Bridget Jones nervously sat behind her cubicle's computer. Eyeing her cellphone's calendar, and nibbling her bottom lip, she wondered about her predicament. The day had finally come: Dean Roth's fortieth birthday.

Yikes!

Sliding her cell from her hand to her desk's top, she huffed a breath through her closed lips and they nosily flapped. She giggled. Not since she'd been a child had such a goofy, sudden sound from nowhere been such fun for her to hear.

But today was was no laughing matter.

Zip it!

And she did.

Bridget—on his birthday, no less—was about to meet with Dean Roth. He had returned to this branch of the telemarketing firm one week ago. But for a seven-day business call, not pleasure. It had been his job to troubleshoot a computer system glitch, then he would be gone again.

"Can I really tell you how I feel, Dean?"

Would there be enough time for Bridget to do so? Would Dean realize her signals? Understand her words? Accept being in a relationship with her, after all their time apart, and quirky history?

Turning her attention to an inch-high stack of desk-top papers, Bridget lifted and began squaring it for no reason. Then her face winced with sarcastic amazement.

"What am I doing?"

She tossed the pile back down to the desk.

Thump!

The flat sound—unlike that of her lip flapping noise that had struck her funny bone—snapped her to attention. Without pause, she glanced at her wristwatch. The analog time read nine o'clock.

You've got to be kidding me!

Standing with hesitation from her chair, and wildly hand-ironing her seat-crumpled outfit, she took a deep breath.

"I can do this," she uttered.

But could she even walk out of her cubicle? Knowing full well that within moments she would be face-to-face with Dean—the man she secretly loved?

She looked at her watch again. Its hands read nine-oh-two in the morning.

No way!

What was going on here? Dean was never late for a business appointment. And running security tests on Bridget's computer was the first task he had set for this office visit today—the final day of his time here. Was his tardiness now, Bridget wondered, a subliminal message to her that he didn't still feel the same way about her? That he didn't want to hear what she had to say about a relationship between them?

Regardless, Bridget wanted to look perfect for her crush.

Combing her hand through her long, flowing hair, its fine, silky strands fell perfectly back into place over and around her shoulders. A timid smile crept to her face.

Will you even notice me?

Cautiously stepping out of her cubicle and into the larger office area that was filled with colored streamers, balloons, and signs that read: "Happy 40th Birthday," a tear welled in one of Bridget's eyes.

Spying a tissue box atop a nearby desk, she snatched one of its disposable cloths, patted dry the rolling drop from her cheek, and crushed the soft paper. Lately, to Bridget, being beau-less only magnified the fact that she was getting older. How that all now frightened her to be going through life alone. How she hoped a somebody to care about her would soon show up.

He will if I can help it.

Scurrying by a pail, Bridget tossed the tissue into it. Then, bobbing and weaving around her waiting, ready-to-celebrate co-workers, and inching closer to the office window that overlooked the building's parking lot, she lost herself in thought.

"He's here!" someone soon shouted.

Bridget jumped. Snapping from her silent "this-is-how-I-feel, Dean" practice run, a confused look graced her face. She glanced at that co-worker, perturbed. Bridget hadn't finished her inner run through of the words she was going to say to Dean.

"Everybody hide!"

But Bridget couldn't move. Not to hide, anyway.

Oh, no.

Her nerve suddenly waning, as Dean got closer to the building, Bridget's head shook slowly, as she began backing away from the window.

How had I not seen you first? Your compelling eyes? Strong build? Steps toward the front door, the moment you'd gotten out of your car? I was staring right at your parking spot!

"Blinded by love," she mumbled.

Watching as some employees hid under desks, and as others scooted behind cubicle walls, Bridget couldn't help but to look away from the soon-to-be "Dean party scene." A moment later, she turned completely and ran down the hallway in the party's opposite direction, exiting the back of the building in short order, and into the rear parking lot.

"We haven't really spoken in a year, Dean," she uttered to her reflection in the car's rearview mirror. "Why would you welcome a birthday wish from me today? What was I thinking?"

Then she started the car and drove away.

Bridget and Dean's first difficulties had begun three years ago. Then, on "her" thirty-ninth birthday last year, that friendship disturbance had become even worse. On that special day, back then, as Bridget had blown out her candles, and her co-workers had sung "Happy Birthday" to her, Dean—who had been in the building for a day-meeting with management—had joined in with the singing. As Bridget had blown out the cake's candles, Dean's gaze on her had been too intent for her to miss.

