"Mr. Harcourt!"

  "Is this about the house or are we just chit-chatting?"

  "You—"

  "Sorry, you obviously have something to add," I sighed, even as my mind drifted. It was why I had stopped going to church when I got old enough to decide for myself. I had informed my grandmother that I always felt bad because I would be thinking about chocolate chip cookies or something when I was supposed to be thinking about God.

  "Do you have any idea how obnox—"

  "You know what the coolest thing about driving is?" I asked, giving up for the moment on keeping myself on task.

  "What? No, I do—"

  "Do you want to know?"

  "I—"

  "Do you?"

  "Mr.—"

  "Do you?"

  He took a breath, threw up his hands, and gestured for me to go ahead.

  "Okay, so the coolest thing about driving is that if you make an ass of yourself at one light—stall out, roll too far into the intersection, miss the turn light until somebody honks at you—whatever, I mean it doesn‘t matter ‘cause by the time you get to the next light you‘re with a whole new group of drivers that don‘t know you from Adam.

  You‘re new. You‘re just another asshole in a car that‘s drivin‘ along just like them. I love that. It‘s like a do-over at each red light."

  He was just staring at me.

  "Cool, right?" I waggled my eyebrows at him.

  His eyes, which were really a lovely shade of sky blue, were fixed on mine.

  "So let‘s have a do-over. I‘m sorry for insulting your complete lack of interest in your own home, and you will forgive my blunt analysis of your colossal failure. How‘d that be?"

  His mouth was open, but nothing came out.

  I looked over at Michelle. "I tried."

  She was just staring at me.

  Gina Bailey, the only other counselor in the group I was in, knew better than to let me talk to clients. Michelle, apparently, had not gotten the memo. And I had tried to make myself scarce. It wasn‘t my fault that the man was following me around.

  I had to try and fix it. "Lemme ask you a serious question," I said, rounding on Hayes Fisher. "Do you or do you not want somebody special in your life?"

  "What?"

  "Isn‘t the point of all this for you to show off to everyone that you‘re a catch?"

  "The point of this is to—"

  "It‘s to find someone to marry, right? I mean, instead of going out and dating and doing the hard work yourself, you‘re going through us, through a service, and we‘re gonna throw a huge party where you‘ll have a chance to show off your new digs and your money and where there will be several available women who are ready to settle down and become wives and mothers. Am I right?"

  He was at a loss, that much was obvious.

  "So suck up your pride about me telling you that this place looks like crap, which it does, by the way, and let us do our jobs without the hassle of listening to you moan and groan about how the crack den here ain‘t so bad."

  "I‘m sorry?"

  I let my voice drop low. "Oh, you should be."

  "Crack den?"

  I shrugged. "It‘s gross."

  "I—"

  "Are we all gonna get along? Yes or no ‘cause I don‘t wanna send Wade out here if you‘re gonna give him crap. He‘s sensitive."

  "He‘s sens—"

  "And a pompous ass, but that will work to your benefit because all he‘ll want is what‘s best for you."

  He stood there, staring at me.

  "So," I asked him, "are you in or are you out?"

  "I… Mr. Har—"

  "Jory," I corrected him, reaching out to give him a hard pat on the arm. "It‘s just Jory."

  "You—"

  "In or out?" I asked again, pressing for an answer.

  He stared at me for several minutes before he finally said, "In."

  "Great," I said, gesturing behind him to Michelle, who was beaming at me.

  He looked over his shoulder at her, and I went to move, but before I could, he was barring my path, sliding in front of me.

  "Something else?"

  "It‘s just a bachelor pad. They all look the same."

  "No," I assured him, stepping around him.

  He was back in front of me fast, so fast, in fact, that I had to freeze mid-step or walk into him.

  "What bachelors do you know?"

  "Ones with better decorators," I said, smiling at him.

  "I—"

  "Yeah," I said, glancing around, "this is a travesty."

  "Mr. Har—"

  "Jory," I corrected again, walking away from him, which cut him off. I was surprised when he followed me again.

