Page 3 of More Than Pen Pals

I lean my head against her shoulder. “I like having a pen pal. And I like Ash, even if he’s a boy. I’m afraid he won’t want to keep writing to me if he knows I’m a girl.”

“Maybe so, but you need to be honest with him, honey. That’s the most important thing in a friendship.”

one

Chicago, May 1988

“Do you have a boyfriend? Youmusthave one. You’re simply gorgeous.” My new co-worker Wendy stops to take a breath and then starts right back in. “Please tell me you have a boyfriend. I don’t want to compete with you for a man. If you don’t have one, we need to find you one, pronto.”

I like to talk, but this woman is in another league. Wendy is a cute, gregarious redhead who took me under her wing the second I walked through the door of my new job at Carter-Jenkins Public Relations last week, and from all appearances, she’s a fast-rising star at the firm.

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I tuck my blonde curls behind my ear. “And I don’t intend to compete with you for one. You have plenty of fine qualities. You don’t need to worry about me.”

She quirks an eyebrow at me. “If you say so. Anyway, tell me everything about yourself. Start at the very beginning and go all the way through moving to Chicago a few weeks ago.”

While I consider exactly where to begin and how much to share, I marvel at how Wendy reminds me of my cousin Beckett. She’s adorable, she confidently wears brightly colored clothes few women could pull off, and she wants nothing more than to help people.

Before I can delve into my life story, the waiter arrives at our table at Sapori D’Italia with our entrees. Wendy dives into her fettuccine alfredo the second the waiter’s hand leaves the plate.

“Oh my goodness, this is so delish! Have you ever tasted anything so good?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve had a chance to take a bite of mine.” I smile at her.

She giggles. “Sorry. I get worked up about my pasta.”

“I get it. I love Italian food, too.” I fork up some lasagna and moan when the flavors assault my taste buds.

Wendy stabs her fork in the air. “Told you!”

“Yes, you were right.”

“I’m always right. Including about needing to find you a man to get you off the market.”

“I don’t need a man.” Especially not so soon after Glenn, but I have no intention of dwelling on that situation or talking to my new co-worker about it.

“Well, maybe you don’tneedone, but don’t you want one?”

“No,” I say more grimly than I intended.

Wendy’s eyes narrow. “Who hurt you?”

The woman is perceptive.

I sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right. We’ll get there one day. But for now, tell me everything else—including where your adorable Southern accent came from.”

During the seven years I’ve lived in Illinois I’ve tried to tamp down my Arkansas twang, but it inevitably slips through.

“I’m from Arkansas,” I say, “which isn’t really the South. It’s one of those weird states that’s not sure where it fits.”

“Oh, it’s the South.” She gives a firm nod to emphasize her point.

“Don’t let someone from Alabama hear you say that. That’s therealSouth. Where are you from?”

“Milwaukee. But this conversation is about you, not me.”

“Can’t it be both?”

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