by Mara Wells
She slicked back her hair—no time for a blow-dry—into a long, low bun and secured it with a jeweled barrette. She’d mastered the five-minute face but took an extra two minutes for eyeliner. After slicking on her favorite MAC Ruby Woo lipstick, she grabbed her portfolio bag, gave Oliver and her mom a quick kiss goodbye, and keys in hand, swung open her front door.
“Lance?” Carrie almost slammed the door in his face. Almost. Her fingers flexed on the brass doorknob, knuckles whitening. “How do you even know where I… Did you follow us from Fur Haven?”
Lance took a step forward like he was going to mosey on in, uninvited. She blocked him with her body, a move that brought them close enough that she could feel the heat of him. Lance’s body temperature ran higher than hers, a fact she’d appreciated on cold nights when she could roll them into a blanket burrito and steal all that delicious warmth. She shoved down the snuggle-rich memories and her ill-timed awareness of him and scowled. “Answer my question.”
“Public records.” He waved his phone at her, a phone that was two generations newer than hers but looked twice as beat up. He’d always been hard on phones, going through LifeProof cases faster than she could order them on Amazon. Too bad their marriage hadn’t been LifeProofed; she wouldn’t be scrambling now to avoid justifying some pretty unjustifiable behavior on her part.
“Uh-huh.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tasted her own lipstick. Damn it. Now she’d have to reapply it in the car, never the best idea with such a dark red. If she’d learned anything from watching her parents fight, it was to be on the offensive. “Still creepy. Extra creepy.”
“What? That I found your deed in public records? It’s not that hard. They are, you know, public.” He shoved his phone in his back pocket, and she hated that she couldn’t look away from the way the movement tightened his pale-blue T-shirt across his pecs. If anything, Lance looked even more built than when they’d been together. He might own his own company, but he’d never been the kind of manager who could stay off a job site. Looked like he still didn’t—the way his T-shirt hugged him tight enough to hint at the hard abs underneath spoke to hundreds of hours of physical labor.
“Comforting.” She smacked her lips, hoping the color would even out on its own. Goodness, it was hard not to stare at those abs. “You should’ve tried my phone instead. I don’t have time for you right now.”
Lance snorted. “Some things don’t change.” He leaned a forearm against the doorframe, his body inches from hers, that heat moving over her, through her. “But you owe me an explanation. Big time.”
An excellent point. She swam through the dizzying number of hormones clouding her brain, fought past the urge to step into his arms and soak him up. She couldn’t let him see how his nearness affected her. No weakness allowed.
“You’re right, and I will explain.” She pushed her carefully manicured pointer finger into the center of his chest with a tap-tap meant to annoy him away from noticing how her breath hitched when she touched him. “But now is not that time. I’m meeting a new client.”
“Different year, same song. People really don’t change, do they, Carrie?” Lance’s head tilted so his temple rested against the frame. His blue eyes bored into her, and it was all she could do to hold his gaze. In the first years of their marriage, she’d loved seeing herself reflected in his deep blues—smart, sexy, sensual. She’d had all the s-words going for her. She still saw s-words in his eyes, but it sure didn’t feel the same. Suspicious, skeptical, scornful.
Let him think whatever he wanted about her. If her silly heart bruised, so what? As long as he was mad at her, he wasn’t thinking about Oliver.
“You’re making me late.” She kept pushing with her finger, like drilling through granite, until he took a step back and then another one. “Text me. We’ll make an appointment.”
“So civilized.” His snarl was not.
She removed her finger from his chest and clicked the door shut behind her. “I hope we can be.”
He pulled out his phone and messaged her: Now is good for me.
She kept walking toward her SUV, but she returned the text before climbing into her Chevy: I’ll check my calendar and get back to you.
You have twenty-four hours before I call an attorney.
Carrie’s silly, bruised heart pounded hard in her chest. He wouldn’t, would he? She couldn’t take the chance, not with Oliver at stake. When you put it like that, you sweet-talker…
She let the three typing dots bounce for an ominous few seconds before sending the rest. Coffee? 2 p.m.?
