him. She raised her eyebrows at the woman's back and laughed into her sandwich. It took all his concentration not to blow his straw wrapper at her head, but he smiled and chatted and let the poor woman scrawl her phone number on a napkin – with her lipstick, naturally -- which he threw in the trash after she'd giggled her way into the main portion of the mall, just in time for his next appointment to nearly hyperventilate when she caught him winking at Meg. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he wasn't winking at her.

This scene repeated itself over and over for the next few days. Harvard was beginning to wonder why it seemed like all the shops in his mall were owned by women. He could have sworn that his list was predominately male. Surely they weren't all sending him their daughters . . .

By the time Thursday arrived Harvard was sick and tired. Sick, because after four days of mall fare he was relatively sure the grease he was ingesting was eating a hole in his intestinal wall, and tired because . . . well, that seemed pretty obvious to him. If one more girl 'dropped' her napkin on the floor so she'd have to bend over to retrieve it he might pass an ordinance saying that everyone who worked in the Brothers Mall had to be covered from head to toe in dense fabric. Maybe even burlap.

What he couldn't figure out, though, was why Meg was looking increasingly exhausted.

She also seemed more and more disgruntled. As his second interview of the day appeared in front of him Thursday afternoon and he stood up to greet her, Meg's eyes slid away from him and she stared out the window. He was beginning to think there was a zebra crossing the street outside when he spotted her fingers shredding her brown paper bag into pieces so small they looked like confetti. And when the current girl – Tammy? Terry? he had to check his notes to be sure – giggled and dropped her spoon twice Meg left without sparing a glance in his direction, her lunch left untouched on the table.

He got home Thursday night after an interview at a bar with a man who had all the qualifications he was looking for, but when Harvard asked him what he liked about the mall the guy sighed and looked away, and Harvard's shoulders dropped as he watched him walk to his car a few minutes later.

Meg still wasn't home when he parked in front of the house, and he frowned and glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven. He put the key back in the ignition to go looking for her when he heard a knock on his window.

"Is Meg with you?" Charley demanded, scowling when Harvard shook his head and got out of the car. "I texted her a while ago asking when she was going to leave the shop, and she didn't really answer. I think something's going on."

Harvard put his hands behind his head and stretched out his shoulders as they walked up the front steps. "She's usually home by now."

"I know that, Stalker." Charley rolled his eyes.

"The woman lives above me. I can hear her walking around up there. And stop calling me a stalker. I'm just . . . observant. With good hearing."

Charley snorted at this. "A rose by any other name, man."

Harvard chose to pretend he'd momentarily become deaf, and they sat on the top step staring at the street with nothing too see. It seemed like a small eternity before Charley said, "She could be avoiding you, you know. That's how Meg deals with unpleasant situations. She pretends they don't exist."

Harvard felt a little offended. He'd never been called an 'unpleasant situation' and he wasn't too keen to have it start now. "I haven't done anything to her," he retorted stiffly before squirming on the stone steps. He'd thought Meg was reciprocating his . . . advances in her shop the other day, but maybe he'd read her wrong. That idea bothered him more than he thought it would.

"So you didn't almost kiss her in front of a mall full of people?"

"It was closed," Harvard snapped, "and – hey, wait a second. How do you know about that?"

Charley leaned back on his elbows. "I saw you, Mr. Tall, Dark and Interrupted. For a man who's supposed to possess all these womanizing ways, you sure aren't slick."

Harvard cursed under his breath. He really should have thought before getting so close to her, but there she'd stood, all laughing mouth and dancing eyes, and it was like his brain had been tuned to the Meg frequency and he couldn't stop himself. He hadn't wanted to stop himself.

A nudge in his ribs made him twitch, and Charley laughed quietly. "Don't worry," he said, slapping the other man on the shoulder. "She didn't mind."

They lapsed into silence again. Harvard couldn't keep his eyes from straying down the street every six seconds. "Meg's been looking really tired lately," he muttered. "You don't suppose . . . "

Charley sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. "No," he said slowly, "she's just been spending a ton of time in the store. I don't know why. They haven't been any busier than usual."

"Then why all the long hours?"

