The Man Upstairs (You, Me & The Kids) Read online

  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 thirty—at least for a hockey player. But he wouldn’t think about that now. He’d just had one of the best games of his career. There was no reason to think about that.

  Aware that it was close to three in the morning, he moved as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the other residents of the house. He grimaced as the stairs creaked with his weight.

  It was at times like this that he wondered if he’d made a mistake moving into 14 Valentine Place. Although it afforded him plenty of privacy, he’d been reluctant to accept Leonie Donovan’s offer to rent the third floor of the house, because he worried that his irregular hours might disturb her other tenants.

  She’d had no such reservations. Not that she would have expressed them if she had. Leonie had been like a second mother to him most of his life. As a teen he’d eaten just as many meals at her house as he had at his own. That’s why, when he’d been traded to the Minnesota team, she’d been one of the first people he’d contacted.

  “Shane is going to be so happy you’re coming home,” she’d gushed when he’d announced his return, hugging him as if he were one of her own children.

  So far he’d only seen Shane once—the day he’d moved into the house. They’d been the best of buddies as kids, but now it was evident that their lives had gone in very different directions. Shane’s life centered around his wife and son. Quinn’s life was hockey. Not that Shane wasn’t still interested in talking about the sport, but Quinn could see that the passion they’d once shared as kids was now a thing of the past.

  He didn’t understand it. Nothing had ever come close to replacing the love he had for the game of hockey. There was nothing like the sound of cold, hard steel cutting through ice, the clash of sticks sending the puck gliding across the rink, and the cheers of the crowd urging him on.

  Now the sound he heard was a loud thud, thud, thud. A thick glass mug that had been tucked in the side pouch of his duffel bag tumbled onto the floor, falling down the stairs like an errant hockey puck. It was a souvenir molded into the sha
pe of a western boot. The mug had been given to him by Smitty, the young goalie who’d bet him that he couldn’t shut down the shooters on the opposing team. Quinn had won the bet and the goalie had refilled the heavy glass half a dozen times as they’d sat in the bar celebrating the team’s victory.

  That had been on day one of their road trip. Today was day five and Quinn still had the mug. It had been dropped numerous times and knocked off several hotel tables, but nothing had caused it to break. As solid as a rock was how Smitty had described it, which was why he’d insisted Quinn take it home with him. It was how the goalie viewed Quinn—able to take a heck of a beating and not break.

  Now the glass boot was once again tumbling along the floor. Any hope that its clumping wouldn’t awaken his neighbors vanished when a light appeared beneath a door. Quinn knew he’d disturbed someone on the second floor.

  Within seconds a door opened. Staring at him with a startled look on her face was a woman. She wore a long-sleeved white T-shirt and a pair of red pajama bottoms that had tiny penguins all over them. Her blond hair hung in total disarray around her shoulders. Looking as if she’d just been awakened from a deep sleep, she stood in the doorway, her feet bare.

  Leonie had told him a new tenant had moved into Maddie’s old apartment. What his landlady hadn’t told him about the woman was that she was a sight for sore eyes. Not that she was beautiful in a Hollywood sort of way, because she wasn’t. What she had was a refreshingly natural look. His mother used to use the term “plain pretty,” and he’d never understood how someone could be plain and pretty, but now he knew what she meant.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a voice still husky with sleepiness, but also carrying a note of alarm.

  “I’m sorry. I was on my way upstairs and I dropped something.”

  “What?”

  “A mug. It’s at the bottom of the stairs,” Quinn answered, trying to figure out why it was that when she spoke he had the feeling they’d already met.

  She eyed the duffel bag over his shoulder suspiciously, then she focused on his face and grimaced. “Ooh. Your eye!”

  He knew his skin had darkened to a motley black and blue. “It looks worse than it feels.” He moved closer to her. “I know we haven’t met before, but you look familiar.”

  Self-consciously, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, then offered him her hand. “I’m Dena Bailey.”

  “Quinn Sterling.” He took the soft hand in his. It was warm.

  “Oh, of course.” As if it suddenly registered who he was, she said, “Quinn Sterling, my neighbor.” A tiny smile of embarrassment made her cheeks dimple. “You donated the hockey stick.”

  “I did.”

  “Thank you.” She shuffled her feet either in nervousness or because the floor was cold.

  “You’re welcome,” he said with a smile meant to put her at ease.

  “That stick was a very popular item.”

  “I’m glad.” He watched her, trying to gauge her reaction to learning his identity. He’d been a professional hockey player long enough to know that being Quinn Sterling could bring out the phoniness in a woman. So far, this woman didn’t appear to have a fake bone in her body. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Not quite a month. Why?”

  “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

  “I’m not here much,” she told him, then quickly added, “because of my work—I’m a graphic designer.”

  Leonie may have told him that but he didn’t remember. Come to think of it, he hadn’t paid much attention when she’d talked about the new tenant and her request for an autographed hockey stick. Now he wished he had.

  Dena stifled a yawn, then said, “I’m sorry. You’re really going to have to excuse me. I have to be at work at seven tomorrow and it is late.”

  So much for his concern that she might be a groupie eager to get to know him. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “It’s all right.” She dismissed his apology with a flap of her hand, then started across the hall.