He sent her a thumbs-up, and she added the first place that came to mind: The Coffee Pot Spot?
Her time, her place, her rules. She wouldn’t let Lance Donovan bully his way into her son’s life. But she did owe him an explanation and an apology. Luckily, she’d had three years to rehearse her speech.
Chapter 4
Lance watched until the front gate slammed behind Carrie, the scent of her fresh from the shower still in his nostrils. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and plunked onto the top of the three stairs that led up to her ground-level condo. What had he thought would happen? Of course she didn’t have time for him. Wasn’t that always their problem? Two workaholics, one relationship. A bad combo from the beginning. Still, he couldn’t quite quell the curiosity he felt about the new client. Who was she working with? Was it a big account? Small? How was her business doing? More importantly, was she able to provide Oliver with the kind of life he deserved?
A line of industrious ants detoured around his booted foot, angling toward the edge of the step and into the lush but overgrown tropical garden. An out-of-control bougainvillea bush covered the back fence, undoubtedly a cheap security measure as anyone trying to climb over the back gate would have to contend with hundreds of spiky thorns. The fuchsia blooms were lovely, as were the bird-of-paradise flowers planted to the right of Carrie’s stoop. However, both could use a good pruning.
Carrie’s place was comfortable but not fancy, lots of potential without a lot of follow-through. The paint job was a bright yellow with orange accents that had faded over the years to a melted sherbet hue. He was a handyman at heart, and he couldn’t help but note that the sidewalk could use a good pressure wash, and the whole place wanted painting. What the property really needed was an influx of cash, and he found himself wondering again what Carrie’s financial situation was. Surely, if she’d needed money for Oliver, she would’ve reached out to him. Knowing her stubborn streak, he couldn’t quite let his worries go. He didn’t want his son growing up without financial stability.
Of course, Lance knew from firsthand experience that an excess of money did not equal a happy childhood or close family bonds. Money can’t buy happiness, but he’d found it easier to be happy when he wasn’t worried about having the lights turned off if he didn’t make his payment on time. The first few years out of the Donovan nest had been rough. He’d refused any money from his well-meaning mother. If his father had offered to help, Lance wouldn’t know. He’d never answered his calls.
Yeah, he’d made some mistakes, but they were his mistakes to make. He’d gotten the power turned back on the one time he’d missed a few too many of Florida Power & Light’s deadlines, found new roommates when old ones disappeared in the night owing two months’ rent, and learned how to cook ramen and eventually any other kind of noodle that needed boiling before eating. He was proud to be something of a connoisseur of the Publix spaghetti sauce aisle, having different flavors that suited different nights of the week and different moods. He remembered Carrie’s favorite had been the Parmesan and Romano marinara. He hadn’t eaten it in years, but he suddenly found himself craving it at—he checked the time—nine thirty in the morning.
“Lance?”
The familiar voice made him leap to his feet, inadvertently squashing some ants in the process. “Sherry! Long time, no see,
huh?” He immediately felt like an idiot. Of course they hadn’t seen each other in years. He was the ex-son-in-law after all. What reason could they possibly have to stay in touch? But when he turned toward her, he saw one very large reason propped on her hip stuffing a handful of soggy Cheerios into his mouth. Oliver.
“She finally told you?” Sherry blew straight up, causing her bangs to bounce over her eyebrows before settling back down. “It’s about time. I’ve been on her since the beginning. You had a right to know.”
“Um, yeah.” Absentmindedly, he reached down to scratch Beckham behind the ears. The dog melted against his leg, and Lance bent his knees to scoop the dog up.
“Too bad you never returned any of my calls.” Sherry covered Oliver’s ears like he was the hear-no-evil monkey. “I tried. I really did.”
Shit, she was right. She’d called him a bunch of times in that first year of the divorce, but he’d always sent the calls to voicemail. You need to talk to Carrie. She’d left a dozen similar messages. You need to hear what she has to say. He’d hit Delete and erase the call log so Rachelle wouldn’t ask uncomfortable questions about why his ex-mother-in-law was up in his business. He’d thought Sherry took the divorce a bit too hard, harder even than Carrie apparently had, but he’d rationalized that Sherry’s emotional state was no longer his concern. If she returned to drinking, well, Carrie could take the blame for that, too. He’d been wrong, though. So wrong. He should’ve picked up the phone at least once. Maybe then he wouldn’t have missed the first few years of his son’s life.
