Part-Time Fiance. Leigh Michaels

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      “It always takes twice as long as you expect, and three times as much money.”

      “Oh, that’s a comfort,” Delainey said dryly. She plugged the coffeepot in and reached into the cabinet for a pair of mismatched mugs. “Did you know the previous owners?”

      “Not well. I’ve only been here a short while myself.” Emma split a muffin and set it on the blue pottery plate, pushing it across the breakfast bar to Delainey.

      Delainey wanted to ask why she was living there at all. White Oaks was hardly a retirement community; from what Patty had told her, the average age of the residents was about thirty. But she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without sounding rude, so she turned her attention back to the coffeepot, which didn’t seem to be doing anything.

      “That’s odd,” she muttered. “It was all right when I used it a couple of days ago.” She moved it to the other side of the sink and plugged it into a different outlet, and it immediately began to swish and sigh. “Oh, that’s great—a dead outlet, too, right in the middle of the kitchen. Maybe I can get an electrician to come while I’m waiting around anyway.”

      “The same day you call? Unlikely.”

      “I suppose you’re right. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I need to call the bank so my boss knows I won’t be in till late.”

      “If it’s just a package you’re waiting for, the clubhouse manager will be happy to sign for it and keep it till you get home.”

      “Actually, it’s a bed.” Delainey glanced across the living area at the futon where—she hoped—she had spent her last night ever. “A whole bedroom set, in fact. It was supposed to be delivered first thing this morning, but the department store called just before you got here to say the truck would be delayed.”

      “What a nuisance. There’s no telling when they’ll actually show up.”

      “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Delainey said glumly. “I really can’t afford to take the time off, because I just started this job six weeks ago.”

      “You said you work for a bank?”

      “National City. I’m in the business-loan division.”

      “Then we certainly can’t have you being late,” Emma said briskly. “You go on to work—after you’ve finished your muffin, of course—and I’ll keep an eye out for the deliverymen.”

      “That would be lovely, but I can’t ask you to—”

      “You didn’t ask. I offered. That’s what neighbors do.”

      “Not the kind of neighbors I’ve ever had before,” Delainey said. She surveyed Emma Ashford more closely. Con artist? Nosy old woman? Neither, she concluded. Emma was just a nice lady who was probably a bit lonely in this community of younger people, and who had a little too much time on her hands.

      Delainey had encountered dozens of women like Emma Ashford during her years at the teller’s window. In a backward sort of way, she’d be doing Emma a favor in letting her help—though nothing like the magnitude of the favor Emma was doing for her.

      “Just show me which bedroom.” Emma stood up. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

      Almost everything about Delainey’s job was new. The promotion had taken her to a higher level of responsibility, with a new title and a new boss, and a new office that was an actual room, not just a cubicle. For the first time in her career she had both a door and a secretary. Delainey hadn’t yet decided which thrilled her more—running a fingertip across the silvery doorplate with her name engraved on it, or having Josie keeping track of the calls she needed to return and the appointments on her calendar.

      When she came in, Josie was printing the day’s appointments list, and she passed it across the desk. “It’s already outdated, though. Mr. Bishop wants to see you in his office right away.”

      Bless Emma Ashford, Delainey thought. Without the woman’s offer, she’d have been sitting at home waiting on a delivery truck instead of being here to answer the boss’s summons. And since it was the first time in a week that she’d done more than exchange greetings with him in the hallway, it would have been a particularly bad day to have been late.

      Delainey gathered up the projects she’d been working on and crossed the hall to the corner office with its view of the downtown skyline. Someday, perhaps, this view would be hers…

      She squashed the thought before it could get out of hand. Concentrate on the job you’ve already got, she reminded herself, and the next promotion will take care of itself. It was a philosophy that hadn’t led her astray in the ten years since she’d first sat behind a teller’s window as a trainee, too nervous about the sheer size of the piles of cash she was handling to worry about anything else. “RJ? You wanted to see me?”

      RJ Bishop ran a hand through his heavy, prematurely gray hair and waved her to an overstuffed chair across from his desk. “Have a seat, Delainey. Time to catch up on what’s been going on. How are you enjoying the job?”

      “I love it, RJ. In fact, I have an idea to run by you when you have a minute.”

      “No time like the present.”

      Delainey took a deep breath. “There are a lot of women in this town who have good ideas for small businesses, but they’re having a lot of trouble getting started. I’ve been thinking about how we could set up a business incubator to help them out. They could have a good address and a private office, but they could share some of the more expensive resources for a while until they get on their feet.”

      There was a tap on the door and another of the department’s staff came in. “You wanted me, RJ?”

      Delainey surveyed the newcomer with interest. She hadn’t worked with Jason Conners before—had barely met him, in fact. When she joined the team, he’d been wrapping up the financing on a venture-capital deal that had kept him out of the office much of the time.

      “Sit down, Jason.” RJ looked at Delainey again. “A business incubator would be a pretty expensive proposition.”

      “Not necessarily. We’d charge rent, of course, and a percentage of the profits.”

      Jason hitched up his perfectly creased trousers and perched on the arm of the chair next to Delainey’s. “If there are any profits.”

      Delainey turned to look him in the eye. “We’d have a high percentage of failures, yes, but one big success would more than make up for a dozen losses. Anyway, the gain for us would be much more than financial. The women who make their businesses work will be loyal to the bank because we gave them a hand when they needed it. We’ll have all their deposits and loans—and a great deal of goodwill, too.”

      “Women only?” Jason sniffed. “It’s hardly worth the risk of being accused of discrimination, RJ.”

      I haven’t missed much, not working with him, Delainey thought. “But I don’t want to take up any more of Jason’s valuable time with that discussion, RJ,” she said smoothly. “We can talk about it later.”

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