by Mara Wells
Caleb pointed at the glass doors. “We’ll be at the dog park if you need us.”
“Wait!” Riley busted through the stairwell door and into the lobby, wild strawberry-blond hair flying in all directions. “I want to go, too.”
“Didn’t Grams need you?” Caleb handed the leash to Riley. LouLou spun, managing to tangle her front legs in the nylon lead. Caleb knelt to untangle her.
“Classic Grams exaggeration.” Riley rolled her eyes. “What she needed was batteries in her TV remote changed. We’re good. Let’s go before another crisis arises. I wanted to talk to you about maybe changing venues?”
“That’s my cue.” Lance strode to the glass front doors and held one side open for his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. “No wedding talk in front of the bachelor.”
Riley turned wide eyes on Caleb. “You didn’t ask him?”
Caleb stood, LouLou’s leash free and clear. “When have I had the chance?”
“Now’s a good time.” Riley nudged him toward his brother. “LouLou and I will be outside. Catch up when you’re done.”
“Done? I don’t like the sound of that.” Lance crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing suspicious eyes at Riley.
Caleb ran a hand over his buzzed-short hair “Look, Lance, I know we haven’t always been close.”
“Like ever.” Lance snorted.
“But we are brothers.” Caleb plowed on, clearly uncomfortable. He rocked back and forth on his heels. “And I do need a best man for this wedding.”
“Me?” Lance rocked back on his heels, too. He’d almost forgotten to invite Caleb to his own wedding. It’d been his ex-wife, Carrie, who’d insisted on inviting his dad’s side of the family. He was glad she’d forced the issue, but at the time, he’d been angry at Caleb for doing nothing at his reception except drink by himself in the corner. No brotherly toast? What had he expected, though, from a brother he hadn’t talked to in years? Families were complicated, no doubt. “Best man?”
Caleb smiled. “Yeah, you. My big brother. My business partner. Who else?”
“Knox?” Lance named their oldest brother, throwing him under the bus in his panic to get out of anything having to do with weddings.
Caleb’s smile widened, the smug bastard. “Yep, Knox, too.”
“Well, you can’t have two best men.”
“Yes, I can. It’s my wedding. I make the rules.”
“That’s not how weddings work.”
“It’s how our wedding is going to work.”
“You really don’t want me.” Lance didn’t want to be the rain cloud on Caleb’s sunny day. He decided honesty was his best policy. Or whatever. “I’ll curse the whole day.”
“It’s important to me.” Caleb kept that patient smile on his face, reminding Lance of all the times his mother had come to pick him up and Caleb had stood outside the house waving and smiling until their car was out of sight. “It’s important to Riley.”
Lance sighed. He did like Riley. She’d done something to Caleb, made him less of a Donovan and more himself somehow. He sighed again. He’d known how this conversation would end as soon as it started.
“Fine. I’ll be your best man.”
Caleb slapped him on the back. “Excellent. Wait ’til you see the cummerbunds.”
Lance groaned. Weddings were so not his thing.
Chapter 2
“Hold on, you little pistol.” Lance tugged on LouLou’s leash, once again cursing himself for agreeing to poodle-sit for Caleb and Riley. They hadn’t even left on their cruise yet, an extravagant affair they’d arranged for the Dorothy’s second-floor residents to get them out of the building while the elevator was being replaced. The two occupied apartments on the first floor hadn’t wanted to be left out of the fun, so they got tickets, too. Leave it to his softhearted brother to foot the bill for a vacation. Then again, once the wheels of justice crushed the Dorothy’s former management company for embezzling funds from the building, Caleb would be well compensated.
Why was he letting this bossy canine pull him to the dog park again? Oh right. Caleb claimed Lance needed practice. Riley was anxious about leaving LouLou. Apparently, since adopting the small dog, Riley and LouLou had never been apart for more than a day. Riley would feel better, Caleb had explained, if she knew that Lance and LouLou were already pals before the trip.
