Читать книгу: «The Man Upstairs»

“You are not a woman a man forgets.”

Quinn’s words echoed in Dena’s mind long after she’d returned to bed. Even in her half-asleep state she hadn’t missed the gleam of interest in his eye, although she wasn’t sure why it had been there. Not many men would find bed head and flannel pajamas a turn-on.

She could definitely see why some women found him attractive. With his physical attributes he could probably make any woman a little weak-kneed. Not that it mattered. If she was looking for romance—and she wasn’t—it wouldn’t be with him.

Someone like Quinn would be more work than the average guy. And she’d discovered a long time ago that that was what men were—work.

She closed her eyes and forced her thoughts to the advertising campaign she’d been assigned the day before. 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. 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 her goal.

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

Dear Reader,

When I created the boardinghouse at 14 Valentine Place, I made a rule. No guys allowed. It was to be a residence of women, each with her own room, but with a shared kitchen where late-night conversations would always include food—preferably chocolate.

Leonie Donovan, the landlady I created in the first book of this series, agreed with me, which is why I put her in charge. When it came time to write the second book, however, I discovered that Leonie, like many fictional characters, has a mind of her own. In between stories she had gone ahead and remodeled the third floor of the boardinghouse, creating an apartment that—to my surprise—she leased to a man. I no longer had my house of women. A man had pushed his way in. I sensed trouble.

As it turns out, it was a good kind of trouble. You’ll see what I mean as you read Quinn and Dena’s story. If it weren’t for Leonie renovating the third floor, they wouldn’t have met.

If this is your first visit to 14 Valentine Place, I hope you’ll come back again. For those of you who’ve read the first book in this series and have written to ask about future stories, I’m pleased to report that my next book will be Krystal’s story.

I love hearing from readers. Feel free to write to me at Pamela Bauer, c/o MFW, P.O. Box 24107, Minneapolis, MN 55424, or you can visit me via the Internet at www.pamelabauer.com.

Sincerely,

Pamela Bauer

The Man Upstairs
Pamela Bauer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In loving memory of a very dear aunt,

Mabel Hayes

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PROLOGUE

WHILE THE BAND TOOK a break, a man in a tuxedo grabbed the microphone on the ballroom stage and asked, “Is everybody having fun?”

A roar from the guests indicated everyone, indeed, was having a good time.

Everyone except Dena Bailey, that is. Weddings were never fun for Dena. They were more like punishment. If the bride hadn’t been her college roommate, she wouldn’t even be at the wedding reception.

“Hey, we got a great crowd here tonight to help Maddie and Dylan celebrate their first day as Mr. and Mrs. Donovan,” the best man continued. “At this time we need Maddie to come forward so we can find out which one of you single ladies is going to be the next one to take that walk down the aisle.”

The announcement was Dena’s cue to leave. Not even for Maddie would she try to catch the bridal bouquet. She grabbed her purse and headed for the exit.

The lighting in the hallway was bright compared to the dimness of the ballroom, causing Dena to squint as she made her escape. When she glanced across the corridor she saw a line of elegantly dressed women waiting to enter the ladies’ room. She turned and walked in the opposite direction in search of another rest room.

A few minutes later, in a deserted corridor near the rear entrance, she found one. With relief she pushed open the door, the echo of her heels on the tiled floor the only sound as she stepped into the washroom.

She automatically glanced in the mirror hanging above the trio of sinks lining the wall. She looked tired, and for good reason. As usual, she’d been working too many hours.

Grateful for the absence of women’s chatter, she crossed the washroom only to stop abruptly. Urinals lined one of the walls.

Dena stared at the porcelain fixtures in disbelief. Instinctively her eyes flew to the stalls. She bent slightly, hoping she wouldn’t see any feet. There weren’t any, and she let out a gasp of relief.

Wasting no time, she hurried back to the door, but before she could reach for the handle, it swung toward her, startling her as much as the sight of the urinals had. Standing in front of her was a man—a very attractive man in a dark suit—who took one look at her and grinned.

“A little crowded in the ladies’, is it?” Amusement laced his words.

“I…” she began, then stopped herself. Any explanation would only prolong her embarrassment.