  "Can you stop walking?"

  "I‘m working, Mr. Fisher," I informed him, smiling at Michelle, who looked pained again. "I don‘t get paid to just chit-chat all day."

  "What are you—"

  "Huh," I grunted as my eyes flew all over the room.

  "Can you quit with that?"

  "Sure," I said distractedly, looking at all the empty walls, the space. "Jesus."

  He looked at me, scowling. "What would you do differently?"

  "There‘s just so much you could do."

  "Like what?"

  "Like everything that Wade and his team suggest," I assured him. "Just be open to it."

  He was speechless as I turned away, squinting at the walls.

  "Wait."

  I looked back at him.

  "You—"

  "Hold that thought." I smiled quickly, leaving his bedroom,

  wrinkling my nose like something smelled.

  "What?"

  "Amazing," I said absently, taking in for the second time now the giant spool being used as a coffee table. I‘d thought maybe the first time I was just seeing things. But it was there, big as life, smack dab in the middle of his living room. "Who knew you could still even get one of those."

  "I—"

  "I need a picture," I said, snapping the photo, framing it so Wade could see all the wasted space in the room. "Wade‘s gonna pull something from laughing."

  "Mr. Har—"

  "Jory," I reminded him for what felt like the tenth time, leaving him alone so I could check one of the four unused bedrooms. It was full of sports equipment and athletic shoes. It smelled like wet dog.

  The second bedroom was the one for guests. If you were a parolee, you would feel right at home. Stark was an understatement.

  The third bedroom was being used as an office, and in his room there were mirrors on the closet doors that didn‘t fit and were cut in sort of squiggle shapes. I could not articulate my disgust. I took a picture for Wade, and the word "travesty" was texted back. I grunted my agreement.

  I went to the kitchen, pulled out my laptop, and started uploading all the pictures I had taken. I sent them all to Wade and got a call back in five minutes. It was a new record.

  "Hello, devil," he greeted me, "I didn‘t know they had reception in hell."

  I chuckled at the cool, cultured voice giving me sarcasm. "Oh, but they do."

  "Seriously," he said, coughing, "I thought you were screwing with me with the plant hanger, trying to get me to laugh because I‘m stuck here working on Saturday instead of antique shopping with my man, but now I gotta ask… am I actually looking at a beanbag chair?"

  "You‘re fulla shit. Antique shopping, my ass. Whaddya really shop for?"

  Beats of silence went by.

  "Wade."

  "So I‘m in the market for a motorcycle, so what?"

  I chuckled.

  "Don‘t tell anyone. All I‘ll hear about is a fuckin‘ midlife crisis that I‘m not having."

  "Okay," I assured him. "Not a word."

  He grunted. "Now, seriously… is that really a beanbag chair?"

  "His friends‘ kids like it," I said cheerfully.

  "Super, let‘s get something cool for them like a trampoline with netting for the backyard. The kids will love it, and it won‘t be an eyesore in the man‘s house. God, it‘s lime green too."

  "It‘s the least of his problems."

  "Oh, amen," he agreed wholeheartedly.

  "Me and Michelle should be there around one."

  "I‘ll have a martini waiting."

  I was laughing when I hung up, turning off my camera.

  "You don‘t have to plug it in?"

  I turned to look at my client, who I hadn‘t realized was there.

  "I‘m sorry?"

  "Your camera?"

  "No, it‘s Bluetooth," I told him, "and I‘ve got wireless, so the horror has been documented and sent on to frighten colleagues of mine."

  "Just—"

  "You know," I said, looking at him as I stuffed my laptop and camera back in my courier bag, giving him an indulgent smile, "it‘s so much worse than I ever imagined possible, Mr. Fisher. Really, it‘s like a bad porno set in here."

  "I will give you that it‘s a little bare, but—"

  My groan cut him off. "This place so needs a makeover. It‘s a wonder you‘re not suicidal."

  He swore under his breath.

  "And it‘s lucky you don‘t have kids yet ‘cause all the open space would be creepy at night."