But how could that have been saying something loving to her? Dean was a company field man. From the time that he was thirty-six years old, until today when he was turning forty, he and Bridget had rarely crossed paths—let alone talked during these last four years.

That's why what Dean had done last year on "her" birthday had startled her so much, and practically ended their friendship.

We were always good friends, Dean had said, as he had handed Bridget a small wrapped gift that day last year.

And Bridget's mouth had fallen open as she had accepted it.

Nothing less than...best friends, Dean, she had forced out. Then had kissed his cheek and teased, I'm insulted you'd even question that.

Dean's world had stopped at that moment. A kiss on the cheek from Bridget? Under those circumstances, back then, thoughts of never washing his cheek again had raced through his mind.

Then Bridget had unwrapped his gift and a dark, felt-covered, square little box was revealed. Her co-workers had "oooed" in unison, as she had sent an inquisitive look Dean's way. His eyes had smiled back at her, but his handsome, blushing face had held still, as she had focused back onto the box, and flipped open its lid.

"Ahhhs" sounded from the mouths of her gathered worker friends, as Bridget's demeanor had shown uncertainty while removing the diamond ring from its holder. When her co-workers had clapped and cheered, though, Bridget had turned and run down the corridor that led to the back of the building.

Bridget, wait!

Dean had caught up to her at the Exit door. Then, and only there, had she turned to face him.

That applause and those cheers weren't planned, he apologized, thumb pointing back toward the co-workers.

Bridget had shrugged. I guess it just spooked me.

Then, it wasn't what I was asking that made you flee?

Having just stood like a deer in headlights, Dean had read into Bridget's silence. What else could he have done? Her blank demeanor had told him that she wasn't going to say what he wanted to hear. So, he had shifted into full-convincing-word mode to win her over.

I'm not getting any younger, Bridget, he had started, and...since Abby's passing six years ago, I've been feeling increasingly lonely. It had been great working here every day, when I did, because I saw you. But at night on those same days...I had wished you were with me. And now that we only, sporadically, see each other, the opportunities to do what I want to do now, on this special day of yours, are slipping away. I can't take a friendship like this anymore.

Still holding the ring and its box, Bridget had set her eyes onto Dean's, then quickly batted them away that day, as she had fidgeted in place. Dean's words had forced her to think about something to which she had an aversion: another marriage.

Losing a spouse is never easy, Dean, Bridget had replied with care, tightening her hold on the ring. Things...will get better for you.

But Dean knew Bridget's deep pain, too. When she was thirty-one years old, he had been the shoulder on which she had leaned throughout her divorce proceedings. And after Bridget's failed marriage, as she had worked with Dean on daily office projects, his affection for her had, silently, grown—having culminated in his gift-giving ring effort on her thirty-ninth birthday.

You have to stop living in the past, Bridget. Every man isn't like your ex-husband. He was the unfaithful one. It's not your fault.

I didn't say it was.

You didn't have to. Remember? I know you.

Comfortable silence had come between them at that point. Then Dean had tenderly taken her hand—the one in which she had held the ring—and gently peeled back her clenched fingers.

Reading between the lines isn't my forte, Dean, she had confessed.

Then, looking deeply into her eyes, Dean had picked up the ring, lifted her empty hand to his lips, and had kissed its palm.

I want to be more than just friends, okay? he had said, turning her hand knuckle-side up. I love you.

But Bridget had slipped her hand from Dean's that day, just as he was to put the ring onto her finger.

Evan told me that he loved me, too. And look at what happened. I love you are just words everyone's been convinced to apply to something that's supposed to mean life-long happiness. Those three words spell trouble for me. I don't want any part of them ever again.

But don't you see what that attitude's doing to you? Dean had sweetly argued, trying again to slip the ring onto her finger.

Bridget had pulled back, flipping the ring box Dean's way, then had crossed her arms and hugged her elbows in defiance saying, I date, Dean.

He had caught the tumbling box as efficiently as he had her pitches on the softball field, when they had been the perfect pitcher-catcher combo of their telemarketing's winning team.

Cautiously, he had replied through an affectionate grin, concerning her dating statement reply, as he had closed his hands around the ring and its box. That's not the best way to find your soulmate.

That thirty-ninth birthday night last year, while alone at home, Bridget had thought about the engagement ring, Dean's words, and of her saying "no," as she had stared at a company softball photo on her cellphone. A picture in which "Pitcher Bridget" had been standing next to "Catcher Dean," after her having thrown her first no-hitter—on the day that her divorce had been finalized.