“Are you the only lady in here or do I need to give a holler?” he asked with a flirtatious gleam in his eye.

Dena shook her head. “It’s just me.”

He gave her a thorough appraisal. “Just you, huh?” The look on his face said he definitely appreciated what he saw. “Are you here for Maddie and Dylan’s wedding?”

There was no point in denying it. “Yes, I’m a friend of Maddie’s.”

“Good. You can show me where the party is. I just got here.” His grin was as bold as his body was big. He was definitely handsome, a small scar on his chin adding to the rugged good looks.

“The ballroom’s just down the hall and to your left. I’m sure you’ll be able to find it,” she said stiffly.

“You’re not going to wait for me?”

With a dull ache throbbing in her forehead, she really was in no mood for flirting. “I think you’re a big enough boy to find your own way, don’t you?”

He stepped to the side and, in a gallant gesture, held the door open for her, motioning with his other arm that she should pass. “See you at the dance.”

She almost said, Not if I have my way, but held her tongue. As she walked by him, she couldn’t help but notice how broad he was. Or how good he smelled. Like a campground early in the morning with the scent of pines lingering in the air. She wondered who he was, then realized it didn’t matter. She’d already decided to leave the party. She’d done her duty.

As soon as she was back in the ballroom, she looked for Maddie.

“There you are,” the bride said, extending her hands in a warm welcome that matched her smile. “I’m sorry we haven’t had time to talk.”

“It’s all right,” Dena assured her. “You have so many people here who want to see you. We can catch up another time. Everything’s been just lovely. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Her face fell slightly.

“I really would like to stay, but I have an awful headache, and I have to get up early to catch my flight. You don’t mind, do you?” Dena gave her an apologetic look.

Maddie squeezed her hand. “Of course not. Did you have a good time?”

Dena Bailey looked at the beaming bride and knew what she had to say. “Yes. It’s been fun seeing everyone again.” Although “everyone” was actually a couple of women who’d lived on the same dorm floor as she and Maddie during their college years.

“It means so much to me that you came. I’ve missed you. I wish we could get together more often.”

It was exactly what Dena had been thinking all weekend, and she’d been waiting for the opportunity to tell Maddie her news. “We might just get to do that. I may be moving to St. Paul. I interviewed for a job while I was here.”

“You did! That’s great…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes held a look of disappointment. “Only I’m not going to be here. Dylan’s taken an assignment in the south of France. Of course, we’ll come home to visit.”

Dena could only smile weakly and wish them good luck.

“If you haven’t found a place to live, you should talk to my mother-in-law,” Maddie suggested. “She’s looking for someone to rent my room. It would be perfect for you. It’s on the bus line, close to Grand Avenue and all those wonderful little shops and restaurants. The rent is reasonable, too.”

“It’s really kind of you to offer, but—” Dena began.

“But nothing,” Maddie finished for her, pulling her by the hand. “Come. We’ll go talk to Leonie right now. Trust me. You’re going to love 14 Valentine Place.”

CHAPTER ONE

“ARE THOSE GORILLAS on your socks, Bailey?”

Dena had been sitting with her feet propped up on her desk, but she dropped them to the floor when she saw the art director in the doorway of her cubicle. With his slicked-back hair and his dark framed glasses, Greg Watkins reminded her of a smaller version of Clark Kent. She half expected that if he ripped open his shirt she’d see an S on his chest. Although he couldn’t leap from tall buildings or bend steel with his bare hands, he did flaunt his power over her on occasion. She hoped this wasn’t one of those times.

“The world’s a jungle out there,” she answered.

“Don’t I know it,” he said with a knowing lift of his brows.

“So what can I do for you?”

“You can tell me whether or not you’re going to make a donation to the Aaron Jorgenson auction. He’s the high school kid who was injured in the skiing accident. Kramer’s taken a special interest in this event because the kid goes to his church.” Greg had a habit of referring to people by their last names, even the creative director who was the head of the advertising agency.

“They’re having a benefit dinner to raise money to help pay the medical bills, right?”

“You got it. I don’t see your name on the list.” He waved a clipboard in midair.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to attend,” she said apologetically, then reached for her purse. “But I’d be happy to make a cash donation.”

