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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Marjetta Geerling

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © Colin Anderson Productions Ltd

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Cold Nose, Warm Heart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my dad, Herman Geerling, who taught me the three Ps: prayers, perseverance, and patience. Thank you for a lifetime of love.

  Chapter 1

  I’ll never swipe right again. Carrie Burns eyed the man waving her over to a small table for two wedged between a sickly potted spider plant and the large front window of the newest coffee shop in her neck of Miami Beach. The small neighborhood was, as her ex-husband used to describe it, “just north of the tourist trap” that was South Beach. The space was perhaps too intimate, as evidenced by the number of people Carrie bopped with her oversize shoulder bag when she squeezed by them on her way to lucky date number thirteen.

  Not that this was her thirteenth date with him. Oh no. In her limited time in the online dating world, she’d never been on a single second date. But after a dozen first dates, she’d hoped that number thirteen would be the one. Not The One, with wedding bells and coordinated calendars, but at least a second date. So far, though, it wasn’t looking good.

  For one, the man, a banker named Daniel Merrifield, was significantly older than his profile picture and dating profile suggested. Late thirties? Yeah, right. Not that there was anything wrong with aging. She hoped to live to a ripe old age herself, but she was really over older men who only wanted to date younger women.

  And it wasn’t like she was so young herself. With a failed marriage behind her and a toddler waiting for her at home, Carrie often felt older than her actual thirty years. She hadn’t yet found a gray hair amid her brown strands, but with the dual strain of maintaining her business and caring for her active son, she was expecting one any day. She glanced at her phone before sliding into the seat across from Daniel. No panicked messages from the babysitter, a teen girl who lived with her parents in the condo above Carrie’s and who both Carrie and her son, Oliver, adored. No, the only one feeling panic was Carrie.

  “Hello, Carrie.” Daniel half stood, then quickly sat again, smoothing a palm down his paisley tie, and handed her a menu. “Order anything you like. My treat.”

  Carrie really shouldn’t judge him on so few words. And yet. “I prefer separate checks.”

  Daniel frowned, salt-and-pepper eyebrows slamming together over his prominent nose. “The espresso is quite good.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Carrie kept her attention on the menu, scanning the double-sided laminate sheet for her favorite coffees—something with as much sugar as caffeine and preferably topped with about three inches of whipped cream. “Do you live nearby?”

  “No, Brickell.” Daniel picked at the corner of the menu, shredding the laminate seal. Another strike, him making things worse for a start-up coffee shop in the ultra-competitive Miami market by defacing their new materials. Of course, the owners could’ve sprung for a more durable menu in anticipation of customers like Daniel, but folks new to owning and operating small businesses weren’t always prepared for the idiosyncrasies of the public.

  Carrie resisted the urge to take the menu from him with a gentle reprimand about respecting others’ property, like she would’ve done with her son, and instead listened to Daniel as he gamely pushed forward with their date. “The espressos have good Yelp reviews. That’s what I’ll order, if a waiter ever deigns to give us some attention.”

  “The Beach is kind of famous for its poor service.” Carrie forced a laugh. What’s the point of dating if you don’t have a good time? She would have a good time. They would have a good time. She folded her hands on top of her menu and smiled across the table at Daniel’s serious face. “The upside is there’s never a rush. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other a bit.”

  Daniel checked his watch, a combo time keeper and activity tracker-type contraption, clearly not charmed by her smile or her there’s-always-a-silver-lining worldview. “I have a meeting in less than an hour.”

  “Oh.” Carrie schooled her features. It was four in the afternoon. Even if they only spent twenty minutes together, factoring in travel time, he should’ve counted on at least an hour, if not longer, for their date. What kind of banker had after-hours meetings? The kind who lined up multiple dates on the same night was her bet.

  Daniel half stood again, scanning the crowded room until he locked onto a server standing by the cashier. Daniel snapped his fingers and pointed at their table before sliding back into his seat with a disgruntled sigh.

  Carrie didn’t like Daniel’s attitude about their server, wherever he or she might be. Carrie’d worked her way through college waiting tables at a diner near her campus. Serving was hard work, work she’d gladly left behind when she graduated, and she found herself bristling at his whole attitud
e.

  In fact, everything about this date was one huge red flag. She should run while she had the chance. Pretend there was a babysitting emergency. Yeah, that was what she’d do.

