Read a Romance!

Mark thought he had no time for love . . . then he met Kenzie!

Mark Osborne,” he told the security guard and drove into the gated community, deserted at this time of night. Almost home. It had been a long fl ight from Atlanta to Phoenix after a maddening delay. He was exhausted and never so happy to pull into his own driveway.

Grabbing his bag, Mark headed for the house. Funny, he didn’t remember leaving the porch light on when he left five days ago. He put his key into the front lock, but it didn’t fit. Frustrated, he rattled the door handle, and there was a noise from a second-floor window.

“What do you want?” a woman’s voice called down.

He looked up to see a pale face with a tumble of dark hair. Startled, he stepped back. “Who are you?” he said. “You better leave before I call security,” she said.

He was mesmerized by her green eyes that sparkled

“Lady,” Mark growled, tired and exasperated, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but this is my house . . . 685 Palm Avenue and . . . ” Laughter reached his ears. “You have the wrong street,” she said. “This is 685 Date.”

Suddenly, he noticed a flower box. He didn’t have one. “Oh,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m really sorry.”

Mark picked up his bag and scuttled back to the car, feeling like a complete fool. But the mistake was understandable in this complex of cookie- cutter houses. This time, his key worked in the right lock, and 10 minutes later, he collapsed on his own bed.

The next day, his office manager greeted him with a cup of coffee. “Well, it’s good to see your smiling face, Mr. Osborne.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hendrix.”

As they caught up on work, Mark found himself daydreaming about the face at the window.

“I tried to break into the wrong house last night,” he laughed as he told Mrs. Hendrix. “Not intentionally, I’m sure.” “No,” he said, “but I scared the lady who lives there. I really owe her an apology.”

“Flowers are always nice,” Mrs. Hendrix said.

Mark agreed. “Would you order roses?”

She nodded as he jotted a note for the florist

I’m the fool who tried to open your door last night, he wrote. I’m sorry if I frightened you. Please accept the fl owers and my apology. Mark Osborne.

On impulse, he added his cellphone number, not really expecting to hear from her.

Later, Mrs. Hendrix handed him a sheet of paper. “Just thought you might want the name of the woman you’re sending flowers to. I checked her address, and this is what came up.”

Her name was Mackenzie Lee. She was divorced and sole owner of the property at 685 Date. Mark felt a frisson of pleasure when he learned she was unattached.

The next day, a text came. An honest mistake. And the fl owers are lovely. Kenzie Lee.

He texted back. I feel I owe you more than fl owers. Are you free for dinner soon?

Hardly necessary. But dinner would be nice.

They arranged to meet the next evening. He mentioned the dinner to Mrs. Hendrix.

“About time, Mr. Osborne,” she said in her motherly tone.

He wasn’t exactly a social recluse, but after the divorce he had thrown himself into his business. Still, waiting at a table for two that night, he felt nervous until she arrived! Her dark hair in the light was a vibrant red; the pale face, a creamy porcelain.

They ordered the bisque and a spinach salad to start. He was pleased that she loved the heat of a Phoenix summer and surprised they’d never met on the biking trails. He told her about the business he’d taken over from his father and was mesmerized by her green eyes that sparkled when she spoke of her work at an exclusive boutique.

“You know,” Kenzie said, “you aren’t such a fool after all.”

Mark grinned. “Glad to hear it.” He felt a stirring in his heart, then realized he was staring and quickly averted his eyes.

By the end of dinner, Mark had invited her to go biking with him on Labor Day. When she agreed, his heart soared and he decided that Mrs. Hendrix was right. It was about time to enjoy life and the possibility of love again.

— Mary Jo Young