A Tail for Two

by Mara Wells

  Lance leaned across the table and placed his hand over hers on the table. “I want to know everything. You owe me that much at least.”

  Carrie refused to acknowledge the warm thrill of his skin touching hers or the way his heat simmered up her arm and made her stomach fluttery. This was not a first date, and these were not signs of chemistry and compatibility. Old habits, that’s all. She took a long sip of tea, lifting the cup with her free hand, and regarded him over the rim.

  “You didn’t want children.” The best defense is a good offense, right? Her mother would be proud, even if Carrie wasn’t. She’d never wanted to replicate her parents’ communication style, but under stress, that was what popped out. Every time. She said things she couldn’t walk back, and that was how she’d pushed Lance away. She didn’t want to push him away today, but she didn’t want him too close, either.

  “Neither did you.” He removed his hand from hers and crossed his arms over his chest. “So what happened?”

  “I got pregnant. Obviously.” Okay, not her most brilliant comeback, but she was busy refusing to mourn the loss of his touch. She’d always had a thing for Lance’s body. All that muscle, the scrape of his stubble against her face in the morning, the rasp of his callused hands across her skin. Yeah, she’d missed him. So what? They were different people now. People who happened to share a child. She took a deep breath and another sip of tea and started over. “I made one attempt to tell you.”

  Lance raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Not very hard, apparently. What happened? You chickened out?”

  “Rachelle answered the door. With a ring on her finger.” She clipped out the words, angry that they still had the power to hurt her. “So yeah, I chickened out. I didn’t want to ruin your new, childless life.”

  “Ouch.” Lance uncrossed his arms and leaned toward her. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize until later what a mistake she was. For me, I mean. I’m sure she’s making someone else very happy now, but she and I didn’t last six months. Classic rebound, right?” He angled his head to the side like this was a story he told many times, waggling his eyebrows to indicate she was supposed to laugh. She didn’t.

  “Oh.” Carrie lost the thread of her story. If only she’d tried again later, things might’ve been totally different. Her fingers drummed the table, a nervous outlet for the energy that urged her to reach for his hand and enfold it in hers. Her brain totally understood what was happening, but her body was simply overjoyed at his nearness. Even her feet inched toward him under the table. She crossed her ankles to put a stop to the nonsense. He was not a magnet, and she was not some abandoned paper clip drawn to his energy field. End of story. “I should’ve called you. Again, I mean. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand. It’s just how you are, right?” Lance lifted his coffee with both hands and knocked back a few swallows. “Total sum game. One screwup and everything’s over. No mercy.”

  Carrie winced. Not a flattering description of what she considered her decisiveness and tenacity. “You’re not being fair. I was pregnant, divorced, hurting. I can admit that I might not have been thinking at my clearest back then.”

  “And since then?” Lance’s blue eyes, so deep and dark, searched her face.

  She scraped her upper lip with her teeth, tasting the lipstick on her tongue, and tried to think of a good excuse for why she hadn’t reached out to Lance a second time. She could think of lots of bad excuses: fear, selfishly wanting Oli to herself, pride. But a good excuse? Not a one came to mind.

  “I’m sorry, Lance.” Her hands, the traitors, reached across the table for his. “I really am.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He flipped his hands to curl his fingers with hers. “I’m sorry, too. Sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me. I was pretty messed up back then.”

  She blinked really fast, trying to hold back tears that threatened to flood her eyes. “What do you want to do? Now that you know?” She knew what she was afraid of—that he’d marshal all the Donovan wealth and influence and take her son from her. And maybe she deserved it. After all, wasn’t that what she’d done to him?

  “I’d like to get to know him. My son.” He unclasped their hands, and Carrie again fought that sense of loss. He wasn’t hers to keep. That was what divorce meant. She was grateful, though, that he didn’t think like a Donovan, that his ask was so reasonable and nonthreatening.

  She gave him a shaky smile. “He’d like that, I’m sure.”

  “And Beckham.” Lance tipped his chair back on two legs. “I miss my dog.”

  Carrie let out a nervous laugh. “The two of them together? It’s a lot. Fair warning, that’s all I’m saying.”

  His laugh joined hers, and she dug her phone out of her bag. “Shall we set a playdate then?”

  “What am I, two years old? Can we call them something besides ‘playdates’?” But he got out his phone, too.

  A series of bings caught both their attention. She opened the dating app and saw that she’d missed a handful of messages from potential first dates numbers fourteen and fifteen. She shook her head, knowing she should accept the meetings. She’d never find someone if she didn’t look, after all, but the whole numbers game of it all was so depressing.

  “Who is it?” Lance glanced up from his calendar app. “I’ve got a big job going right now, but I’m free weekends. How’s this Saturday?”

  Saturday? Her usual date night? Addison, the teen upstairs who usually watched Oli, had been less and less available as she got more involved with drama club at school. Had she stumbled into a perfect baby- and dog-sitting situation?

  “Saturday could work.” Carrie thumbed up her calendar. “I might have a date. How would you feel about hanging at my place? I could have Mom on standby in case you need anything.”

