Chapter one

Dex

I had never smoked a day in my life, but I had a feeling today might be the day I started.

Why had I canceled the cleaning crew I’d hired? Oh, yeah, because I’d told them I could handle the party I’d foolishly held to celebrate six months of running Shaw, LLC solely on my own. I wasn’t used to having staff in my home. As a very single guy, I didn’t usually make that much of a mess.

Then again, I normally didn’t host parties. I went to parties.

But tonight was different. The champagne fountain had been flowing all night. The fondue fountain had been bubbling. My side table had at least three slips of paper with phone numbers from interested women, and the headache that had been brewing all evening had been beaten back by Advil and a shot of Jack.

I was officially winning at life.

If you didn’t look around my living room at the sheer destruction that surrounded me, that is. By all appearances, a band of unruly children, aka fellow lawyers and friends and their spouses, had charged through and left chaos in their wake.

Part of the chaos was Bob, my pug, who’d slumped next to a half-eaten slab of cake that had landed on my Aubusson rug. And he’d just burped.

Or I had. It was hard to tell at this point.

My house was trashed.

On top of that, I didn’t even like how it looked when it was all put together. This place was styled to suit my father. Stuffy Isaac Shaw. Not wild, freewheeling Dexter Shaw. I should not have priceless antiques in my house. Especially ones I’d had some mindless decorator place in appropriate corners so I seemed rich enough to draw in the fanciest clients—so I could keep on affording this monstrosity of a house.

I was thoroughly sick of this endless cycle, and just skirting close enough to the line of drunkenness to be ready to do something about it.

Grabbing the bottle of Jack like Linus from the Peanuts cartoon with his blue blankie, I headed down the hall to my office, moving to the huge oak desk that my older brother, Preston, would probably drool over. Me, I just kept banging my knee on the heavy file drawers every damn time I sat down.

I jerked my mouse, and my computer woke from the intergalactic screensaver that made my eyeballs pound. Maybe those space lasers weren’t ideal right now. I shut my eyes for a moment, and then tapped in my password before I logged into Shaw, LLC’s server. It took a couple minutes, but I found the digital address book of names and numbers my all-too-capable assistant, Isis Jenkins, kept for me. 

Better yet, she filled in the blanks when I jotted down a phone number and labeled the name in a way I could remember…like “Hottie in Pink Pantsuit.”

Yes, that had been a real entry. Ever since my diagnosis of Adult Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder, I’d given in to the temptation of leaving myself visual cues to trigger my memory.

Sometimes it was a beautiful woman in a pink pantsuit who stuck.

But Isis helped me out by filling in the blanks with the correct information, like actual names, so I was confident that I’d be able to find the details for the interior decorator my friend Bishop had hired back in the fall. She’d help him set up his new office with my brother Preston, aka Benedict Arnold Shaw.

Or PMS, his girlfriend’s nickname for him worked too.

In the scheme of things, I was fairly certain the decorator had probably endured worst jobs than the one I was about to dump in her lap. I wasn’t fussy. I was just tired of wearing an itchy suit that didn’t fit, and lately that wasn’t only my job, but my house too. 

In retrospect, I probably should’ve kept my bachelor pad at the Clarendon Apartments, even though my father didn’t think it offered the appropriate image for an esteemed attorney. 

I swear, end up on the news just one time for noise complaints and public nudity and it was impossible to live it down. And the nudity hadn’t even been mine.

Unfortunately.

I’d never given two shits about image. There was a reason I wore graphic T-shirts under my suit jackets most days at work, assuming I wasn’t due into court. I might stretch the boundaries a bit, but I wasn’t a masochist. Judges didn’t take kindly to what they viewed as not respecting their authority. And I liked to win.

Fifteen minutes later, I gave up searching for Pink Pantsuit Hottie’s number and called Isis, my best friend-slash-assistant-slash ruler of my universe. She did everything but sleep with me, though I’d technically never tried because she would rip off my stones.

Part of why she was my best friend.

“What?”

“Well, hello to you too.”

She sighed heavily. “Dexterous, I went home to go to bed. It’s late. I’m officially off the clock.”

“Best friends are 24-7. It’s in the handbook. I checked.”

“Your handbook is missing at least several chapters, including the one where if I kill you and bury your body with my bare hands, it’s justifiable homicide and I can’t get jail time.”

“Oh, I definitely didn’t see that chapter.”

“You’re too blitzed to see much.”

I glanced at the bottle of Jack beside the mouse. “Nah, just a little fuzzy.”

“Truer words.” She sighed again. “What do you need?”

“I need to know the name and number of pink pantsuit hottie.”

She choked. “Excuse me?”