Charley thought about this for a minute. "I don't know," he repeated. "But I bet it has something to do with Mamie Steppe."

"You think everything that happens to Meg has something to do with Mamie."

Charley looked at Harvard pityingly. "You've met the woman," he stated. "Can you tell me anything different?"

He had a point, Harvard thought. "But what can we – "

Without warning Charley got to his feet and peered down the road. "Here she comes," he said with some relief. "Get in the house. Meg'll have our hides if she finds us waiting out here for her in the middle of the night." He hopped over the hedge as Harvard scrambled to his feet. "Keep your eyes open," Charley called, his voice drifting across the lawn. "And your hands to yourself!"

The last thing Harvard heard before he shut the door behind him was Charley's faint laughter.

He was too tired to plan a way to catch Charley with Whitney at an inopportune time. He kind of thought it wouldn't be that hard to do, given the sappy expression on the man's face whenever she was singing. Or laughing. Or breathing.

He also needed to devise a foolproof dinner plan that didn't involve either chicken (the cause of the salmonella, and his mother had been wrong – he'd had it twice) or noodles.

And he needed to figure out how to get Meg to tell him what was going on at The Glass Slipper.

That may be the toughest one of all.

*** *** ***

Meg woke up Friday morning feeling about the same as she had the night before when she'd stumbled up the stairs and into her bed, fully clothed.

Absolutely wretched.

She lay in bed and tried to fall back asleep, but she could hear movement in the apartment below her and smashed her face into her pillow, cursing the day Harvard Kingston set foot in the state of Michigan.

Well, not really, she told herself glumly. Even though their first meeting had been less than stellar, she couldn't quite bring herself to wish it had never happened.

And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.

How could a guy almost kiss a girl – and he would have, too, if it hadn't been for Whitney's poorly-timed interruption – and then the very next day go and have lunch dates with two other women?

It wouldn't be so bad, she thought as she squeezed her eyes shut to keep the images of all those girls fawning over Harvard out of her mind, if it hadn't happened every day that week.

All right, never mind that last bit. It just made it worse.

Whitney was puttering around the kitchen when Meg stumbled, freshly showered, into the kitchen. "What's wrong?" Whitney asked, looking her over. "You look like you haven't slept in days."

There were so many answers to that question that Meg hardly knew where to start. Between Mamie's threat to sell the shop and Harvard's dating practices, it wasn't like her mind-set had been blissfully clear.

"It's Harvard, isn't it," Whitney said before Meg could decide which subject to bring up first. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened Sunday. I should have checked before I walked in that day."

Meg rubbed her eyes. "Whitney. We've been over this a dozen times. Please don't worry about it."

Whitney looked unconvinced but didn't pursue it. "Well, then what's the problem? Are you anxious for a repeat?" She shot a sly look at Meg out of the corner of her eye.

"No." Meg took a bowl out of the cupboard and slapped it on the counter. "Not at all."

Whitney waited until she'd sat at the table with her breakfast before saying anything else. "Are you losing sleep over the fact that Harvard's pretending to be a player?"

Meg didn't look up. "I don't think 'pretending' is the right word."

"Oh, I think he's got his eyes set on someone in particular," Whitney said, and smiled when Meg scowled at her. "His main problem is that he's too gorgeous for his own good. Someone needs to break his nose for him."

Meg let out a surprised bark of laughter. "You've been hanging around Charley too much."

Whitney shrugged, but not before her cheeks turned pink. "It's true," she said, and checked on something in the oven. "I've seen the way the girls in the stores look after him. It's like they're piranhas who've just been given fresh meat. For all we know they've resorted to hypnotizing the poor guy."

Meg snorted. "Right. And I guess the only way to break the spell is for him to kiss a beautiful princess."

Whitney laughed. "I hardly think he'd be opposed to the idea. You should offer and see what happens. Maybe all the other girls will disappear in a cloud of heavily perfumed smoke." The oven timer beeped, and she pulled a large puffed pancake out. She sliced a piece and slid it across the table. "I've got to go. I told Charley I'd bring him breakfast as a thank you for the driving lessons. Oh, and you dropped some papers when you got in last night." She pointed her chin toward the far counter. "What were you doing out so late, anyway?"