Lance could empathize. When he and his ex-wife separated, she’d kept their Jack Russell, Beckham, and he’d missed the dog more than he thought he would. He missed the comforting lump of him under the covers, warming his feet in the night. He missed Beckham’s excited yip when someone knocked on the door and the crazy jumping for joy when Lance came home. No matter how late it was, Beckham was always thrilled to see him. His ex? Not so much. She’d roll to the edge of the bed when he climbed in, her back to him, pretending she didn’t know he was there.
It hadn’t always been that way, of course. In the beginning, they’d burned up that king-size bed in the bedroom she’d decorated in his favorite shades of blue. They’d doted on their puppy, taking long walks around the neighborhood and bringing him to weekend brunches on Lincoln Road. Waiters brought Beckham a bowl of water and a dog treat, and he’d settle under the table, happy to shred a paper napkin while Lance and Carrie shared a pitcher of mimosas. Not that he loved mimosas all that much, but they were Carrie’s favorite, so he sipped them and enjoyed how animated she’d get after the second one, waving her hands around and telling stories about work too loudly. Yeah, he’d loved that version of Carrie and, truth be told, missed her, too.
He shook off glum thoughts about his ex. Sure, there were things he’d do differently now, but ultimately, their breakup was for the best. One workaholic was tough on a relationship, but two ruined it. By the end, the only thing they’d had in common was Beckham.
LouLou halted in front of the dog park gate, waiting for Lance to lift the latch. Inside, she wiggled while he unhooked her and opened the second gate. He hung the leash on one of the many hooks mounted on the fence, watching as LouLou sprinted for a large black Lab lounging near one of the newly planted palm trees. The big dog rose to its feet, greeting LouLou with a butt sniff and a nudge on her side. Lance missed how it happened—secret signal? habit?––but the two took off at a run, LouLou weaving figure eights through the lush grass while her dog park buddy chased her.
“Good friends, aren’t they?”
Lance had to look down to see who was talking. A small, steel-haired woman grinned up at him, a tissue crumpled in one hand that she used to dab at the perspiration gathering on her hairline. Her tropical-print blouse was louder than the last rock concert he’d attended.
“Eliza.” He greeted the woman warmly, kissing both cheeks in Miami fashion. They’d had a few encounters when he’d been doing the planning stages for the renovation. She and her dog didn’t live in the Dorothy, but she enjoyed watching the goings-on from her house across the street.
“Is everything okay with Riley?” Eliza’s crinkled eyes showed more smile wrinkles, but now they were furrowed with worry. “Why do you have LouLou?”
“Practice for the cruise.”
“Ah.” Eliza’s face relaxed. “Me, I can’t stand those things. Long lines. Too many people. Good food, though. I’ll give ’em that.”
“So I’ve heard.” Lance couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a vacation. Was it? No, it couldn’t be. Surely he’d gone somewhere with someone since his and Carrie’s long weekend in the Keys right before the wedding. He simply couldn’t think of it right now. Tampa maybe? No, that had been for a job. Man, he needed some time off and a plane ticket to somewhere far away. Greece popped to mind, but no, that had been Carrie’s dream. The honeymoon they’d postponed and then never taken.
“Ah well.” Eliza called Lady to her. “Got some family coming into town soon, so I’ll have a full house. My brother, his k
ids, his grandkids. Amazing how time flies, isn’t it? Blink your eyes and the kids are grown. My oldest grandnephew just made partner at a law firm, if you can believe that!”
Lance made sounds of agreement, understanding this was the type of conversation that didn’t require a response, not unless he also had lawyer-type grandnephews, which he didn’t. Though he might soon, the way Caleb and Riley carried on.
“Anything I should worry about here?” Lance pointed out LouLou snuffling in the grass, tail wagging while she gleefully shoveled dirt with her nose. Better to change the subject before he was made captive to a detailed discussion about the life and career choices of all Eliza’s extended family. “It’s been a while since I had a dog.”
“That one can take of herself. Make sure you’ve got her leash on when you leave. She’s a runner. Riley can tell you; once she gets going, she’s hard to catch.”