I was talking with my mouth earlier...buddy. Not my heart, Dean. I love you, too.

The day after her thirty-ninth birthday last year, Bridget had sensed it was too late to fix things. But how could that have been true back then? She had known that prior to Dean's marriage proposal—and his promotion three years earlier—he had always been there for her. Why wouldn't he continue to be by her side?

And since becoming a widower at the age of thirty-three himself, from that time until Dean was thirty-six, he had also, often, treated Bridget to lunch at Susie's—the roadside diner not far from where they had worked together, before his promotion. They, too, during those earlier years, had gone for weekend walks as friends in the park, had frequently dined out as a "couple," and had seen movies together as buddies.

But after Dean had turned thirty-six, and management had embraced that new software program to run the company's computer system, things had changed.

Still, that's when Bridget had started seeing him in an even more affectionate light.

Either learn the new computer system or be replaced, had become management's latest unwritten office policy, at that time. And as Dean had easily grasped the system, Bridget and the other employees were thankful—he had had a true gift for learning quickly, and the ability to teach others well.

Dean's "genius" hadn't gone unnoticed by corporate executives, either. In short order, the powers that be had promoted him to company supervisor—someone who would oversee computer operations for twenty company offices around the country.

Bridget had thought that to be all well, fine, and good, but the promotion had required Dean to travel. She had known that telling him she loved him, at that point, would have been good for her, but what about for Dean?

When she had weighed the options, Bridget just hadn't thought it fair to bog Dean down by revealing how she felt about him—at the most important time in his career. How would he have been able to pursue what he had wanted, if he had to be with her? So, she had closeted her feelings. And, convincing herself that—even after five years—her divorce wounds were still too fresh for her to fall in love with Dean, she had just wished him well in his new job position.

Then, for the next three years—from ages thirty-six until thirty-nine for both of them—Bridget and Dean had only seen each other at company functions, and every encounter had been uneasy.

Today, as Bridget sat in Susie's Diner—having escaped the fortieth birthday celebration for Dean—with her right elbow on the table, and her cheek resting sadly on its hand's palm, she aimlessly fork-pushed food about her plate, with the utensil in her left hand.

"Penny for your thoughts," said the owner coming to stand at the booth's side.

"No dessert," Bridget sighed, not lifting her head, eyes, and dropping her fork. "Thanks just the same, Susie."

"Honey," replied Susie, compassionately putting her arm around Bridget's shoulder, and leaning down closer to her. "You look like a woman with a lost love on her mind."

"I do?"

Susie nodded, and as she stood erect again she chuckled out, "And I don't think our most popular dessert would even do it."

"You don't?"

"Nope," shot back Susie, pencil-tapping her order pad. "You need something stronger to get you out of your love-woe funk, honey. Try our day special. We call it a...'Dean Roth.'"

A delighted grin parted Bridget's lips, as she lifted her head and saw Dean standing next to Susie.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Susie winked at Bridget, turned and did likewise to Dean, then skipped away.

"So. Can I...sit down?"

"Uh...."

Bridget's mouth went dry. She could think of nothing to do except to jump up from the booth. Then, taking a wobbly step toward Dean, she sang out in hesitation, "Is...today...your...birthday?"

Dean's twinkling eyes sent calm radiating through Bridget.

"I thought you knew," he said, raising his brow, bringing forth the birthday card that had been signed by all of the office employees.

Bridget's face reddened with embarrassment. "Oh. Well. Happy Birthday, then...again." She extended her hand for a shake, cool as a cucumber.

Dean's lips curved upward in contemplation. "I've received enough today just by your signing this card, Bridget. They say, though, it's better to give, than to receive. I can only hope that my gift to you now is just as rewarding...and acceptable."

As their hands further locked in a shake, to Bridget's surprise, she felt what she thought the ring box of old sandwiched between their palms.

"I asked corporate to give me a permanent spot at this office again," he added. "And my request was approved."

"You mean. No...more...traveling?"

He nodded.

"How that warms my heart, buddy."

He started to lower to one knee, as his face lit. "Mine, too."

Tears filled Bridget's eyes, and her lip began to quiver as Dean slipped the sparkling diamond ring onto her finger.

"Will you marry me, Bridget?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed through a full face of exuberance and happy tears, as Dean stood beaming. Then, falling into his arms they kissed, all the while sharing what they felt to be their hug for a lifetime.