“It would be better if you donated an item for the auction…preferably something that will bring in big bucks.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged. “Anything. I’m donating a tour of the Channel 8 studio and lunch with a news anchor. You probably heard that my sister’s their newscaster?”

Dena nodded. “I suppose I could ask my brother to help me out, but I don’t think lunch with a mechanic would have quite the same appeal, do you?” She gave him a wry smile.

“Probably not,” he answered with his own understanding grin. “But there are any number of items you could donate. Seriously, Bailey, this could be an opportunity for you to catch Kramer’s eye.”

“You mean if I bring in something unique he’ll remember my name?”

“You keep doing work like that and he’ll notice you,” he said, looking over her shoulder to the mockups lining her shelves.

“I’m good at packages,” she admitted in a tone that was not the least bit pretentious, just honest.

“So I’ve noticed…as have a lot of other people. So what do you say? Are you going to donate an item?”

She hesitated a second, then said, “All right, put me down. For what, I don’t know, but I’ll come up with something.”

He pulled a pen from behind his ear and wrote her name on the clipboard. “I’m sure you will. You’re clever. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

She knew it was true. To land a job at an advertising agency like Delaney Design, one needed to be better than good. Getting hired had been a boost to her ego and an affirmation that she’d made the right decision in leaving her job in marketing to pursue a career in graphic design. Unfortunately, with the new job came the pressure to perform. Everyone at Delaney was talented. It wasn’t enough to simply be good.

Greg Watkins straightened. “You’ll need to let me know by next Friday what you’re donating to the auction. The benefit is February 10. I have to tell you, Bailey, Kramer’s going to be pleased to see your name on the list.” He gave her a mock salute and slipped out of her cubicle.

Dena didn’t want to simply please the creative director. She wanted to impress him, to prove to him that she belonged at the prestigious agency.

It wasn’t anything new—proving herself. She’d been doing it most of her life and she’d do it now. She reached for the phone to call the one person who might be able to help her—her brother.

AS CHILDREN, Dena and Ryan had been as close as any brother and sister, but when they were teenagers, their parents had divorced and the fragile bonds that had held their family together were broken. After graduation, Ryan Bailey saw no reason to stay in the small town in Iowa where they’d been raised. He moved away with his high school sweetheart, eager to make a new start in life.

Left alone with her father, Dena envied her brother his freedom. No matter how hard she tried to get her father’s attention, there was only one thing in life that mattered to him now that his wife was gone—his work. His idea of being a good parent was to send Dena to boarding school, where she felt just as isolated as she had living with her father. After graduation, she didn’t return home. Like her brother, she left Iowa, but she made her exodus alone.

It was how she’d lived most of her life—alone. She may have had a mother for thirteen years, but she’d learned at an early age not to expect much from her. As a small child she’d never understood why her mother wasn’t like other kids’ mothers. She never played with her children and rarely laughed with them. It wasn’t until Dena was thirteen that she understood the reason why. She hadn’t wanted to be a mother in the first place.

It was a fact of life Dena couldn’t change no matter how hard she tried. So she learned to take care of herself, to rely on her own tenacity and resourcefulness rather than depend on anyone else. She was self-sufficient and proud of it, only now that she’d moved to Minnesota, she was beginning to realize how lonely her life had been and how much she’d missed Ryan.

That’s why she didn’t hesitate to turn to him for advice about the auction donation. As usual, she’d worked late that evening and stopped at his house on her way home.

“Dena, it’s good to see you,” her sister-in-law, Lisa, said as she opened the door to her. “Come in. Ryan took Luke sledding at the park, but they should be home shortly. I was just about to make some hot chocolate…or would you rather have a cup of tea?”

“Hot chocolate sounds good.” Dena removed her jacket and slung it over the back of one of the wooden kitchen chairs before taking a seat. “Where’s Bethany and Jeremy?”

“Jeremy’s at hockey practice and Bethany’s at a birthday party for one of her friends from school. It’s her first pajama party so I’m a little anxious about it,” Lisa admitted as she poured milk into a pan on the stove. “I didn’t want her to go. I think eight’s a little young for slumber parties, don’t you?”