  "What are you—"

  "It must be scary as hell in here in the dark. When I was little, we just had a trailer, but even then when I woke up in the night, I used to pretend I was Frankenstein, ya know? I‘d walk to the bathroom moaning, making the growling sort of noise he makes, doing his walk with my arms out ‘cause I figured if the other monsters thought I was a monster, then they wouldn‘t try and get me."

  He was staring at me, openmouthed.

  "What?"

  "You just… you…."

  I smiled wide. "Back to the house, Mr. Fisher, I promise when we‘re done, with the budget you‘ve given us and the free rein over design, it will be stunning, okay?"

  He was still looking at me weird.

  "Mr. Fisher?"

  "Is it really so horrible now?" he asked, flopping down onto one of his kitchen chairs. It creaked under his weight.

  I looked at him and pointed. "That‘ll hafta go too."

  "Christ," he muttered.

  I had to laugh.

  His scowl deepened. "So what are you gonna do?" he asked me, his voice pained.

  "Not me. Like I told you, the interior design team. That‘s a whole separate entity."

  He looked up at me, and I wasn‘t sure what I saw there.

  "Mr. Fisher, I swear to God you don‘t have to see me again until your big night."

  "Mr. Harcourt, you—"

  "Okay," I announced, "well, I gotta go because I‘m starving, but another team will be in touch to go over timelines with you, and invitations and the list of who you want and who you don‘t." I offered him my hand.

  He looked dazed, but he took my hand, and we shook.

  I moved away from him, walking over to Michelle.

  "I remember now," she said, grinning at me, "you maul people into submission."

  "That‘s right." I winked at her, grabbing her hand and tugging her after me.

  "Jory," she said, laughing, "I have to say good-bye to the man."

  "Fine," I grumbled, letting her go. "I‘ll meet you at the restaurant. I‘ll go get a table."

  "Wait."

  "What?"

  "I don‘t know where I‘m going."

  I squinted at her. "For French Toast, of course."

  "How was I supposed to know that? And please tell me where we‘re going?"

  I was used to traveling with Dylan. My best friend never missed a beat of what was going on in my head. I had to stop expecting it of others. I gave her the name of the place and told her where it was.

  "Okay," she said, smiling at me, the adoration there in her eyes.

  "I‘ll meet you there."

  "Are you bringin‘ the whole team?"

  "No, doll, it‘s just you and me."

  "Good," I said, even though I liked the rest of the team. I just wasn‘t up to making conversation with the whole group.

  Halfway to the door, I turned around. "Everything‘s gonna be all right, Mr. Fisher," I assured him. "Michelle will plan the gala with you, Wade Fujihara will be here on Monday morning to go over the plans for renovating your space, and then someone else will be by with photos of the women interested in becoming your missus."

  He just stared at me, mouth open.

  "Maybe if you play your cards right, then the night of the party you could get your date to stay over ‘cause you really look like you need to get—"

  "Jory!"

  "What?"

  Her expression was priceless.

  "I thought clients wanted to be talked to like regular people?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "Jory!"

  Crap.

  "Go to the restaurant, already. I‘ll be there right behind you."

  She wanted me out. I didn‘t need to be told twice.

  I was scaling the front steps back down to the sidewalk when my name was called. Turning, I looked back up to the front door to find Hayes Fisher standing there, looking down at me.

  "Yeah?" I called out.

  He shook his head. "What kind of manners are those, not even offering your client lunch?"

  "You mean brunch," I corrected him.

  "You‘re kind of an ass, Mr. Har—Jory."

  "Kind of?" I teased him.

  "Why don‘t we all have brunch with you?"

  "Why?" I asked, going back up the stairs I‘d just come down.

  "Why not?" he asked as I stepped in front of him.

  That kind of logic always worked on me. "Okay, sure," I said with a shrug.

  "Hayes?"

  We both turned to look at the scary-looking woman who had stepped out onto the porch beside him. I had never seen a scowl quite that dark—except for Sam‘s.

