by Elley Arden
Change My Mind
Elley Arden
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Elley Arden
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6877-4
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6877-0
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6878-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6878-7
Cover art © istock.com/phototropic; 123rf
To my amazing daughter, who isn’t quite old enough to read this yet, and to my sons, who protect her fiercely. The love between the three of you was the inspiration for the Parker family. Everyday I’m overcome with gratitude that you are mine.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
More from This Author
Also Available
Acknowledgments
Real life often acts as a starting point for fiction. It did for this book. While sitting in a beauty salon having my hair colored, the owner of the salon charged in with two thin, filthy dogs. The animals had been running in the street, and rather than have them hurt, she brought them in while she called their owner. As I sat there, watching this unfold, waiting for the dog’s owner to arrive, a story formed in my head. What if he was famous, or at least crazy handsome and single? What if he felt gratitude enough to ask the woman out on a date? I played around with those “what ifs” for months, and eventually Change My Mind was born.
I wish I could thank the owner of that salon for her heroic efforts that inspired this book. Unfortunately, she passed away a couple years ago. I like to imagine her smiling down on me, happy to have been a part of something like this.
CHAPTER ONE
Nel slammed the brakes and strangled the steering wheel, fighting the urge to close her eyes, praying at least one dog cleared her Volvo’s front end. Miraculously, both animals escaped disaster, dodging her car and scrambling across the empty lanes of traffic. They disappeared behind the big red sign that still made Nel’s heart skip a beat more than a year after its first appearance.
Parker Properties, Inc. — as in Penelope Parker. The satisfaction of owning a real estate agency never faded.
Smoothing her right hand beneath the navy blue lapel of her wool suit coat, Nel welcomed the vibration of her heart against her hand. Of course, this bout of breathlessness was more than likely related to the kamikaze dogs … a skinny Rottweiler and a mangy golden retriever who were now eye-deep in the office’s trash.
Apparently the mess-maker of the last couple weeks wasn’t a raccoon.
Parking in her usual spot to the right of the front door, Nel left her briefcase and Monday’s bag of bagels on the passenger seat to launch from the car with three sharp claps.
“Get outta there!” she yelled, second-guessing the brazen scare tactic when her voice hit the ice-cold air.
First the golden turned lackluster eyes on her, then the rottie. They looked sad, sick, and painfully thin. Their ribs lined the sparse fur of their bellies, and their tails hung between their legs.
“Poor babies.” Nel exhaled, careful not to make any sudden movements. Hungry dogs could become mean dogs in the blink of an eye, something she should’ve thought about before she brought their full, agitated attention on her.
Fortunately there was no attempt to run her off, no growling or lips curling. Instead, a pitiful, phantom whine arose from one of the dogs as they both returned their noses to the garbage pile. Too bad there wasn’t much edible in the black bags — a few pieces of crust from Friday’s impromptu pizza lunch if they were lucky, certainly not enough to satisfy two starving dogs.
Nel turned back to the car, leaned across the front seat, and snagged the bag of bagels. Removing the carton of cream cheese, napkins, and plastic knives, she ripped a bagel in three pieces and tossed the chunks toward the animals, who jerked when the bagels thumped against the pavement.
They spied her, widening their stances, a type of standoff between foes. When Nel was sure her efforts were futile, the golden moved closer, nose to the ground, as if the bagel could be sucked through his flaring nostrils.
“Thatta girl,” Nel whispered, having no idea whether or not the endearment fit. She tilted her head, looking for signs of manhood, only to roll her eyes at the awkward search.
And then the rottie moved. Five seconds later, the bagel pieces were devoured, and Nel had two new friends — friends who were desperate for more food, some water, and a good hot bath.
“What the heck is going on out here?” Rena poked her rounded face and large green eyes around the front door. “That better not be my asiago.”
Nel looked at the last piece of asiago bagel in her hand and then back to Rena. “I’ll buy you more.”
The dogs bolted for the open door, dashing past Rena and into the office.
“Are you kidding me?” Rena yelled. “Get them out.”
“They’re cold.” Nel picked up her pace and reached for the door, holding it open as they followed the dogs inside.
“They can’t be here.”
“They’re strays.”
The rottie tipped over a small trash can with his tail while the golden stuck her nose into an open filing cabinet.
Rena groaned. “They can’t stay.”
“Of course they can’t stay, but I can’t let them loose to get hit by a car. Come here, guys.” Nel hunched over and patted palms to her knees.
To her surprise, the dogs obeyed. And as she smoothed hands over their course fur, she noticed collars and tags.
“Can you get a look at their tags?” Nel asked, holding the dogs’ attention with soft, steady strokes to their bony heads.