  “What can I get for you?” Their waiter couldn’t be any older than Oli’s babysitter, a hair shy of sixteen. He was gangly, the kind of tall a man grows into, but he’d need a few more years to look comfortable in his body. A giant Adam’s apple bobbed as he recited some drink specials for the day.

  Daniel ordered his espresso, but Carrie was swayed by the list of specials.

  “May I hear them again?” She smiled at the waiter, and his cheeks flamed.

  Daniel sighed like this whole thing tried his patience, which made Carrie want to ask more questions. But that would merely prolong the date, so she selected a salted caramel latte with extra whipped cream and let the waiter escape.

  “What do you do again?” Daniel waved a hand, like the answer was a wisp of smoke he couldn’t quite grasp.

  “I own an interior design firm.” She slipped him her brightly colored business card out of habit. Single-mom, single-proprietor businesses required a lot of hustle.

  “Right.” Daniel fluffed a paper napkin on his lap, leaving the card untouched on the table between them. “Decorating.”

  “Design.” Carrie knew she shouldn’t be annoyed. She took a calming breath and fingered the single pearl on the white-gold chain around her neck. “I create the feel of a space using color, shape, pattern.”

  “Like I said, decorating. I’m sure you’re good at it.” Daniel’s gaze tracked over her face and down into her cleavage. She was always overdressed, but that was her thing. In her line of business, she couldn’t afford to be seen with a hair out of place or an outfit not perfectly coordinated. Clients drew conclusions in a blink of an eye, and Carrie liked to think that the world was full of potential clients.

  “Thank you.” Carrie wasn’t sure his comment was a compliment, but she decided to take it as one. It was clearer by the moment that they wouldn’t suit romantically, but if she played nice and made a good impression, maybe he’d remember her name if his bank ever decided to redesign their lobby or upgrade their executive offices.

  Their drinks arrived, his a tiny cup he downed like a shot, hers overflowing with whipped cream topped with a caramel drizzle. She took a long, hot sip. Her first true smile of the afternoon overtook her face.

  “So what do you think of this place?” Daniel swirled his empty cup. “Design-wise, I mean.”

  Carrie took a moment to soak in the atmosphere, to review her initial impressions, to think about the Coffee Pot Spot as a client.

  “First, no dying plants.” She used her chin to indicate the failing spider plant behind him. “If you’re going to have plants, they’ve got to be alive and healthy. Anything less is depressing and creates a negative atmosphere. Given they’ve been open less than a month and that poor spider is already on its last legs, I’d say no live plants for them.”

  “Aren’t fake plants tacky?” Daniel clinked his empty espresso cup on its miniature saucer.

  “I don’t love fake plants. There are other ways to bring color and life into a room. Some outdoor photography perhaps. I’d have to talk theme with the owner. And also room capacity. Of course, you want to get as many chairs in the room as possible, but not at the expense of safety. Anyone with a bag creates a fire hazard when they set it down.” Carrie swept her arm to indicate the book bags, briefcases, and purses as large as hers blocking the aisles from where they hung on the backs of their chairs.

  “Why wouldn’t their designer have thought of that?”

  “My guess? The owners did the design themselves.” Carrie took a long sip of her drink. Caffeine and sugar, such a heavenly combination. “It’s always tempting for new business owners to try to save money that way.”

  “It makes sense.” Daniel nodded like he was a design expert. “Tables, chairs, hang some stuff on the wall. How hard can it be?”

  Carrie let out a long, controlled breath. This was part of her job after all, educating people about why they needed her. “Let me put it to you this way. I’ve lived in homes my entire life. I’m very familiar with what makes a house: walls, roof, foundations, electrical, plumbing. How hard could it be, right?”

  Daniel snorted. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Isn’t it? I can watch videos about how to install a ceiling fan. Why should I hire someone else to do it?”

  “I’m getting your point.” Daniel drummed impatient fingers on the table. “There’s more to it than meets the eye.”

  “Yes.” Carrie nursed her coffee, perversely compelled to drink as slowly as possible in light of his haste. “If I do my job well, the effect should be effortless. I don’t want clients to see the design; I want them to feel it.”

  In her eagerness, Carrie leaned across the tiny table. When she pulled back, the table wobbled. She grabbed the edge to correct it, managing to tip her coffee at exactly the right angle to pour salted caramel latte down the front of her lavender silk tank top and right onto the lap of her favorite pencil skirt.

  Daniel stood like he was going to help her. But what could he do?

  She shooed him back down with a wiggle of her fingers. “I believe that’s my cue to head home to my son.”