He couldn’t say all that, not after having brushed her off all those years ago. He settled for a polite and, he hoped, friendly sounding, “Where are you off to on such a fine day?”
It wasn’t that fine a day. It was, in fact, overcast and rumbling like rain wasn’t too far off, which was sure to upset the tourists who flocked to Miami Beach for high season. But the subtropics did what they did, and no amount of tourist cash could change the weather. Besides, he didn’t know how he felt about Sherry taking care of Oliver. He remembered too well her many trips to rehab and Carrie’s heartbreak every time her mother went back to the bottle. At least today, Sherry’s eyes were clear, her skin creamy and bright. A lot can change in nearly four years, he reminded himself, and looking at Oliver, it struck him that a lot had changed in only one day. A son. His son.
“We’re going to take a stroll around the block.” Sherry pulled the dangling leash out of her front pocket and clipped it onto Beckham’s collar, conveniently at her eye level with Lance holding him. “They just got back from a big walk, but I always like to wear out the both of them before leaving Beckham in the condo while Oli and I run errands.”
“I can take him.” Lance didn’t know where the words came from. Him, watch a kid? Insane.
But Sherry misunderstood him. “Oh, I don’t know how Carrie would feel about that,” she said as she handed over the leash to Lance. “It would be a blessing, though, wouldn’t it? To have only one little terror to look after instead of the two? Oli and I could head to my hairdresser’s straight away if you had Beckham. You’ll have him back by lunchtime, won’t you? Oliver makes quite a mess, as I’m sure you can imagine, and I rely on that hyper dog to help with the cleanup.”
“I—uh—sure.” Lance looped the leash around his wrist, like he’d done in the old days to keep Beckham from ripping it out of his grip when he took off at a full run after whatever squirrel or tumbleweed of a plastic bag caught his eye.
“Fantastic. He clearly remembers you. It’ll be fine.” Whether Sherry was reassuring herself or him, Lance wasn’t certain. She patted his cheek like he was no older than Oliver. “You two be good. See you in a few hours.”
She swished out, much like her daughter, his son on one hip, diaper bag banging on the other. The front gate slammed behind her.
“Well, buddy, what do you want to do today?”
Beckham barked and wagged his tail.
* * *
Lance watched Mendo wipe muddy dog paws off the rough denim of his work overalls. He knew Mendo was over fifty, but he was afraid to guess how far past the midcentury mark he actually was because if Mendo ever decided to retire, Lance would be out one excellent construction foreman. In the early days, Lance did everything, but once Mendo came along, he’d been happy to give over the day-to-day management duties to someone else so he could better keep his eye on the big picture of the entire project.
“Dogs on-site now, eh, Boss?” Mendo squatted to scrub under Beckham’s chin. Behind him, the Dorothy stood in her dilapidated glory. “Reminds me of the old days. This dog looks a lot like your old one. Beckham, wasn’t it?”
“This is Beckham.”
Mendo kept up a steady two-finger rub, and Beckham’s back leg thumped wildly on the sandy ground. “Naw, that dog was a lot more trouble than this one. Couldn’t sit still to save his life.”
Lance kicked at a patchy section of weeds. “I guess we all mellow with age.”
Mendo barked out a laugh and stood. “True, too true. What’re you doing with him? Didn’t Carrie get custody in the divorce?”
The downside of working with the same foreman for a decade. He knew too much about everything. “We ran into each other this morning.”
“Mmm-hmm, and how was that?” Mendo’s face was carefully blank. He’d been against the divorce from the very beginning, calling Lance all kinds of stupid in both English and Spanish. On multiple occasions. “You stole the dog?”
