Straddling the Line - By Sarah M. Anderson Page 0,49

all the books that surrounded it in the middle of the library shelves. As Josey got closer, her first impression was of bright, California sun. The woman pictured had the kind of blond hair that came straight from a beach and a wide smile. The angle of her body made it look like she was sitting at a table or something, smiling up at the viewer. She was young and beautiful.

“It’s a lovely portrait,” Josey said, trying her darnedest to focus on the artistic merit of the piece and ignore whatever irrational jealousy she felt toward the woman who had earned the right to sit on Ben’s shelf.

“It’s my mother.”

Josey jumped. She’d been so absorbed in the art that she hadn’t heard him come up next to her. She glanced at him. Bare feet, wet hair, gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans. How could he possibly look any better in a tux than he did right now?

“She’s lovely.” Josey studied the face. “You have her eyes.”

Ben wrapped her up in a hug. She loved how she fit with him, how his chin rested on her forehead, how his arms seemed to belong around her waist. When he was near, what seemed big and spooky about his apartment suddenly felt cozy and just right.

“Bobby looks more like her than I do.” He sounded resigned to the sibling rivalry.

“Dinner’s on the table! Byeeeee!” At the far end, a door clicked shut.

They were alone. Ben spun her around and kissed her.

“So,” she said, clearing her throat and trying to grasp everything that had happened in the past half hour. She wasn’t sure she was doing a very good job of it.

“So,” he agreed. For a moment, they stood there, arms around each other. It was a simple hug—the earth did not move and choirs did not sing—but Josey couldn’t help but feel a connection with Ben that she’d never felt with anyone before. Not even in bed.

“We should eat before it gets cold.” He took her hand and led her away from the kind eyes of his mother.

Dinner was indeed on the table. Twice-baked potatoes, spring greens, a homemade loaf of bread and something that looked like a cross between a roast and a Hostess Ho Ho. A bottle of red wine—a shiraz—was breathing on the table. The smells that had been lurking around the apartment hit Josey full-on. The crystal wine goblets caught the light of the taper candles and threw a warm glow around them. “You have a chef.” It was almost too much.

“Gina watches a lot of cooking shows. This is braciola, I think. It’s good.” He sliced the bread and then the meat. “How was the meeting at the university?”

Josey didn’t bother to hide her grin. He wasn’t asking it because he felt he was obligated. She could tell by the way that he watched her that he was actually interested. “Good.”

In between bites of some of the best—and flattest—steak she’d ever had, she told him that, because all of her supply problems had disappeared, she was now working on getting the program certified by the state.

He finished chewing and notched an eyebrow at her. “Let me guess. Don is the sticking point?”

The level of attention he paid to her was making her warm. “He’s provisionally certified. He has a year to complete several classes on child development. A fact that he has yet to learn.” And she wasn’t exactly looking forward to telling him.

“You should sell tickets to that conversation—like a fundraiser for the school. I’d buy one.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.” Ben regarded her with open curiosity. The room’s temperature seemed to go up another notch under the heat of that gaze. “What?”

“Are you certified?”

“No. I’m not a teacher.”

“You’re a corporate fundraiser. Except I don’t know what corporation needs to hold fundraisers.” He turned his attention back to the braciola, making it seem like a casual question.

Josey knew better. Wine or no wine, she could tell when someone was fishing for information. “Depends on how you define corporate. Most hospitals are corporations, and a good many universities operate like one. I started out at the New York University Hospital. My grandfather was on the board.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. She could see him thinking, and she wondered which way he’d go—how she got here from NYU, or… “The same grandfather who left you in charge of a trust fund?”

“The very same.”

His smile was cryptic. “You don’t act anything like the trust-fund babies I’ve