“Duly noted.” Lance planted his hands on his hips and watched LouLou inspect the base of each weaving pole with her nose.
“Guess we’ll be seeing you around.” Eliza waved her tissue at him and strolled toward the gate, Lady trotting beside her.
Once both gates were closed, Lance relaxed onto a bone-shaped bench, tilting back his head with a long sigh. The past week had been a whirlwind of construction prep. And by whirlwind, he meant haunting city hall, waiting on permits to clear, and spending hours on the phone tracking deliveries. His nightmare scenario was that the residents would return from their cruise and the elevator wouldn’t yet be operational. Elevators weren’t his specialty, so he’d brought in an elevator company—one he’d worked with before—to handle the installation, but he was still the contractor and therefore still in charge of the schedule.
A cold nose nudged his hand where it rested on the steel bench. Thinking it was LouLou, he casually petted the dog’s head, but instead of the poodle puff, he encountered the coarse coat of a terrier. Lance opened his eyes and found himself staring into the eyes of an adorable Jack Russell. It had the same brown mask as Beckham, with the same white stripe between his eyes and the same white body with one large spot over his left hip.
“You could be Beckham’s twin, couldn’t you?” He scratched under the dog’s chin, exactly the way Beckham liked, and the dog’s tail beat wildly. “What do we have here?”
A mutilated tennis ball hung out of the side of the dog’s mouth. Lance played a bit of tug-of-war to free it, a game that made the dog’s tail beat even faster, and inspected the mangled toy. It was still roughly ball shaped, so he gave it a throw, and the dog tore after it, springing across the dog park as fast as his little legs would take him.
“That’s my dog.” A muddy hand slapped down on Lance’s jean-clad knee. A kid looked up at him with big, blue eyes set in a tiny but sharp face. His dark hair was cut short with a longer bang fighting back against the gel that was supposed to hold it out of the boy’s eyes.
“He’s a handsome fellow. Reminds me of my old dog.” Lance gently pried the child’s hand off his leg. He was in work clothes, so the dirt didn’t bother him. The kid’s parent was probably nearby, though, and he figured they didn’t need to find their son cuddled up to a stranger in a park. Didn’t they have programs in schools warning kids about stranger danger anymore? But this boy looked too young to be in school yet.
“My old dog,” the boy repeated, leaning against Lance’s leg.
Lance scooted over on the bench. Really, this kid needed to learn some boundaries. “Yes, I had a Jack Russell just like this one. His name was Beckham. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Beckham!” The boy clapped his hands together. “Beckham is a good dog.”
Lance didn’t have a lot of experience with young children, or any children for that matter. “Your dog is also named Beckham?” It seemed incredibly unlikely, but hey, who better to name an athletic, driven dog like the Jack Russell after than the retired footballer who’d inspired a whole generation of American soccer players? He’d certainly thought it was the perfect name when he and Carrie found the dog bouncing off the walls, literally, of his pen at the local animal shelter.
The boy clapped again. “Beckham!” The terrier bounded back, jumping higher than the kid was tall. Lance laughed at the sight. This Beckham was so much like his old dog that Lance’s laugh turned brittle. It was Beckham, his Beckham. His ex must’ve given his dog away to complete strangers.
Why? She knew he’d take Beckham back in a heartbeat, so the only reason that made any sense was malice. She’d fought to get ownership of Beckham and then given him away at the first chance, just to spite Lance. He’d never thought she was that cruel, but divorce showed you a lot of things about your mate that you didn’t necessarily want to see.
“Oliver! Beckham!” A woman’s voice caused both the boy and the terrier to spin toward the gate.
It couldn’t be, but of course it was. Dark hair pulled back in a smooth, high bun, coordinated leggings and tank top with green and gold accents, dark running shoes with gold laces. Even dressed for a workout, Carrie still managed to be chic. She held a smoothie in one hand, cell phone in the other. A small knapsack rode low on her back. He had time to take it all in, the very realness of her. Straight back, long neck. Sleek sunglasses that hid the hazel depths of her eyes. Was pineapple-mango still her go-to smoothie choice, or had her tastes changed in the years they’d been apart?