Dena shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. When it comes to raising kids, I don’t have a clue.” It was the truth. With no younger siblings and having spent a good portion of her teenage years at boarding school, she’d missed out on the typical baby-sitting experience. The only time she’d been around kids had been during the holidays that she’d spent with her brother and his family.

“Ryan and I have days when we feel the same way,” Lisa said with a grin.

“You must be doing something right. You have good kids,” she said sincerely.

Lisa sat down across from Dena. “You’ve only seen them on their best behavior. Just wait until you’ve been here awhile,” she said with a crooked smile.

Dena glanced around the room—at the drawings on the refrigerator door, the toy trucks lined up next to the wall, the bulletin board covered with heart-shaped reminders of appointments and school activities. The picture on the shelf over the sink caught her eye. It was a photograph of her brother with his three children. Three-year-old Luke was on his shoulders, his pudgy arms wrapped around his father’s neck. Bethany clung to one arm, twelve-year-old Jeremy was on the other.

“Ryan is so different from my father. He never played with us kids.”

“He probably didn’t have the time—he worked so many hours,” Lisa said.

Dena nodded and didn’t follow up on the comments, not wanting to discuss her father’s shortcomings. Not that she would be telling her sister-in-law anything she wasn’t aware of. Having known Ryan since they’d been in the seventh grade, Lisa was privy to all the family secrets. She’d been his steady girlfriend when Dena’s mother had abandoned her family, leaving two teenaged kids in the care of a father whose response to losing his wife had been to bury himself even deeper in his work.

Even though she was the one to inadvertently mention her father, she was grateful when Lisa changed the subject. “So tell me how everything is with you. Are you happy with your new job?”

“So far, so good,” she said with caution. “It’s going to be a lot of pressure, but that’s to be expected. It’s the nature of the work. I’m going to have to put in some long hours, but it’ll all be worth it.”

“Ryan said you were stopping over because you need a donation for a charity auction?” Lisa remarked with a lift of one eyebrow.

“Yes.” She started to explain, but before she could finish, the back door opened and in trudged her brother and nephew, both of them dusted with snow. As they exchanged greetings, Dena thought Ryan looked like a lumberjack, with his red plaid jacket, knit stocking hat and full beard. He pulled the hat from his head to reveal wavy blond hair the same shade as Dena’s.

“Perfect timing,” Lisa said, getting up from the table. “Dena just got here.”

Ryan kicked off his boots, then took a seat at the table next to his sister. “So what kind of auction item are you looking for, again?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me,” she answered. “You’ve lived in this area for quite some time. What type of item do people purchase at a charity auction?”

“It depends on the kind of crowd it is,” her sister-in-law told her as she helped Luke out of his snow-suit. “When they had a silent auction at Bethany’s school to raise money for the new gymnasium, the hot item was a basketball signed by one of the Timberwolves. I would think that memorabilia signed by professional athletes would always be popular.”

“I suppose I could go to one of the sports stores and get an autographed baseball,” Dena pondered aloud.

“If you do that it’ll cost you a few bucks,” her brother pointed out.

“Why don’t you just ask that guy upstairs from you to donate something?” Lisa suggested. “Didn’t you say he’s a professional hockey player?”

“That’s what I’ve been told, but I haven’t even seen the man, let alone talked to him. If it wasn’t for the fact that I heard some noise up there one night last week, I wouldn’t even know anyone lives upstairs.”

“You’d think you would have run into him by now.”

“I’m relieved I haven’t. I don’t have time to get chummy with any of my neighbors.”

“You don’t have to get chummy with him,” Lisa said. “Just ask him to autograph something and donate it to the auction. I bet people would pay good money for one of his hockey sticks.”

“If he has a name people recognize.”

“What is his name?” Ryan asked.

“Quinn Sterling,” Dena replied.

Ryan’s jaw dropped open. “He’s the hockey player who lives on the third floor of your building? You didn’t tell me he was in the NHL.”

“I didn’t know,” she said in her own defense.

“Quinn Sterling,” her brother repeated in amazement. “Who would have expected him to be living in a boardinghouse with a bunch of women.”

“It isn’t a bunch. There are only three of us and we each have our own apartment,” Dena reminded him.

