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