The plate in front of Meg suddenly seemed very interesting. "Just puttering around," she mumbled, knowing that Whitney would see through her vague answer. "You know, a little organizing . . . "

Whitney stood in the middle of the kitchen and looked at her friend quizzically. "You've been 'organizing' for the past week," she said bluntly. "What's up? Are we being audited? Although why any auditor would need to see the storage room is beyond me. Wait," she said, her eyes widening. "Are you trying to avoid Harvard?"

It would be so easy to let Whitney think that, but Meg couldn't bring herself to lie to her first girlfriend. "No," she told her. "I'm not avoiding anyone."

"Hmm. Well, I'd stay and grill you some more but I've got to go. I'll talk to you when I get back." She gave Meg a look that clearly meant, 'and we'll continue this conversation whether you like it or not'.

Meg finished her pancake slowly. She suddenly needed a reason to be out of the house. She grabbed the papers Whitney had left for her and headed toward the family room, stopping when she read the one on top. Mr. Shumacher from The Warbling Bird Assisted Living Center called for Daisy Duke. She'd gathered all her weird-old-man notes and brought them home, thinking they were just too funny to leave at the shop. They must have fallen out of her purse when she dropped it by the door . . .

As soon as she finished reading the note she knew where she was going that morning.

*** *** ***

Unfortunately, Mr. Shumacher was not available. "I'm sorry," the girl – Lucy, according to her name tag -- at the front desk said almost fearfully when Meg asked for him. "But he's no longer with us."

"He's been moved somewhere else?" This surprised Meg slightly, but she had never had a reason to be in an assisted living center before and had no idea how they worked.

"Well, I guess you could say that . . . " Lucy's eyes flickered to a door to the right that was labeled 'manager' before she smiled weakly and took a deep breath. "I'm afraid Mr. Shumacher, bless his soul, has . . . um, he's . . . "

All of a sudden Meg understood. "He's died," she said matter-of-factly.

Lucy sagged in relief. "Yeah."

"But he called the shop just two weeks ago," Meg said. "When did he pass away?"

"Two weeks ago." Lucy didn't hesitate.

"Right," Meg said slowly. "I guess that makes sense."

Lucy looked a little sad. "You're the lady from the shoe store, aren't you. I remember talking to you." She glanced down at Meg's feet and sighed dreamily. "I love your shoes. Maybe I'll come in after I get my paycheck and get me some of those."

Meg absently handed her a business card. "Call first to make sure I'm there. My name's Meg. The current owner has a different idea of fashion than I do."

Lucy's expression turned serious, and she winked solemnly, making Meg laugh. "Right," she said slowly. "I get it. I'm sorry I didn't have good news about Mr. Shumacher."

Meg couldn't resist asking, even though she was pretty sure it was inappropriate. "What happened to him?"

Lucy looked around and leaned closer. "It was his heart," she whispered. "I don't know exactly what happened, but it was rather sudden."

"I thought he was sick," Meg said, tapping her fingers on the counter and trying to remember what Mr. Shumacher has sounded like. "I could have sworn he was on a respirator."

"Oh, he was." Lucy nodded. "But his thumper was okay for an eighty-nine-year-old man."

Meg shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry I was too late to come see him. He sounded pretty lively over the phone; I was looking forward to meeting him."

Lucy looked past Meg and straightened up. "He didn't have very many visitors. Just that Daisy lady." She smiled apologetically.

"That's okay. Thanks for the help."

And with that Meg's foray into the world of assisted living centers was over.

The thought of going home (and possibly facing Whitney's game of ask-Meg-pointed-questions-until-she-spills-her-guts) wasn't very appealing, but after wandering around for the rest of the morning Meg found herself turning down her street and into her driveway. Whitney's car was gone, and Meg thanked the god of picked-on roommates for granting her a few extra hours of peace. She thanked him again when she saw Whitney's note on the kitchen table saying that she'd be out with Charley for the rest of the day.