“They’re dirty, they smell; I’m sure they have fleas. I’m not touching them.”
“Rena, I’m not asking you to hug them. Just bend over and peek at the tags.” Some days Nel regretted hiring her best friend. The familiarity led to more than a few moments of dissonance. But hiring Rena was sort of a mercy mission. Nobody aspired to be thirty, working part-time at a pretzel stand in the mall. And Nel couldn’t let Rena think that was all she was good for.
Rena rattled off a telephone number. “Remember 5293,” she said, scrambling to her desk, digging through her top drawer. “Damn it! I need more pens.”
“Do you eat them?” Nel teased, still rubbing the tired-looking dogs behind the ears.
“Funny. What was the number I told you to remember?”
“5293.” Nel looked around the reception area. “Do we have something
I can use to give them water?”
“The bucket the cleaners use for mopping,” Rena said, holding the desk phone to her ear.
“I’m not going to let them drink out of something with chemical residue.”
“They were eating out of the garbage. I hardly think it matters.”
It mattered. They didn’t deserve to be subjected to more harm. By the looks of them, they’d been through so much already. Nel stared into their sad eyes and smiled while she made a mental tour of the office, settling on a plastic bowl full of blank nametags in the supply closet.
“No answer, and the mailbox is full. Now what?” Rena perched on the edge of her desk.
“Get me the plastic bowl from the supply closet filled with water, and then we’ll think of something.”
Nel hated to call the shelter … actually, she refused. There were plenty of rescues around town who would ensure the dogs were rehabbed and given good homes. Before she reached out to one of them, she would do whatever she could to find the animals’ owner.
The rottie slumped to the hardwood floor, leaving Nel petting the golden. With a tiny movement, Nel moved her hand lower on the golden’s neck, combing her nails through the fur, inching closer to the buckle. If she could just get a good look at the tags …
“Where do you want it?” Rena walked toward them with the bowl.
“Right here.” Nel gestured to the floor at her feet and stepped back while unlatching the collar in one fluid movement. She glanced at the tags in her hand. “The golden’s name is Blackjack.” The telephone number Rena called was etched below the name. Beneath that tag nestled a county-issued tag. “I wonder if they can trace the dogs by this number.”
It was worth a phone call.
While the dogs drank, Nel made the call, and sure enough, the ID number on Blackjack’s tag led to the address used to license the dog — an address that wasn’t far away. Nel glanced at the dogs, resting on the drenched floor, noses centimeters from the water bowl, and satisfaction squared her shoulders. She was going to get these boys home, and home was … she Googled the address, nearly dropping the phone when she looked at the satellite map.
“Oh. My. God.” She pointed to her cell phone screen. “Rena, these dogs belong at Castle Chaos.”
Castle Chaos was the single greatest piece of residential architecture in the South Hills. The kind of property that could put a small, struggling real estate agency on the radar of every other agency in Pittsburgh.
“I suppose that’s fitting,” Rena sneered. “Decrepit animals belong in a decrepit house.”
Nel waved off the cynicism. “That house is worth millions.”
“To a vampire in Transylvania.”
“I love that house.”
“You also love slasher movies. Your taste is questionable.”
Nel stuck out her tongue rather than defend her cinematic choices once again. “I’m going to drive the dogs over there.”
“In your car?”
“No, in yours.” She cast Rena a sarcastic grin and clapped to get the dogs’ attention.
Everything happened for a reason. These dogs, coming from that house, now being in her office, had business opportunity written all over it. Maybe the old, rich guy who owned the place would be so thankful to see his dogs returned safely, he’d admit he couldn’t keep up with the house anymore, and he’d agree to let Nel be the listing agent. She smiled as she slid behind the wheel of her car with the dogs safely in the backseat.
One of these days, Nel Parker was going to look back on this moment and remember it as the moment when everything changed.
• • •
Elevator music on the other end of the cell phone threatened to drive Grey insane. If his teeth weren’t being ground to bits out of frustration, they’d be chattering, shaking along with the rest of his chilled body. How hard was it to get a boiler fixed in the dead of winter?
“We can have the technician there tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
Apparently pretty damn hard.
“That’s the best you can do?” Grey growled.
“I’m afraid so, sir. Looking at past maintenance records I can tell you … that particular boiler is a special case.”
Of course it was, because Grey’s father never did anything reasonable.
With a grunt of concession he ended the call, sliding the cell phone across the marble counter, careful not to touch the ice-cold stone and add to his misery. He knew returning this house to some semblance of glory was going to be backbreaking work, but he never expected to freeze to death before he drove a single nail.