  "This is my assistant, Lisa, who Mrs. Cooper already met," he said, smirking at me. "Lisa, this is Jory Harcourt."

  Her brows furrowed. I widened my eyes and gave her my big smile, the one that made even my brother, even when he was furious with me, stop yelling and listen. For a second I thought maybe she was going to hold onto the whole prison-guard vibe she had going and not thaw, but then, suddenly, her eyes softened, and she melted.

  "It‘s a pleasure," she sighed, offering me her hand.

  "And you," I lowered my voice, making it deep, seductive as I took her hand and then covered it with my other.

  "Oh," Michelle breathed out as she too joined us.

  Mr. Fisher‘s mouth moved like he was going to speak, but instead he ended up just staring at me. I arched an eyebrow for him.

  "So are we going?"

  "Yeah, um… Lisa cleared my schedule, and so I thought I would invite myself along to breakfast, er, brunch. I wanted to talk more to Mrs. Cooper, and we‘re all hungry."

  "Michelle," she corrected him.

  "Michelle," he repeated.

  "Sure," I agreed, drawing Lisa forward, tucking her hand under my arm. "Your assistant should come too," I said, looking down into the girl‘s big blue eyes. "Us support staff hafta stick together."

  She nodded, taking hold of my arm as we started down the front steps. I heard Michelle growl behind me.

  Chapter Two

  THE place I wanted to go to was packed when we got there, so we were stuck waiting, sitting by the door where the draft was. Hayes suggested we try someplace else, but Michelle said that it wasn‘t possible once I got something stuck in my head.

  "It‘s true," I said, nodding. "I mean, if I don‘t get it now, I‘ll just want it, and so I‘ll eat more stuff to try and fill the void of something I want with something I don‘t, and we all know what that leads to."

  "No, what?"

  "Overeating," Lisa told him like he was stupid. "If you have what you want, then you‘re sated and eat only that. If you don‘t, you just eat and eat and eat until you finally just go back to what you really wanted and have that, but meanwhile you‘ve stuffed your face with every other thing that looked decent."

  Michelle grunted her agreement.

  He threw up his hands as my phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Is this Jory?"

  "Yeah, who‘s this?"

  "This is Eddie Liron, from last night."

  "Oh, hey." I smiled into the phone. "How are you?"

  "I‘m better‘n Josh Peretti, that‘s for sure," he snickered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You didn‘t see the paper this morning, huh?"

  "No, why?"

  "I guess Josh took that dive off his balcony that you saved me from."

  I was stunned. "Holy shit."

  "I know, right? What are the odds?"

  I had a pretty good idea. "Your brother was mad that you were threatened at Peretti‘s place. He expected you to be safe there, and then you weren‘t. He had to have been pissed."

  "He was."

  Older brothers got that way. They were protective. Not normally homicidally protective, but the point had been made. Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions, though. I had never even met Eddie‘s brother.

  "Hey, so I was calling to invite you over to my brother‘s place tonight. He wants to meet you and thank you for saving my ass."

  "Oh, that‘s not really—"

  "Yeah, it is. You saved my life."

  "I didn‘t really do—"

  "Yeah, ya did. Come on, I wanna see ya, so show up, all right? I want my brother to see that not all my pals are losers."

  I had to smile—since when were we friends?

  "Okay, sure."

  "I‘ll text you directions, okay?"

  I agreed, and when I hung up, I asked Michelle if Joshua Peretti was really dead.

  She scowled at me. "Who?"

  "Yes," Lisa answered me, pointing.

  Turning, I saw the stack of newspapers for sale beside the cash register. As I moved closer, I saw the headline and when I could, briefly scanned the article. Joshua Peretti had been drunk the night before and fallen from his penthouse. It was a horrible accident, and he would be missed by his family and friends and many colleagues.

  As a top philanthropist, his many civic improvements would be remembered.

  "Holy shit," I breathed out.

  "Since when do you know Joshua Peretti?" Michelle asked suspiciously.

  I knew the grin I gave her must have looked guilty from her immediate scowl.

  "Jory?"

 

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