  “Your son?” Daniel looked stunned.

  She mentioned being a mother on her dating profile, but she’d found most men didn’t do much more than look at pictures before deciding which way to swipe.

  “He’s two, almost three.” She reached into her bag and pulled out Winnie-the-Pooh wipes and a stain-remover pen. “Quite a handful.” Using her son to scare off Daniel may have been overkill, but the look on the banker’s face was worth it.

  “Nice to meet you.” He threw down a couple bucks for his espresso and fled the scene. The gangly server showed up with a damp rag and helped her put herself to rights. She left him a generous tip and squeezed her way out of the overcrowded coffee shop. Thirteen was definitely not her lucky number.

  * * *

  Lance Donovan pulled his work truck up onto the front lawn of the Dorothy, the decrepit Art Deco building his younger brother, Caleb, had convinced him to renovate. And it had taken some convincing. At eighteen, Lance had left home and never looked back. He’d never wanted anything to do with the Donovan real estate legacy his grandfather built and his father so casually destroyed. One summer interning at the Donovan main office was enough to open his eyes to the truth: his father, Robert Donovan, real estate tycoon and pillar of the Miami community, was a crook. It’d taken another decade and a half before he’d been caught, but Robert was now serving time in federal prison. As far as Lance was concerned, Robert was exactly where he belonged, and Lance’d had no intention of ever getting tangled up in a Donovan scheme again.

  Somehow, though, Caleb got through to him. Maybe it was earnestness, Caleb’s real desire to make the building a better place for the people who lived there. Maybe it was genetics, as much a part of him as his Donovan blue eyes and blond hair. Maybe it was destiny. Whatever it was, Lance now had one hell of a project on his hands. Step one: Get the Dorothy up to code so she could pass her long overdue forty-year inspection.

  While he waited for the diesel engine to cool, he flipped through the city inspector’s notes. Roof, electrical, plumbing, elevator. All pretty standard stuff on an old building and easy enough to do in the next few weeks. Once they passed the forty-year inspection, if everything went according to plan, he’d be done with the whole remodel in ten, twelve months tops. What job ever went to plan, though? In fifteen years of construction, he’d learned to expect the unexpected—and padded time estimates accordingly.

  Lance swung out of the truck in a practiced move, his steel-toed work boots planting firmly on the Dorothy’s scraggly grass. His crew should arrive in the next twenty minutes or so, but he always liked
to arrive early on the opening day of a new job. It was corny, he knew, but he liked to spend a few minutes with the building, letting it know they were here to help and asking for its patience while they transformed it.

  Inside the old-fashioned lobby with its stained terrazzo floors and fake palm tree in the corner, Lance took a seat on a sketchy rattan chair and closed his eyes.

  “Sleeping on the job already?” A deep voice interrupted Lance’s private moment with the building.

  “That’s how I make the big bucks.” Lance stood to clap his brother on the shoulder. They were similar in height, though Lance had a few inches and a few pounds of muscle on his little brother. What marked them as brothers were the unmistakable blue eyes they inherited from their Grandpa William and the square jaws that hinted at their stubborn natures. They hadn’t grown up together—different mothers, different homes—but in the few weeks he’d been working with Caleb, Lance had learned to respect his younger brother. He was a good guy, much too idealistic to be a true Donovan—a trait that made Lance feel protective of him. Ridiculous, of course. They were both grown men. Still, Lance hadn’t been part of a real family since his divorce, and he had to admit that Caleb and his fiancée, Riley, felt like family.

  LouLou, Caleb’s step-poodle, jumped on Lance’s knee and shoved her head into the flat of his palm. Lance scratched her head and grinned at Caleb.

  “You ready for all the chaos?” Lance motioned toward the elevator with a dramatic sweep of his arm. It was the first major project, since it was the most urgent in the fifty-five-plus building. Between heart conditions, canes, and walkers, many of the residents would be unable to reach their second-floor apartments if the elevator went out.

  “More chaos than wedding planning? Impossible.” Caleb tugged on LouLou’s leash. “We need to head outside. Little dogs, little bladders.”

  Lance shook his head, overgrown hair brushing his ears. “You love it all, don’t you? The wedding stuff, the poodle.”

  “I love Riley.”

  Caleb’s face was so serene that Lance had no doubt of his brother’s sincerity. He bit his tongue to keep from telling Caleb what marriage was really like—how it starts out all sparkly and sex on every surface of your home but ends in bitter words, resentment, and divorce lawyers.