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her way into anything. For just a moment she lamented the idea of being good, of taking God’s word to heart and soul, and considered smacking him with an outrageous price so he’d take his appreciative gaze and business-savvy self elsewhere. She hesitated, wishing she could do that, knowing she couldn’t. “Six hundred a month. Plus utilities.”
    â€œDone.” He stuck out a hand. “Do you have a lease handy?”
    She nodded. “On my side. Come this way.” She led the way back down the stairs and around to a second entrance. She opened the door and proceeded up the inner stairway to a slightly more spacious apartment than his. She watched as he glanced around, surprised. “I expected different.”
    â€œThan?”
    He waved a hand. “This. This is fun. Modern. Kind of funky.”
    She eyed the mix of bright-toned pillows, flowers and casual corduroy seating, then laughed at the expression on his face. “You thought I’d have a wood-burning stove, perhaps? A spindle? A straw mattress on the wood floor?”
    He grinned, then shrugged. “An understandable mistake, Miss Russo. And might I add you look just as good in denim as you did in calico.”
    â€œNormal men don’t know materials. You realize that, right?”
    He flashed the smile again, the one that appeared open and honest, engaging and appealing. Key word: appeared.
    â€œMy grandmother quilts. Beautiful stuff. She uses calico and ginghams a lot. And plain colors. But she’s partial to calico.”
    Megan nodded. So was she, truth be told. But it would seem weird to deck out her apartment in too many old-fashioned things. Like she was caught in the past or something.
    A house would be different. Someday she’d live in a sweet old colonial that hadn’t been split into multiple units, raise a bunch of kids, bake cookies, make candy for her own brood and welcome her husband home every night.
    She faced Danny. “Rent is due by the first of the month.”
    He grinned. “Which makes me late already. Here you go.” He bent and filled out a check drawn on a local bank. She frowned and raised an eyebrow toward him.
    â€œYou don’t live here.”
    â€œNo, but I opened a local account for business purposes before I came down. Makes things easier because, as you noted this morning, not every business down here uses plastic.”
    She accepted the check, scanned the amount, noted that it was for two months and gave him a brisk nod. “Thank you, Mr. Graham.”
    He edged closer. “My friends call me Danny.”
    She refused to budge despite his proximity, tilted her headup and met the undisguised twinkle in his gaze. Oh, yes, this boy had been around a bit. Or maybe she was becoming an old cynic like Mrs. Dennehy, the grocer’s aged mother. She bit back a sigh, met his gaze with an equanimity she didn’t feel and angled her head slightly, knowing that maneuver had caught his attention earlier. “But we’re not friends.”
    He nodded toward the check and grinned. “We might be in two months. Wouldn’t hurt to get in practice, Miss Russo. After all, we are going to be neighbors.”
    And that was all they’d be. She’d make certain of that. She nodded and moved toward the door, refusing to feel trapped over something as simple as a name. Besides, he was right. They’d be living side by side for eight weeks. She gave him an over-the-shoulder glance as she descended the stairs, noting his approval seemed just as notable going down the stairs. “Megan. My friends call me Meg.”
    â€œAnd Ben calls you Meggie.”
    She nodded and glanced back again, but this time held his look. “He’s the only one that calls me that. Got it?”
    His grin deepened. “Got it. Can I move in tomorrow?”
    She withdrew a key from her front pocket and dangled it in front of him. “Whatever works for you.” She