Mr. Right Next Door. Arlene James

      Chapter One

      The ball ricocheted off the wall with a satisfying thwack, hurtling to her left. It would take a twisting eight-foot lunge to return it, but she had no doubt that she could manage. It was a move she’d made before. She had already begun the motion when she remembered that the politic action would be to let that ball pass. Her arm was already extended, the racquet at the perfect angle, with only a split second to act. Too late to abort the movement. Too late to correct—or rather, corrupt—the angle. In desperation, she did the only thing she could. She simply let go. The racquet hit the floor at the same instant she did, bounced off the rubber grip on the handle, and clattered to a rest, while Denise herself slid across the floor to collide with the wall, sprawling in an inelegant heap of bare limbs, coffee brown ponytail and athletic shoes. Chuck’s triumphant laughter echoed around the court. Denise felt a flare of resentment quickly followed by the stinging of friction-burned skin and the cool, studied control that kept her sane.

      Gingerly, she righted herself and sat up, back braced against the wall, chest heaving. Well, she told herself, she could take satisfaction in the fact that he’d never know that she’d let him win. She’d had him worried this time, too, made him suffer. That counted for something. She flexed one knee, balanced a forearm atop it and concentrated on getting air into her beleaguered body. Chuck, meanwhile, stood bent over with his hands on his thighs, gasping and huffing, his slightly jowly face almost purple, sweat rolling off of the top of his balding head to drip on the floor. Denise was back to normal and checking over her racquet for damage long before Chuck regained enough strength and breath to rub in her loss.

      “And old Dennis bites the dust again!” he said, finally. It was the office joke, calling her Dennis. Chuck shook his racquet at her and added patronizingly, “But you’re definitely getting better, though. Definite improvement.”

      Denise smiled mechanically. Little did the old goat know that she could take him anytime she wanted. Did being the boss blind you to such lowering conclusions? she wondered. She made a mental note never to fall victim to such ego-enhancing vision herself. When her turn came—and it would, she was determined about that-she’d be a far superior manager than Chuck Dayton and his cronies, but then a woman had to be better just to be considered par. She sighed and for a moment allowed herself to be weary of the whole ugly, convoluted struggle that was her life. Then she put away the self-pity, squared her shoulders, wiped the perspiration from her brow and reminded herself that she was a woman with goals, and that at thirty-five she could handily whip her overbearing boss’s fifty-year-old butt at racquetball any day of the week. Heck, she worked harder at letting him win than winning herself, and one day he’d know it.

      Retrieving her towel and wiping her face, she listened with half an ear as Chuck berated her-under the guise of helpful camaraderie-for her “lack of control” for dropping her racquet.