Ryan shrugged. “I guess the guy has to live somewhere…and it probably helps him keep a low profile.”

“So what’s he like? Is he nice?” Lisa asked, turning her attention to the stove.

Ryan chuckled sarcastically. “Defensemen usually aren’t described as ‘nice.’”

Dena wrinkled her face. “He isn’t one of those guys who’s always fighting, is he?”

“I’m sure he’s spent his share of time in the penalty box. He has a reputation for being bad…which is one of the reasons the fans love him.”

“Then he’s popular?”

“In Minnesota he is. He’s a good hockey player,” her brother stated matter-of-factly. Luke was at his side, arms outstretched, waiting for his father to lift him onto his lap. Ryan scooped him up and propped him on one knee.

“Would you say he’s like the Michael Jordan of hockey?” Dena wanted to know.

Ryan gave her an indulgent look. “Basketball and hockey are two different sports, and no one’s like Michael Jordan. Quinn’s made a name for himself, although I don’t think he’s ever made the All-Star team.”

“But would a hockey stick signed by him bring in big bucks at a charity auction?”

“Probably anything signed by Quinn would do that.” Lisa had set three mugs of hot chocolate and one small cup for Luke on the table. Ryan reached for the small cup and helped his son take a sip.

Dena thought again of how different he was from their father. So patient, so protective. So interested in his son.

“Quinn Sterling was born and raised in St. Paul,” her brother continued. “That’s one of the reasons he’s so popular in this area. Hockey fans around here were very happy when the Cougars got him on a trade.”

“Sounds like the right guy to ask for a donation, Dena,” Lisa stated.

“Yes, but how am I ever going to get it?” Dena pondered aloud. “I can’t just walk up the stairs, knock on his door and say, ‘Hi, I’m your new neighbor, give me a stick.’”

“Why not?” Lisa asked, taking the chair next to Ryan’s.

Dena’s eyes met Ryan’s and he chuckled. “Lisa would do it.” His eyes were full of affection as he smiled at his wife.

It was obvious to Dena from the glances they exchanged they were just as much in love now as they’d been as teenagers. Ryan had proved his father wrong. How many times had he warned Ryan that if he were to marry Lisa, he’d end up in the same predicament his father was in? Dena was relieved to see her brother and his wife so happy.

She pushed a loose strand of hair back from her face and sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to do this. This is so not me.”

“Even if you work up the courage to ask for the stick, you might have a problem getting to the guy,” Ryan warned her. “Professional athletes know how to avoid the public.”

“She’s not the public, she’s his neighbor,” Lisa pointed out.

“A neighbor he’s never met,” Dena reminded her sister-in-law.

“And I think he’s one of the hockey players who keeps a low profile,” Ryan added.

That didn’t come as a surprise to Dena. She hadn’t seen anyone going in or out of his place, but then she hadn’t had any guests since she’d moved in, either. The day Leonie had shown her the vacant room on the second floor she’d explained the rules of the house. Guests were welcome as long as they didn’t impose on anyone’s privacy.

So far the only resident who took advantage of that rule was Krystal Graham, the hairstylist who occupied the other half of the second floor. She had a steady stream of visitors, and Dena could understand why. Krystal was a people person. From what her brother was saying, the man upstairs probably wasn’t.

“You might want to think of another item for the charity auction,” Ryan said, reaching for a napkin to dab at hot chocolate that had dribbled down Luke’s chin. “We don’t know this guy. For all we know, his persona off ice could be the same as it is on ice.”

“He’s not going to be mean to his neighbor,” Lisa insisted. “Stop trying to discourage her.”

“You don’t think I can get the stick, do you?” Dena said to her brother.

“It’s going to be difficult,” he warned her.

“Yeah, so what else is new?” she retorted.

“So you’re going to go for it?” Lisa wanted to know.

“Yes. I want my donation to the auction to stand out from the others. I just have to figure out a way to get the stick.”

“The Cougars have a game at the Excel Center tomorrow, which means Quinn Sterling is in town,” Ryan announced.

“Now’s your chance,” Lisa encouraged her. “If you don’t want to knock on his door, you could always bump into him on the stairs.”

