a good guy. I’m going to have to introduce you two.”
An alarm rang in Dena’s head. One of her reservations about moving into 14 Valentine Place had concerned her landlady’s occupation. Maddie had told her Leonie was a romance coach, but she had also assured her that her mother-in-law wasn’t the kind to try to do any matchmaking with her tenants. Now Dena wasn’t so sure Maddie had been right about that.
As if Leonie could read her mind, she said, “Don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to throw you two together with a couple of candles and some Barry Manilow music. I just meant you should know each other because you’re neighbors. I like to think that my tenants look out for one another.”
Dena gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to that conclusion.”
“It’s all right. I should have explained to you when you moved in just what it is a romance coach does. I help people put romance in their lives. Have you seen my column in the paper…Dear Leonie?”
Dena nodded.
“Then you know what kind of questions people bring to me about romance. I also teach a class on making relationships last. And I’m thinking about adding one on flirting.”
Dena thought, judging by the way Quinn Sterling had flirted with her, he’d be a good resource, but she didn’t tell Leonie that.
“I also do one-on-one counseling. When it comes to romance, some people really don’t have a clue, and sometimes all they need is a little push in the right direction. My goal has always been for people to discover the joy romance can bring. There’s nothing more wonderful than the right somebody to love.”
Dena didn’t want to tell her that so far that particular pleasure had evaded her. Not that she was looking for it. The romantic relationships she’d had thus far had suited her just fine. Not exactly romantic, but they hadn’t left her brokenhearted, either.
“So you see, Dena, I’m really not a matchmaker,” Leonie concluded.
She smiled in relief. “That’s good to hear. I’m really not looking for the right somebody to love.”
She held up one hand. “I understand. I told you when you moved in that I regard all of my tenants as just that—tenants. Their personal lives are their own, as is mine. When we’re in this house, we’re simply friends. Fair enough?”
Dena nodded. She could see why Maddie had come to regard Leonie as a mother long before she’d married Dylan. Dena knew it would be tempting to let this woman mother her, especially since her own mother had never really filled that role.
“Now, back to Quinn. With all the Cougar road trips, it’s no surprise the two of you haven’t met,” Leonie said thoughtfully.
“We both have busy schedules, I’m sure.”
Leonie nodded. “And he keeps to himself. I know Krystal talks with him occasionally, but then Krystal can get anyone to talk. Quinn values his privacy. It’s one of the reasons he lives here. With the success he’s had, he could afford a fancy penthouse apartment anywhere, yet he chose to rent the third floor of my house.”
“This is a lovely place,” Dena told her. “It has a charm you don’t find in newer housing.”
“Why, thank you, Dena. I’m glad you like it here.”
“I do.” It was the truth. She’d had her reservations about sharing a bath and the kitchen with the other tenants, but she’d discovered that Maddie had been right. There was something about the big old Victorian house that made her feel comfortable.
“I figured if you were a good friend of Maddie’s that you’d fit in with us,” Leonie said with a twinkle in her eye.
Dena was beginning to think she would, too. At least with Krystal and Leonie. As for the man upstairs…she guessed it really didn’t matter whether they liked each other. He was never around, and once she got the hockey stick she could forget about him, which reminded her she still had to get the auction item.
“If Dylan’s a private person, I probably shouldn’t bother him about the stick,” Dena commented.
“I don’t think he’ll see it as a bother, but if you’d like, I could ask him for you.”
Dena said a prayer of thanks right then and there. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Leonie took a sip of her coffee, then said, “No, not at all. I’ll see what I can do.”
TRUE TO HER WORD, Leonie talked to Quinn. The very next day when Dena arrived home from work, she found a hockey stick propped against her door. Attached to it was a note that said, “Leonie told me about the auction for the Jorgensons. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.” It was simply signed with a capital Q.
Leonie knew she needed to thank the man. Taking a deep breath, she took the stick and climbed the stairs to the third floor. To her relief, there was no answer to her knock on his door, and she went back to her apartment, where she studied the signature on the hockey stick.
The writing was bold and confident, the Q a big flamboyant circle compared to the rest of the letters, which weren’t much more than a series of upward strokes and wavy humps. His entire name was underscored.
She propped the stick against the wall, then sat down at her desk. She pulled a note card from the drawer and began to write.
“Mr. Sterling, Thank you so much for the auction donation for the Aaron Jorgenson benefit. It was very kind of you and your generosity is appreciated. Sincerely, your neighbor, Dena Bailey.”
She went back upstairs and slipped the note beneath his door.
The next day, when she brought the stick with her to work, it raised more than a few eyebrows of admiration. As the auction drew nearer and other donations arrived, Dena was confident that hers would bring the highest bid. Unfortunately, she was disappointed. As much as the fans in St. Paul loved Quinn Sterling, they were willing to pay more for lunch with the lovely Channel 8 news anchor than for an authentic, autographed hockey stick by their hometown hero.
Dena had hoped that her donation to the auction would get the creative director’s attention, but other than a personal thank-you note, it didn’t. What it did do, however, was give her a small amount of fame. Male co-workers made a habit of stopping by her cubicle to inquire about her neighbor.
Her popularity, however, was short-lived, and within a few days, it was business as usual. She forgot about the man who lived upstairs from her, and she put all of her energy into her fast-approaching deadline.
CHAPTER TWO
IT HAD BEEN A GRUELING ROAD TRIP. Quinn was tired and his body ached. He’d been tripped, elbowed, punched and banged into the boards during the past three games, and he could feel it in his muscles and bones. In addition to a black eye, he had a bandage on his cheek and a contusion on his right quadriceps. Hazards of the trade, he told himself as he dragged his weary body up the stairs to his apartment.
Judging by the way his body felt, he would have thought there were only a couple of weeks of the regular season left, not two months. Maybe it was age catching up with him. He was, after all, on the wrong side of