Harvard hadn't told her what time to be ready for dinner, and even though she knew she should call him, she just couldn't bring herself to do it. She grimaced as images of kissy-faced women gave him their phone numbers. For all she knew he'd forgotten the whole thing.

Ah, her internal Whitney-voice said. Do you want him to forget?

"Shut up," she said crossly. "I don't care what Harvard Kingston does with his spare time."

Liar, liar, pants on fire, sang the imaginary Whitney.

"I'm not lying!"

The voice didn't return, but Meg felt twitchy the rest of the afternoon.

She changed her clothes into something that looked very businesslike on the off chance that Harvard would show up at some point, ambled around the apartment a few times, and picked up things that weren't out of place. Finally she gave an exasperated sigh, threw down an innocent throw pillow, and escaped outside. Her father had built a small deck next to her front door, and she flopped onto her swing and tried not to listen for sounds coming from the apartment below her.

When Harvard found her there an hour later, she was fast asleep.

*** *** ***

Harvard was never cooking again.

He'd found the perfect kitchen appliance. A crock pot had seemed foolproof at the time – just dump the ingredients in the thing and leave it alone. (It was the 'leave it alone' idea that had really hooked him.) And there was the added benefit that he didn't even have to be in the kitchen to use the thing. He could plug it into his bathroom socket if he wanted.

But the thing that emerged from his brand new, state-of-the-art crock pot didn't look anything like the picture in the cookbook. In fact, it resembled the hind quarters of one of those weird pink-bottomed monkeys that threw unmentionable things at each other at the zoo.

There was no way he could serve that to Meg if he couldn't even stomach looking at it.

He stared at his dining room table and thought fast. Unfortunately, the only solution he came up with was a frozen pizza. (It would be hard to explain the pizza delivery guy, or the box, or the lack of succulent pizza smells, or . . .)

His finger was halfway to tugging his collar away from his neck when he remembered he wasn't wearing a collared shirt, and he groaned. It was already a quarter after six, and Meg was most likely either angry or had given up on him and was making her own meal.

That thought wasn't as bad as it sounded. Maybe he could man up, confess his absolute ineptitude in the kitchen, and beg her to make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

He was halfway to his door when the doorbell rang. He sprinted toward it, half expecting to see Meg, but instead was faced with an older, smiling woman.

In a frilly apron.

And, best of all, carrying a box filled to the brim with things that smelled both edible and divine.

"You must be Harvard," she said, and handed him the box before pushing her way past him. "I'm Ruby."

Ruby? Harvard mouthed. "Should I know you?" he called as he trailed after her.

"Jillian rang me this morning and told me you might need a little help with dinner. Where's the kitchen?" Without waiting for a reply, Ruby headed down the hall.

Under normal circumstances Harvard would have cursed his mother for interfering in his personal life, but all he could feel was an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He'd have to include a case of Belgian chocolates with his dad's golf balls.

"Harvard!"

He jumped and almost dropped the box when he looked behind him for his mother.

"Harvard! Hurry up before the food gets cold!"

How could women of a certain age all sound the same when they were ordering their (or their friend's) children around? Harvard ran to the kitchen. "I'm sorry, Miss Ruby. And thank you so much."

She was standing by his defunct crock pot, her lips pursed. "What is this?"

He dumped his precious box next to her and took a deep breath. "It was supposed to be a roast."

Ruby craned her neck closer to it and peered inside. "Whatever did you do to it? Never mind," she said when she saw Harvard's pained expression. "Something tells me I don't want to know. Now, get cracking. Put the rolls in the oven to warm for ten minutes; that way the house will smell nice and yeasty. Where's your flour?"

Harvard had never bought flour in his life. "Um . . . "

Ruby patted his arm. "Don't worry, honey. It's purely for aesthetic reasons." She started pulling things out of the box. "Ah, here we are." She pulled out a small container, dipped her fingers inside, and smudged them across Harvard's nose. "There you go. All set. Now, put this on the table and go get your girl. Feel free to let her think it was all your doing!" She winked at him, patted him on the bum, and sailed out like an angel of culinary mercy.

Ten minutes later Harvard was pounding up Meg's stairs. He stopped in his tracks when he saw her sleeping on the swing with her feet tucked underneath her.