“No, he’s on loan. Until lunch.” No need to get into the fact that Carrie didn’t know he had Beckham. Clearly, Sherry had executive decision-making power when Carrie left for work. That was what he told himself whenever a niggle of doubt crept into his mind. He’d taken good care of Beckham for the first years of his life. She’d have no reason to object to him dog sitting. Except she would, if she knew. So she wouldn’t know. Simple solution. It wasn’t like she could get mad at him for keeping secrets.
“How’s it going here?” Lance changed the subject deliberately, tugging the leash until Beckham came over and sat on the toe of his work boot. He’d never quite gotten the hang of the “heel” command. He was more of a “toe” dog.
“Bit of a hiccup. The van taking everyone to the port is late.”
Lance looked through the glass front doors of the Dorothy to see Riley pacing the hallway, cell phone to ear and arms waving wildly. Her hair was in its usual messy ponytail, and her bubble-gum pink T-shirt was bright enough that a lesser man might squint. He bravely looked on, sighing heavily. “Let me go see what’s happening. We’re supposed to be able to start with the roof today.”
“Two weeks is a pretty tight schedule, seeing as they’ve got a total of three old roofs to rip off before we can lay the new one.” Mendo chuckled and pulled out his phone. “Three roofs. What inspector signed off on that brilliant idea?”
“Codes change. Even the newest roof is old enough to vote.” Lance gathered his patience and settled it around himself like a cloak. It was a technique he used when dealing with especially fussy clients, but he had a feeling he’d need it for dealing with whatever chaos was brewing through those glass doors.
“I’ll let the guys know to take their time coming in this morning.” Mendo pulled out his phone, an older model that he kept in meticulous shape. Mendo was nothing if not a stickler for details. “Think we’ll be able to start by eleven?”
Lance tried to gauge Riley’s level of agitation from a distance. “Let’s say noon to be safe.” Then he remembered his coffee date, er, coffee appointment with Carrie. “You can handle the afternoon, right, Mendo?”
“Sure, Boss. Expecting to run into a certain someone again?” Mendo grinned at him, his teeth surprisingly white and strong for someone his age. Then again, maybe they were dentures. What did Lance know?
“We’re going to talk. Carrie and me,” he clarified, in case Mendo
thought he meant the dog. Why would he? The upcoming talk was making him edgy. Only one thing to do when his emotions got the better of him. Bury them in work. “I’m going in.” He handed the leash off to Mendo. “Wish me luck.”
Mendo laughed. “It’s going to take more than luck to get all those folks on their way. Imagine, a whole building going on vacation together? What kind of crazy is that?”
“My brother’s kind of crazy.” Lance sucked in a big breath and pushed open the doors. “Riley? What’s going on? How can my men get to work if you’re all still here, milling about?”
In fact, only two people sat on the ratty rattan sofa—Riley’s Grams in an oversize floppy straw hat and giant sunglasses next to Mr. Cardoza, a dapper older gentleman Lance met on his initial walk-through of the project. Grams was deep in a story, waving her hands around enough that Mr. Cardoza had to duck a few times to keep from getting whacked inadvertently.
“Grams!” Riley swerved to avoid a story-flailing hand. “Where’s GW? I thought he was going to be here by now.”
Lance grinned. He loved that Riley called his and Caleb’s Grandpa William “GW,” mainly because Grandpa William hated nicknames of any kind but for some reason had allowed Riley to make one up for him. Lance had been terrified of ol’ GW for most of his childhood, sure that he was being measured, judged, and found wanting at every meeting. Even when married to Carrie, Lance had found holidays and such to be more like command performances than actual family time.
Since Lance and Knox had been roped into Caleb’s crazy scheme to rehab the Dorothy, though, Grandpa William was practically jovial—popping in on the construction site without warning to give unsolicited but tolerated advice, insisting his three grandsons join him for outings on his boat on the weekends, even cracking the occasional off-color joke. No doubt about it, Grandpa William had changed. If Lance felt a twinge of loss at the idea that this version of Grandpa William would’ve made a better grandpa than the one in his childhood memories, well, he shook it off. Lance didn’t look back. In fact, his entire business was built on looking forward. Construction was all about improving the future.