Scrubbing his palms together, Grey tried to generate some heat; thankful for the beard he left growing long after the Argonauts were eliminated from the postseason. Anonymity was the initial reason for the thick black facial hair, but now there was a practical purpose for not packing a razor or shaving cream. He needed warmth, but he needed more than the beard and the six-burner gas stove were supplying.
A limestone fireplace loomed over the great room, offering an easy solution now that the boiler wasn’t going to be fixed until tomorrow. Grey didn’t like the idea of using a fireplace that hadn’t been serviced in God-only-knew how long, but he’d have to take his chances.
First things first. He grabbed a yellowed, brittle newspaper off the pile he had collected from the front stoop. With a twist, the paper turned into a makeshift torch, and he lit it with the blue gas flame. After turning off the stove, he carried the burning paper into the great room, where he ducked his head beneath the massive limestone blocks and reached an arm into the flue. He hoped the draft would carry the smoke from the paper up the chimney, and out of the house. That was the sign he was waiting for as he hunched over, holding his breath.
For once, since he arrived at this empty, sorry house, something miraculously went his way. The smoke curled in ribbons up the chimney and Grey dropped the newspaper to the firebox floor. Now, all he needed was some wood; and from the looks of the overgrown grounds surrounding the house, he wouldn’t have a problem finding it.
Making his way through the cavernous, sparsely decorated icebox, he made another trip to the basement; this time ignoring the mammoth boiler and heading for the dingy workroom, where he noticed an axe propped against the cement block wall. Trudging back up the stairs and through the house with axe in tow, his anger grew until the combination of movement and emotion had him breaking into a sweat. Fuck you, Dad, he thought for about the millionth time since the bastard ran off to Bermuda — taking Grey’s longtime girlfriend along for the ride.
He gripped the axe so hard his knuckles screamed with pain, and for a moment he thought about taking a swing at the ornate trim lining the backdoor. Fortunately for his already-lengthy to-do list, the axe stayed at his side, and his anger peaked. It didn’t pass so much as it returned to whatever dark hole Grey stashed it in; leaving him with labored breath and a clenched jaw.
At least he wasn’t cold anymore.
Outside in the wind, he made his way through a crunching layer of frozen grass and leaves, to the back of the property where an empty dog run formed a visible boundary between this property and the sloping hillside beyond. He didn’t know what happened to the dogs. The lawyer for the estate made no mention of them, so Grey figured his dad had given them away. Then again, maybe he took them to Bermuda. Maybe they were on the plane when it went down — just like Dad and Lindsay.
Grey flinched. He cared more about losing those dogs than he did about losing his father and the woman he had expected to someday marry. With both hands wrapped around the grip of the axe, Grey swung hard at one of the brittle tree trunks littering the frozen ground, feeling the burn in his shoulder and the vibration clear up to his elbows. He stood there, axe lodged in wood, wondering how he got from centerfield in Nashville’s brand-new ballpark,
to the backyard of a house he didn’t want to own. And once again, he was reminded of how his father fucked up everyone’s lives.
Yeah? Well, this was where the chain stopped.
Swinging the axe again, noticing less of a protest from his body, Grey reminded himself the house was key to repairing some of the damage his father had caused. All he had to do was fix it up and sell it off, for as close to a million dollars as possible. He swung the axe again, praying to God he could manage the miracle before he needed to report for spring training in a little more than two months. Two months. He squeezed his eyes shut as he swung the axe again.
He was crazy. Anyone who discovered what he was doing would agree. This wasn’t a job for one man, and yet Grey couldn’t figure out how to let anyone else in; how to trust them enough to relinquish the tiniest bit of control. There was too much at stake. He needed to limit the amount of money spent on the renovations, maximize the return on his investment, and sweat out the anger he felt toward his father — and the guilt he felt for not being man enough to stand up to him.
Maybe the daunting task was some sort of self-imposed punishment. After what Grey had done, turning his back on his brother’s professional advice and personal support in order to maintain a half-assed relationship with the world’s worst dad? This wasn’t nearly as harsh of a punishment as he deserved.
Two shrill barks ripped through the frosty silence, and before Grey could turn around he was hit from behind.
“Holy shit.” He dropped the axe to rough the dogs behind the ears. “Where’d you come from?”
“They were in my garbage.”
She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, standing at the top of the cement walk that led from the front of the house to the back patio. She was dwarfed by the iron gazebo trellises to her left, but there was something formidable about her. Maybe it was the fact that she stood strong despite being sorely underdressed for the current weather conditions. Dressed in nothing but a navy blue pantsuit with her blonde curls whipping around her wind-reddened, heart-shaped face, she was the last sort of thing he expected to see in his father’s backyard.
