Dear Maggie. Brenda Novak

      WHEN MAGGIE ARRIVED at the office, she found Nick Sorenson slouched in her chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his eyes on her pictures of Zach.

      Surprised, she drew to a halt and gaped at him over the partition that divided her small space from everyone else’s. “What are you doing at my desk?”

      He smiled and stood. “Waiting for you.”

      “For me?”

      He handed her a slip of paper. Maggie glanced at it and immediately recognized the scrawl—Jorge, the cop reporter who had the shift before hers—but she didn’t take time to read his note. Nick was talking, explaining.

      “Jorge’s son is having his fourteenth birthday tonight. Whole family’s going to be there. He wanted to take the call but couldn’t miss the party. So it’s your story now.”

      “If I want it.” She forced her gaze away from Nick’s rugged face and looked more closely at Jorge’s note.

      Police on their way to the burger stand at Broadway and 14th Avenue. Drive-by shooting. Don’t know details. Call just came in.

      She raised her brows in speculation. Broadway and 14th. Oak Park. It was the roughest area in Sacramento.

      “Let me guess,” he said. “You want it.”

      She eyed him narrowly. “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re the only photographer available for this.”

      His grin showed white teeth contrasted against a day’s beard. “Yep. Don’t you trust me to get the pics right?”

      Maggie didn’t trust him, period. She drew a deep breath, trying to put a finger on what was bothering her tonight. Nick had invaded her personal space, which was presumptuous, even rude, especially since he was still so new. But it was more than that. He acted as though he was in complete control, even in a place where he should’ve been out of his element. He was obviously someone who enjoyed the upper hand, she decided, someone who was used to having it, like Rock Tillman. But after Tim, Maggie had promised herself that she’d never let a man take control of her life again. And she meant that. Any man who stepped on her toes was going to hear about it.

      “Just one thing,” she said.

      “What’s that?” He watched her from beneath thick dark lashes, the perfect frame for the unusual color of his eyes. Not quite brown, not quite gold, they were somewhere in between, like tortoiseshell.

      “The next time you feel the need to wait for me, do it at your own desk.”

      Maggie had expected him to bristle at the firmness in her voice and was prepared to stand her ground. But he only chuckled softly. “Anything you say, Maggie.”

      Her name sounded strangely intimate on his lips. She almost demanded he call her Mrs. Russell but immediately realized how silly that would be. Everyone in the office called her Maggie. Her gray-haired ex-mother-in-law was Mrs. Russell.

      He brushed past her and headed down the aisle, and for a moment, Maggie swam in his scent. Whether it was his aftershave, soap, cologne or shampoo, she didn’t know, but whatever the combination, it was more evocative than she would have expected and caused a butterfly-like sensation in her stomach.

      “Oh, God. Not Nick Sorenson,” she muttered to herself, trailing him at a distance. “Think John. Nice, tender, sensitive John, who tells you your father would be proud of you, who takes you on creative and thoughtful cyber-dates.” Just because he wouldn’t send her a picture didn’t mean he looked like a monster. He was just more enlightened than most. He understood how little looks truly mattered in the overall scheme of things. She understood that, too.

      So why, then, was she having such a difficult time keeping her eyes averted from the physical perfection of Nick Sorenson’s butt?