The wind ruffled her hair and made her skirt shiver over the side of the swing. "I could come home to this every day without any problem," Harvard said to himself, and his eyes grew wide. Had he really just implied that he could marry this girl? He was years away from marriage. Wasn't he?

And he hadn't even kissed her yet. Not that he hadn't thought about it more times than was probably healthy, but still. Marriage? He'd only known her for three months!

The thought, however, was surprisingly comfortable. Even a little bit exciting.

His thoughts were interrupted when Meg shifted and her eyes fluttered open. She blinked at him a few times. "Harvard? What are you doing here?"

Had she forgotten their date? She must still be half asleep. Harvard leaned against the railing and tried to hide his marriage-induced nervousness.

"Oh." She didn't move.

"Are you ready to go downstairs?" This love business was for the birds. He'd never felt nearly this pathetic when picking up a girl before. Of course, they'd never looked at him the way Meg was staring at him now, either. "I'm here to collect you for dinner."

Meg uncurled herself from her seat and stood up, shaking her legs to get the sleep out of them. "Um . . . yeah. Hold on. I wasn't entirely expecting . . . " She wandered into the house, leaving a confused Harvard to wait for her.

He was still trying to figure out what she wasn't expecting when she came back out, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. He smiled a little more confidently and gestured to the steps. "Dinner awaits, milady." She didn't look at him before descending.

Dinner was . . . strange. Meg was politeness personified; she remarked on the flowers, ate everything with painstaking care (he half wondered if she was counting the number of times she chewed each bite) and even said it was one of the best chicken dishes she'd ever eaten. When she'd politely asked for the recipe he'd said something vague (and entirely truthful) about not having permission to give it out.

But when she politely placed her napkin on the table and politely thanked him for a lovely dinner, he'd had enough. "All right, Miss Bailey," he said crisply, thinking that he could play the nice game just as well as she could. "Would you like to tell me what's going on?"

Meg's eyes narrowed. "Nothing's going on, Mr. Kingston. I was just trying to be – "

"Polite. I know. You could win awards for your current level of polite." Man, he was getting sick of that word. He considered the legality of banning if from public speech in the mall.

Meg's expression turned frosty. "Maybe I should just go upstairs. Thank you again, Mr. Kingston."

That last 'Mr. Kingston' was all it took to make Harvard explode. "What's wrong with you?" he snapped, rising to his feet when she did. "Just five days ago we were speaking like civilized, rational human beings, and now, without warning, you've turned into a Stepford!"

"You should have 'stepford' down pat," she cried. "And just five days ago we were not speaking like rational human beings. You were trying to kiss me! And then you went and bought all those women lunch!"

"What?" Harvard didn't mean to yell that out but he was so exasperated he couldn't help it. "So I bought a bunch of women lunch. It's not like I'm going to marry all of them!"

Meg stared at him disbelievingly. Harvard stared back until the conversation he'd had with Kyle about this very subject made his eyes lose focus. What had Kyle said again? Every time you purchase a woman a meal she feels justified in calling it a date.

Crap.

Crap, crap, crap.

Hang on, though. Was Meg jealous?

A grin crept across his face no matter how hard he tried to stop it. When she saw it, Meg let out an infuriated noise and pushed her chair back so hard it fell on the floor.

"Hey, calm down," Harvard said, almost tripping over his own feet to get to her side before she could escape. "I wasn't dating those girls. It wasn't what it looked like. At all."

Meg leaned over and picked up her chair. When she straightened up again her face was calm. "You know, Harvard, I don't care what you do. But I have not been placed on this earth to be your – "

"Lunch is the easiest time to interview people," Harvard blurted out.

Her mouth was still open, but she blinked a few times before any sound came out. "Excuse me?"

Harvard took a deep breath. "One of my assignments for work is to talk to an employee from each of the stores," he told her, hoping she wouldn't ask him questions he couldn't answer. "It seems that most shop owners are sending me their daughters. Or nieces. Or single second cousins once removed." And in some cases wives, but that thought made him so squirrely that he couldn't voice it.

"And I supposed male shop owners are too busy to come and talk to you themselves."