  “Isn’t your apartment behind you?”

  She paused. “Yes, but the bathroom isn’t,” she answered. “Krystal and I share.”

  Bathroom. That was it. Now he knew where he’d seen her. The night of Maddie and Dylan’s wedding, she was the woman he’d seen in the men’s room at the hotel. “Were you at Dylan’s wedding?”

  Briefly her eyes widened, then she narrowed them again in a slumberous pose. “Yes, I was. Were you?”

  “You don’t remember seeing me there?”

  She gave him a blank look. “Do you remember seeing me?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he drawled, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face. “You are not a woman a man forgets, Dena Bailey.”

  He could see the compliment made her uncomfortable. She didn’t say another word but padded across the carpeted hallway into the washroom. He was tempted to wait for her, but judging by the way she’d looked at him, he didn’t think she’d appreciate finding him still there.

  So instead he went downstairs, picked up the mug and headed up to his own room, knowing there would be more opportunities to talk to her. She did, after all, live right below him. It was an intriguing thought.

  YOU ARE NOT a woman a man forgets. Quinn Sterling’s words echoed in Dena’s head long after she’d returned to bed. Had he spoken them because he meant he wouldn’t forget her being in the men’s room at Dylan and Maddie’s wedding? Or had he been coming on to her?

  She guessed it was a little of both. That sly grin had said, “We share a secret and I wouldn’t mind making a few more discoveries about you.” Even in her half-asleep state she hadn’t missed the gleam of interest in his eyes, although she wasn’t sure why he’d be curious about her.

  Not many men would find bed head and flannel pajamas a turn-on. And she certainly had sent no vibes his way. There was no reason to, especially not after watching the videotape of him in action on the ice.

  Big and bad. How many times had she seen that written about him? That black eye tonight certainly made him look bad. For all she knew he could have gotten it in a bar fight. And no one could say that it was his hockey gear that made him look big. Even out of uniform he was as wide as a football player and taller than most men.

  Yes, she could definitely see why some women would find him attractive. With his physical attributes he could probably make any woman a little weak-kneed—especially one who’d been awakened from a deep sleep in the middle of the night.

  Not that it mattered. If she were looking for romance—and she wasn’t—it wouldn’t be with a professional athlete. She could only imagine what it would be like to date someone who was constantly in the public eye and the object of groupies.

  No, someone like Quinn Sterling would be more work than the average guy. And she’d discovered a long time ago that that was what men were—work. They demanded her attention and they wanted her passion. All she wanted to be passionate about was her job. It consumed her energy, her emotions, and that’s the way she wanted it, because the payoff was an indescribable feeling of accomplishment. There was no greater satisfaction than having something she had created on display in the marketplace for the world to see. Guys would come and go in her life, but her designs had staying power.

  She looked again at the clock. In less than three hours she would have to get up and go into the office. She needed to stop thinking about her encounter with Quinn Sterling and go back to sleep, even if he was one of the most attractive men who’d ever flirted with her.

  The woman hasn’t been born yet who can tempt him to hang up his blades. The quote from the women’s magazine echoed in her mind. As if she’d try to get him to do anything. She bunched up her pillow and rolled over.

  She closed her eyes and forced her thoughts to the advertising campaign she’d been assigned to only yesterday. If she was going to lie awake in the middle of the night, she might as well think about something that would be of use to her fo
r her work. Quinn Sterling was not in her future. Soy nuts were. If she could think of a clever package for the honey-roasted product, she’d be one step closer to reaching her goal of making art director.

  As for the man who lived upstairs…it was unlikely that she’d run into him again. She’d lived at 14 Valentine Place for close to a month and had only seen him once. He was the kind of neighbor she wanted—out of sight and out of mind.

  WHEN DENA ARRIVED at work later that morning, Greg Watkins told her that Jack Kramer wanted to see her. Her heart beat faster in anticipation of the reason she’d been summoned to the creative director’s office. Always the optimist, she expected it to be good news.

  “Dena, come in and sit down,” he said when he saw her, gesturing to the Scandinavian-style chair next to his desk. “I wanted to tell you how pleased I am with your work so far. You’re doing a fine job here at Delaney.”

  She relaxed and smiled. “Thank you. That’s good to hear.”

  “I think you’re going to be a good fit for Delaney, and what I really like is that you’re a team player. That’s exactly what we need here. It’s the reason the Aaron Jorgenson benefit was a success.”

  “I’m happy I was able to do my part.”

  “As were so many generous people,” he said, obviously pleased. “That’s why we’ve decided to do another fund-raiser. Has Greg told you about our next project?”

  She shook her head and he continued. “We’re going to put together a calendar featuring distinguished alumni from the state’s high schools…a sort of look at the stars of Minnesota. Each month will feature a different celebrity.” He went on to name several prominent public figures who’d already agreed to be featured on the calendar. Included were a senator, a comedienne and two film stars.

  “It sounds like a wonderful idea for a fund-raiser,” Dena said. “Calendars are always popular.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Delaney Design will be donating the graphic designs, and we have several vendors, including a printer, who have offered to donate their services and supplies at either a reduced fee or for no charge at all. That means we should be able to put the calendar together at a very low cost.”