  “A date? You’re seeing someone?” Lance was trying to look uninterested, but she could tell from the increased bounce of his knee that he was, in fact, interested in her answer.

  “I’ve got a few possibilities. I’ve been doing the online dating thing.”

  Lance let out a long, dismissive snort. “Waste of time, if you ask me.”

  “Well, I didn’t.” Although she hadn’t wanted to go on a date very much at all, his attitude made her double down. Oh, she was going on a date alright. This Saturday. Right in front of him. And there was nothing he could do about it. She’d work out all this longing with someone else. That was the healthy way to handle the stirring Lance evoked from her. Wasn’t it? It was. A few clicks and Mr. Fourteen was all lined up. Take that, treacherous body.

  Lance gave her one of his calculating looks. When he was working on a job site, it meant a problem needed fixing and he was figuring out the best approach. Aimed at her, she wasn’t sure what it meant.

  His lips stretched into a forced-looking smile. “Ditch the app. I know the perfect guy for you.”

  Now it was her turn to snort. “Really? And you’re going to set him up with me?”

  His hand smacked the table. “Absolutely.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Who is this guy? Someone you work with?”

  “You could say that.” Lance tucked his phone away after checking the time. “I need to get back to my site. Why don’t you swing by the Dorothy tomorrow?”

  “You’ll introduce us?” Carrie handed her phone over for him to enter the address. “Really?”

  “The man needs no introduction,” Lance said grandly and typed into her phone.

  She took her phone back and placed it facedown on the table. “This I’ve got to see.”

  Lance hit his forehead like he’d forgotten something. “That reminds me. This project I’m working on? We’re going to need an interior designer. You should throw your hat in the ring.”

  “Really?” Carrie thought about how much work Dimitri’s restaurants were going to be, but she wasn’t so fi
nancially stable that she could bat away new leads without some consideration. Besides, back in the day, she and Lance had made a pretty great team. She was still proud of the projects they’d worked on together. In the end, it had been all bitterness and fighting over every decision—like a five-cent difference per foot in material costs would end the world—but they were both different now. He seemed much mellower than the driven-to-prove-himself Donovan black sheep, and Lord knew, motherhood had brought out a type of patience and perseverance she’d never known she possessed. Yeah, it could be different this time around. Working together, that is. “It’s not a terrible idea.”

  “Yeah, I’m known for my not-terrible ideas.” He grinned at her. “Seriously, come check it out. Luckily, you happen to know a guy who has some say in the final decision.” He threw down enough money for both their drinks and a generous tip for the waiter they’d barely seen and walked away.

  Man, she loved to watch Lance walk away. He had the nicest ass.

  Chapter 8

  Carrie enjoyed the smooth ride up the express elevator to Kristin Beaudry’s penthouse home, the quiet glide up sixty stories, a quick trip that gave her just enough time to check her outfit in the sliver of mirror that bisected the back wall of the elevator car. The mirror was small enough that it didn’t force anyone to check themselves out but large enough to allow for a nervous Nellie like herself to straighten her hemline and check her lipstick. It also reflected another mirror strip on the ceiling, a safety precaution for anyone facing the door but wondering what the people behind her might be doing.

  On this ride, Carrie was alone, and she was glad for it. Although she religiously checked herself for baby barf and dog hair every time she left her condo, she still found mystery stains and errant hairs once she was out in the real world. This morning had been especially hectic. After her early run with Oliver in the stroller and Beckham bouncing along beside them, she’d been in a rush to get to Kristin’s but her mother was late—construction traffic, she’d explained when she finally showed—and Carrie’d sprinted to her car, not an easy feat in four-inch heels but also not her first time doing the tiptoe prance. At least the drive to the penthouse was uneventful, and she’d splurged on valet parking, just this once.

  Carrie pulled a travel-size roller from her bag and gave her chocolate pencil skirt one last go-over before the doors spread open. Stuffing the roller back in her bag, she was pleased to see only a few dark hairs caught on the sticky tape. Details were important when meeting with a client, and she’d already gotten some details wrong with Kristin.

  For one, she was supposed to have checked on the bathroom’s progress yesterday, but after her coffee confessions with Lance, she’d been so drained that the short drive to the downtown penthouse had felt more like a cross-country drive. So she’d called Kirk, the contractor on the project, who’d told her, yet again, that things were a bit behind schedule and that the next day would be better for her to come by. Kristin’d agreed to the change in schedule, but Carrie still felt like she’d let her client down. No matter. She’d make it up to Kristin today. She straightened the exaggerated cuffs of her button-down silk shirt and reviewed the project timeline in her head. There had to be a way to get things back on track and finish on time.

  The elevator opened onto Kristin’s floor, a floor she had all to herself. The front door was already ajar, and Carrie heard the buzz of a tile saw in the distance. Carrie frowned. Kirk was supposed to be done with the installation earlier today, and although generally being a few hours off schedule wasn’t a big deal, the schedule had already been delayed three times due to Kirk’s unexplained setbacks.