“Carrie.” The one word felt awkward on his tongue. Too heavy. Too unused. Even in his head, he usually called her his ex. Carrie felt too intimate. Held too many memories, memories he’d done his best to obliterate. Still, here they were, popped into his mind as fresh as the days they were made, as painful as the conversation where she’d handed him divorce papers. Yeah, Carrie.
“Lance?” She whipped off her sunglasses, and her gaze ping-ponged from where Oliver’s hand rested on Lance’s knee to Beckham’s enthusiastic licking of Lance’s work boots. “What’re you doing here?”
Her voice was the same, that low timbre that strummed through him, soothing nerves he hadn’t known were agitated until they calmed. Perhaps they’d been agitated for years, three years and nine months to be exact, but he pushed that thought away along with the other uncomfortable memories and forced a smile to his face. At least she hadn’t given his dog away. There was that to be grateful for at least.
“Caleb owns that building now.” He pointed toward the Dorothy with his chin. “Lives there, too. I’m watching his dog. Or rather, practice watching for when he and his fiancée, Riley, take all the old folks on the cruise.”
“You’re finally talking to Caleb?” Carrie shoved her sunglasses back on and took a visible breath, chest rising and falling, drawing his attention to how the workout wear outlined her breasts. Okay, he could admit he missed Carrie’s breasts, their weight in his hands, the way her nipples puckered before he even touched her as if anticipating the pleasure to come. That part of their relationship had never been an issue, and as he felt an ill-timed erection pushing against the fly of his jeans, he was hard pressed to remember exactly what all their issues had been.
“Uh, yeah.” His voice came out as awkward as his body felt. “We’re partners, actually. With Knox.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” She stood so still that he knew she was nervous. She’d trained herself to hide all signs of nervousness. Carrie was not a fidgeter. She clamped down on her muscles the same way she did her feelings—total control at all times.
“How’ve you been?” It should’ve been his first question. He knew how to schmooze clients, but his small-talk skills scrambled at the glimpse of skin through the mesh cutout that ran diagonally across her leggings. Just as well. She ignored his attempts at polite chitchat.
“Oliver, come here.” She held out her hand, and the grubby kid patted Lance’s leg and hopped over to Carrie. She stepped so that she was between the child and Lance. “We’ll leave you to it then.�
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“Wait.” It’d been so long since he’d seen her that he wasn’t quite ready to watch her walk away. “What’re you doing here? Do you live nearby?”
Carrie shook her head, the movement unsettling her bun. It didn’t fall, though. It wouldn’t dare. “Not exactly. We like to take Beckham on adventures. You remember how he is.”
“Our little Jack Russell terrorist.” Lance quirked a real smile her way, quoting a Jack Russell blog they used to follow when they first adopted Beckham. He’d been such a handful that they’d needed lots of advice. Luckily, the internet was full of it, and Jack Russell owners loved to talk about their rambunctious pets. Saying terrorist instead of terrier referred to how the little dogs took over your life and, if not exercised and kept busy enough, could wreak utter destruction in the home. “Still doing the big walk every morning, huh?”
Perhaps sensing the adults weren’t going anywhere soon, Oliver plopped onto the ground. Beckham trotted over and climbed into his lap, nudging the boy’s hand with his nose for petting. Lance remember that move all too well. How many mornings had Beckham woken him up with demands for attention? Carrie was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, so Beckham learned early that Lance was his best bet for an early-morning outing.
Carrie didn’t answer his question. “We should be going.”
Except Oliver and Beckham were now wrestling and oblivious to Carrie’s attempts to get their attention.
“Cute kid.” Lance didn’t want to ask, but he had to. “Your son?”
Carrie’s whole body stiffened. She nodded.
“How old is he?”
“Almost three.”
Lance let out a low whistle. “Dang, Carrie, you didn’t waste any time remarrying. And I guess husband number two talked you into kids, huh? Well, good for him.”
