Colleen Collins - She's Got Mail!

Two brand-new stories in every volume…twice a month!

Duets Vol. #39

“Colleen Collins is a real find,” says Under the Covers, and there’s no doubt Colleen is one of the funniest authors around. Joining her in this volume is talented Darlene Gardner, an Intimate Moments writer making her Duets debut with a hilarious story!

Duets Vol. #40

According to Romantic Times, Cara Summers “thrills us with her fresh, exciting voice…rich characterization and spicy adventure.” Teaming up with Cara in this humorous Christmas volume is talented Lori Wilde, who has more than ten books to her credit.

Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes today!

She’s Got Mail!

Colleen Collins

Forget Me? Not

Darlene Gardner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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She’s Got Mail! She’s Got Mail! Colleen Collins

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Forget Me? Not

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

She’s Got Mail!

Colleen Collins

Rosie looked around for the man she was to meet. The poor guy desperately needed a man-to-man talk with magazine columnist Mr. Real. Only he had no idea Mr. Real was really a Ms.

“The guy I’m meeting is late, too,” Ben said. “Do you want a coffee?”

“That would be great.” Rosie smiled in appreciation as she watched Ben walk away. He had a self-assured, confident gait. Confidence—she liked that in a man. Her gaze dropped. And he had one terrific butt—she liked that in a man, too!

A few minutes later Ben arrived with two cups of coffee. “I’m meeting someone from a local magazine. Real Men. Do you know it?” he asked.

Rosie nodded absently, but her heart was racing. Slowly pieces of a puzzle were starting to form a picture in her mind. She and Ben were both meeting someone at the same time, in the same place. He was meeting someone from her magazine. Ohmigod! Ben was there to meet her!

Dear Reader,

I’ve always loved those classic films that feature the theme of mistaken identity, especially when a man—by necessity—has to be disguised as a woman. (Remember Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot, or Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie?) The fun heats up when the guy becomes hopelessly smitten with a beautiful woman. But how’s he supposed to win his lady love when he’s busy being the girl’s best friend? Female friend, that is. Being a Duets author, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if I turned this scenario around.

In She’s Got Mail!, ambitious magazine writer Rosie Myers has to fill in for Real Men magazine’s “A Real Man Answers Real Questions” column. The catch? She has to pretend to be a real man. So when she starts to get letters from the man of her dreams, she’s in trouble. Because Ben Taylor thinks he’s getting man-to-man advice—from the woman who’s turning his world upside down!

I hope you have as much fun reading this story as I did writing it. I’d love to hear what you think. Write to me at P.O. Box 12159, Denver, CO 80212.

Enjoy,

Colleen Collins

For my sister, Judy Collins. This one’s for you, Doots!

ROSALIND “ROSIE” MYERS’S mother always swore Rosie would be late to her own funeral. Rosie tried not to think such morbid thoughts as she skidded her Dodge Neon around a corner, bounced the front wheel over a curb, and careened down an alley.

Alanis Morissette might be wailing a woeful tune over the car radio, but Rosie felt calm. Thanks to her newly rented parking space—located in a primo spot next to the back entrance of her Chicago office building—she’d be on time to work this morning. Worst case scenario, she’d have to speed-walk to her desk. But she’d be there, copyediting, mere minutes after eight this fine June morning. Which should please her manager, Teresa, who didn’t care about the funeral, but just wanted Rosie to be punctual.

Brushing crumbs from her breakfast, a nutri-quasi-Twinkie bar she’d chomped between Michigan Avenue and State Street, Rosie checked the plastic digital watch face she’d taped to the console.

It was already mere minutes after eight.

Okay, maybe she’d be running, not speed-walking, to her desk, but she’d be gripping her pencil and inserting commas by a quarter after, at the latest.

Whomp. The car lurched over a speed bump, the back fender scraping its adieu. Cringing, Rosie listened for any telltale clanging behind her. None. Good! Her budget didn’t allow for another muffler pipe replacement.

Ahead, to the right, she spied the familiar concrete steps that led up to the back entrance of the posh Loop office building. Directly behind those steps was her coveted parking space. Like a little home away from home.

Home. Her insides twinged as she flashed on the family farm in Colby, Kansas, where she’d lived all of her life before moving to Chicago seven months ago. Through the crack in her windshield, she peered at the gray Chicago air and wondered where along the way the blue skies of Kansas turned dirty. Or at what point the breezes that rustled through wheat fields became winds whistling down streets filled with cars and pedestrians.

She passed the steps and turned into her space….

Screech.

And slammed on the brakes.

Or at what point some jerk pinched her parking space!

Blinking, she gripped the wheel, amazed she’d managed to miss rear-ending a sleek, black BMW that had taken up residence in her space. Her space! Shaking from the near accident and the gall of the intruder, Rosie shoved the gear into reverse and backed up a few feet. After setting the brake, she jumped out of the car.

Splash!

Her loafer-clad foot landed solidly in a pothole filled with dirty water. She looked down at the splotches of dark water on her white leggings. Some of the mud had also splashed onto the bottom of her brown corduroy skirt. Her co-workers would think she’d slogged through trenches to make it into work. Although she doubted any of the editorial staff at Real Men magazine would believe that excuse for her tardiness, especially Teresa. Now she’d have to park blocks away. Rather than mere minutes late, she’d be mega minutes late.

She glared at the splotchless BMW. Sidestepping the pothole, she moved closer—her feet making squishing sounds as she walked—to the offensive automobile and scrutinized the license plate. ILITIG8.

I litigate. “I’ll just bet you do,” she muttered, eyeing the upscale car.

Her eyes narrowed as she peered up at the bank of square windows along the third floor of her brick office building. Real Men magazine, her company, took the bottom two floors of this building. On the third floor were some stockbrokers, accountants, and if memory served her correctly, one lawyer.