An equally unsettling thought for Dena, who knew that she was right. It was now or never. The auction was only a little over a week away. If she didn’t get to him this weekend, there was a good chance he’d be on the road and she wouldn’t have another opportunity.

“You’re right. I’m going to do it. Wish me luck.”

BEFORE DENA COULD DO SOMETHING so bold as to introduce herself to a professional hockey player and ask for an autographed stick, she needed to be prepared. That’s why she made sure to leave her brother’s house early enough so that she had time to stop at the library on her way home.

Later, armed with a stack of periodicals and a couple of videotapes, she climbed the stairs to the second floor at 14 Valentine Place. Once she was in her room, she slipped a tape cassette into the VCR and pressed Play.

As scenes of hockey players flashed across the screen, a voice announced the featured segments of the weekly sports program. If she watched the entire thirty minutes she could get an analysis of the games played the previous week, hear an interview with the head coach of the Minnesota Cougars hockey team and watch a demonstration of stickhandling at its best. Since she’d checked out the tape for one reason only—to see the player profile feature—she pressed the fast-forward button until she found that particular segment.

Images of bodies being pushed into the boards and sliding across the ice as skaters battled for the small black puck flashed on the screen. “Every team has one…a big, mean skater who patrols the blue line using his physical presence as a weapon,” the narrator said as a player rammed another against the boards. “He’s as tough as nails, adding muscle and strength to a defense that is out there for one purpose—to keep the puck away from the guys who want to stuff it in the net.”

Dena grimaced as two men collided with a thud that could be heard above the noise of the crowd. “Around the league he’s established a reputation for being a leader on and off the ice, and with good reason,” the narrator continued. “With a solid work ethic and an attitude that conveys he’s going to get the job done, he’s what every head coach wants a defenseman to be—rough, tough and ready to do battle. This week we profile number thirty-two…”

The hockey player who’d been banging bodies into the boards stopped in the center of the rink, the camera catching the action of his blade on the ice at the same moment the narrator said, “Quinn Sterling.” It was then that Dena saw for the first time the face of the man who lived upstairs.

The first word that came to mind was gladiator. Maybe it was the helmet he wore. Or it could have been the rugged features that seemed to be all angles. Dena frowned as she realized that it was also a familiar face. Where would she have seen him before? Maybe as a professional athlete he’d done a commercial she’d seen. He certainly had the kind of look that could sell products.

As the profile continued, Dena listened to stats and figures that had little significance to someone who didn’t follow hockey. Then the question was raised. “Is Quinn Sterling one of the meanest guys on the ice?”

The camera moved to one of Quinn’s teammates, who grinned and said, “All hockey players have a mean streak. It’s just that Quinn wears his on his jersey.”

The next shot was of Quinn. He stood with his helmet off, his dark hair damp from exertion, defending the accusation. “It’s my job to make sure my teammates are safe and protected on the ice. If that means I’ve got to get rough to do it, then I’m gonna do it. No one’s going to run up on one of my guys.”

Footage of him getting rough followed. Dena winced as a sequence of collisions was shown, all of them resulting in bodies being knocked to the ice. When a brawl erupted, gloves dropped and fists were raised. Dena decided she’d seen enough and stopped the tape. She didn’t need to watch grown men who were supposed to be professionals behave like little boys on the playground.

She looked at the stack of sports magazines and wondered if she should even bother to read any of the articles on Quinn Sterling. Curiosity had her flipping one open and reading a brief bio. He was born and raised in St. Paul and played his first hockey game at the age of five. He’d left college early to enter the NHL draft. Now he made his living fighting on the ice.

She heaved a long sigh and tossed the magazine aside. The task of having to ask him for the donation seemed to be an even more unpleasant one than it had earlier in the day. She wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to simply go buy an autographed stick or jersey from a sports shop. Of course it would be easier, but it would also be costlier.

Lisa could be right. Quinn Sterling might be happy to donate the stick simply because she was his neighbor. She just had to work up her courage and ask him for it.

As she scooped up the periodicals scattered across the floor, she noticed one was a woman’s magazine. Whoever had pulled the magazines for her from the library stacks must have accidentally included it. She looked again at her request slip and saw that it wasn’t a mistake.