  “I swear, that noise is going to drive me batty.” Kristin appeared, a tall glass of lemonade in one hand, her other hand planted firmly on her hip. Kristin was a retired model who’d let herself gain an extra ten pounds since her runway days, which still made her the thinnest woman Carrie’d ever seen in real life. Tall and willowy, Kristin always reminded Carrie of one of those skinny palm trees reaching high into the sky. Her outfit, a strapless lemon shorts romper, showed off her prominent clavicle. “Promise me today is the last day I have to hear that infernal buzzing.”

  “That’s what I’m here to check on.” Carrie smiled her most reassuring smile. She liked Kristin and wanted Kristin to like her, or at least the work she did. Kristin’d moved into this apartment six months ago and was intent on a total makeover. She’d given Carrie a guest bathroom as a test. Carrie hoped to get an A+.

  Kristin took a sip of her lemonade and followed Carrie down the stretch of hallway that led to one of the guest suites. Carrie pictured the bathroom in her mind—not how it was when she’d first encountered it. No, that bathroom had been an homage to all things dark and slippery—black marble and chrome accents, an oversize walk-in shower and a too-small vanity. “Too masculine,” Kristin had called it. Too depressing was Carrie’s diagnosis. She reimagined the whole thing based on something Kristin said about her new home being a “piece of heaven” all for herself. Carrie didn’t do literal clouds and angels, but the gorgeous aurora marble with the pearl-glass inlays she’d picked out created a repeating abstract flower pattern, not too bold but enough to give a celestial feeling.

  The tile wasn’t suited for submersion in water, so the shower, which she’d made smaller to make more room for a luxurious vanity, was in durable white and silver-swirled marble. She’d brought in high-end fixtures with a champagne finish and fluffy towels in the highest thread count known to humankind.

  Carrie loved the design part of her job, of course, but if pressed, she had to admit that her favorite stage was at the end when she got to dress a room. She loved to fluff towels and pillows, to light candles and unwrap scented soaps, to place the perfect accent pieces that really bring a room to life. If all went well, tomorrow she’d be back for finishing touches. And if that went well, she could send Kristin the final bill. Hallelujah.

  “Kirk!” Carrie couldn’t see him yet, but his sporadic texts earlier in the day indicated he was on the job. She tapped lightly on the semiclosed bathroom door and waited for him to turn off the saw.

  “Come on in.” Kirk pushed protective eyewear to the top of his shaved head. “Looking good, isn’t it?”

  Mindful that Kristin was right behind her, Carrie verbally agreed. Mentally, she was horrified. Her beautiful aurora marble was slapped to the wall, grout still oozing from the seams, in a haphazard pattern that occasionally resulted in a delicate five-petal flower. Her eyes flew around the room. Only two days ago, she’d signed off on the shower, and today she was pleased that at least her vanity looked good. Except.

  She touched her finger to the top of the counter, skating it around the curve of the sink’s edge. “This isn’t what I ordered.”

  “Closest thing to it.” Kirk used a dirty rag to swipe at some of the drying grout on the wall. “Your special order never arrived. Had to go with plan B.”

  “Plan B?” There was no plan B. Kristin’s bathroom was supposed to be plan A all the way.

  “Excuse me.” She spun to block Kristin’s view of the bathroom. “We seem to have a misunderstanding.”

  “We do?” Kristin arched a thin eyebrow at her.

  “Kirk and I.” Carrie squeezed her purse strap until her fingers turned white. “Do you mind if I have a few words with Kirk? Alone?”

  Kristin’s other eyebrow joined the first, a move that should have wrinkled her forehead, but it didn’t. Not at all. Kristin’s face was as line-free as a baby’s bottom. “Be my guest.”

  “Thank you.” Carrie backed into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. “What the hell, Kirk?” she hissed, aware that Kristin was likely still on the other side of the door but too furious not to confront Kirk right this second.

  Kirk leaned a hip against the vanity. His work boots and jeans were splattered with old paint and fresh grout. His arms crossed over his chest.

&n
bsp; “Are you still mad about the schedule? It’s not my fault all your special orders took so long to come in.” Kirk’s lips thinned into a straight line. His gaze raked her carefully chosen outfit, quickly taking her measure and dismissing her. “Someone had to get this project back on schedule. My men don’t work for free.”

  Carrie would’ve argued with him, pointed out that his job was installation, not design, but she was too horrified by the fixtures in the shower.

  “Bronze?” She meant to hiss it, but her building rage pushed the words out at full volume. “What happened to my champagne finish?”

  Kirk blinked at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You signed off on the shower two days ago.”

  “I know what I signed off on, and it wasn’t bronze fixtures. Why would you switch them out? Is that why the tiling is behind? And also, what are you doing with my tile work? It’s a total disaster.”

  Kirk pushed off the vanity and attempted to loom over her, not difficult since he was close to six feet, but she was only five inches shorter than he was and she had on four-inch heels, so she glared right back.

  “Kirk, what have you done to my bathroom?”

  His silence condemned him. She knew the scam—cutting corners, switching out cheaper materials and pocketing the difference. He’d been so blatant about it. And God, her poor tiles. How was she going to salvage them?

  “If you don’t like my work, you’ll have to fire me. But you’ll still owe me for all my time.” His biceps bulged like he was fighting to keep himself from reaching out to shake her, but his hands stayed firmly in his armpits.