He had nothing to say to that.

"So when are you going to interview someone from The Glass Slipper?"

"I already did, last week."

Harvard cursed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. They floated in the air between them and he watched in resignation as Meg's eyes widened and then narrowed.

"Last week," she said slowly. "You were interviewing me during our soup dinner, weren't you." It wasn't a question.

Wincing, Harvard sat down hard in Meg's chair. "I didn't mean to at first," he said, and rubbed his face. "I wanted to find out more about you and the logical place to start was work. Before I knew it the questions I'd compiled for my interviews were coming out. And it was much more pleasant to talk to you than to have to take Mamie or Brittany out to lunch." He grimaced.

Meg looked at a spot on the wall over his shoulder. "So how'd I do?"

Harvard rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. "Brilliantly."

The room was quiet for so long that Harvard began to think Meg had left. But when he raised his face, she was still standing there, staring at him with a quizzical look.

"Why – " She stopped and shook her head.

"I can't tell you," he said wearily. "I promised my firstborn child that no one would know before my dad had a chance to make his grand announcement."

All the fight seemed to drain out of Meg. "Please tell me you don't actually have a firstborn child hidden away somewhere."

He laughed weakly. "No. And for the record, I'm not dating any of those girls you saw me with in the food court. I'm too busy chasing you to have time for anyone else."

Meg blushed. "Flattery will not make me kiss you, Harvard."

Well, there went that idea. "How about flowers and chocolates?"

She shook her head, but she smiled her first genuine smile of the evening. "Nice try." She gathered up her dirty dishes before Harvard could stop her and went into the kitchen. When she reemerged her face was composed, but her eyes were laughing at him. "Your kitchen is remarkably clean for a man who's just cooked a gourmet meal," she said, and leaned down to brush her finger along his cheekbone. "The flour is a nice touch, by the way. You'll have to tell your chef that I appreciated all her hard work."

Harvard couldn't find it in himself to pretend he'd cooked. Not with her finger still touching his skin. "I will," he promised, and tried to get his wits together when her hand dropped to her side. "Shall we go into the family room? I think we need a change of scenery."

They sat on the couch, and Meg only raised her eyebrows at him when he reached over and placed her feet on his legs. He smiled rakishly at her and shrugged. "I don't have a whole lot of experience in chasing girls," he confided, running a finger up the inside of her foot and laughing to himself when it twitched. "You'll have to tell me when I mess up."

"I'm not sure which part of that statement to respond to first," she said drily, but rested her head against the pillows of the couch and smiled faintly.

So far, so good, Harvard thought. He'd have to phrase his next question very carefully. "How are things going at the shop? I haven't seen you around in a few days."

As soon as Meg tensed he knew he'd said something wrong. "Everything's fine," she said calmly. If he hadn't been holding her foot he would never have guessed that she was upset. "I've just been a little busy, that's all."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Her eyes opened, and for a second Harvard was sure she was going to tell him what was bothering her. "Nope. But thanks for asking."

They gazed at each other for a long second before Harvard dropped his eyes in defeat. "No problem. But you know I'm here if you need anything. Anything at all."

Meg smiled at him. "Are you sure you have no practice in chasing girls?"

As he was walking down her stairs later that evening, Harvard couldn't help but feel a little encouraged. Meg had given him all sorts of signals tonight, and he was very, very good at reading girls' signals. She hadn't told him that he was in over his head, she hadn't told him to get lost, and she definitely hadn't told him to take his lovesick heart and feed it to the seagulls.

Instead, she'd been jealous.

Now, jealousy was not the sort of emotion he wanted Meg to feel – after all, there was no contest between Meg and any woman in existence – but it did occur to him that behind every instance of jealousy lurked another emotion.

He wasn't going to call it love.

At least, not until he could convince Meg Bailey that falling in love with him was the best thing that could ever happen to him – er, her.

And he had a whopping seven weeks to do it in.

It was time to get serious.

Author's note: I know it's been more than two months. I'm sorry. My excuse is simple: baseball season. (And a lot of other stuff, but that's the one I'm going with.) I'll do my best to update sooner next time!