“Pink Pantsuit Hot—”

“Listen to me carefully. Put down the alcohol, pour your rank self into a hot shower then put yourself to bed and sleep off your latest psychosis. Call me in the morning once you’re sober. And you better be sober in the morning, my friend, or your mother is getting a phone call. Don’t even bother begging.”

“If I ever begged you for anything, sweetness, you wouldn’t ask me not to.”

“Oh, Lord, you and your supposed charm is enough to give me nightmares. I can’t believe those corny-ass lines actually work for you.”

I grinned. “I could tell you stories.”

“And if you even try to, I’ll move away and leave no forwarding address.”

My gasp wasn’t the least bit faked. “You can’t leave me. I can’t get by at work without you. You’re the glue that holds me together. The glass that keeps me contained. The jelly that layers perfectly with my peanut butter—”

“The Kevlar jacket that prevents people from choosing violence against you. Yeah, on with it. Who or what is Pink Pantsuit Hottie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dex, I’m going to kick your ass so hard your ancestors are going to cry.”

“If that means my father, I’m okay with it. He probably deserves a good ass-kicking.” No probably there, but the alcohol was making me a little sentimental. Or loopy. “I’m serious, I don’t know. I just put down that notation to remember her in the address book, and boy, do I remember that pantsuit she was wearing the last time I saw her. It gapped just a bit in front and she wore this lacy thing under it.”

“You put that recollection in your address book?”

“She was no-nonsense, but that hint of lace was just a knockout.”

“Great. I’m sure I’d want to do her if I wasn’t strictly dickly. What do you want from me?”

“Hopefully, her name and contact info. You started altering the record, but you stopped halfway through. Maybe you had to look up her info?”

“How would I know the number for your pink hottie?”

“She wasn’t pink, just her pantsuit. Maybe we talked about her.” I snapped my fingers. “I mentioned that she was decorating Bishop’s office with my traitor of a sibling.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Ohhh. You mean Shelby.”

“Shelby.” I rolled the name around on my tongue. It sounded good there. As if that was a name I could say every day.

Especially while I still had Jack left in the bottle. I shook it with amusement.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, I think so. Sounds familiar.”

“I just bet.”

“It’s been months and months,” I said stubbornly. “I’m going to contact her.”

“Why, you drunken horndog.”

I probably shouldn’t have laughed. Isis clearly wasn’t in the mood to be amused by me. “That’s not why I wanted her info. I’ve had an epiphany tonight, you could say.”

“You’re drunk,” my best friend said flatly.

“Au contraire. I’m more sober than I’ve been in a while.” I tapped the revolving mini world globe in a stand on my desk. It spun, finally coming to a stop with Antarctica in view. A little extreme, but nothing was off the table. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been on a vacation?”

“I don’t keep your personal calendar. I trust you can handle that yourself.”

“I can, because I haven’t been on one in a year or more. Ever since Preston started grumbling about following Dad out the door.” I took a deep breath. “I’m trying to be someone I’m not, Ice. I thought I could do it. But when I realized I was on my way to drunk to deal with people I don’t like that much when I’m sober, I decided my decor was all wrong.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, finally. I’ve been waiting for you to see the farce you’re trying to pull off. You should call that guy Bishop recommended outsourcing some of the firm’s overflow cases to—wait a second. Say what?” She huffed out a breath. “You want to change your damn decor? That’s your big life decision?”

“Yeah. It’s a start, right? My house looks like a freaking museum. What did I work so much for, to have a home that could be in Architectural Digest? You know what I did last night, Ice? First time since I moved in.”

“If this is pornographic, I swear to—”

“Hardly. I lay on my couch with my shoes on. My real estate agent would’ve died. My mother would die too. But whatever. I need a house where I can put my shoes on the couch. Bob is sick of living on plastic.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been keeping him mostly in the family room and my bedroom because the formal living room has that really fucking expensive couch and his claws will mess with the leather. But sometimes he runs in anyway so I have this plastic cover.” Sighing, I braced my forehead against my hand. “It squeaks and I hate it.”

“Your thought process is disturbing. And what does any of this have to do with taking a vacation?”

“I’ve put too much of my real life aside to live a life I don’t want. I’m going to redo this house to suit me and I’m going to find someone to take on the grunt work of some of my cases. I don’t mind going to court, but the rest isn’t my forte.”

“You can say that again. But it’s not all your fault.”

I blinked. “Excuse me? Is Isis Jenkins actually defending me? Voluntarily? Without someone holding a blade to her throat?”

She laughed. “I know you’ve been trying your best to handle all of this all on your own without asking for help, Dexterous.”

“I always ask you.”

“That’s different. You pay me handsomely, and besides, it’s in the best friend contract. But there’s no shame in bringing in someone like Bishop’s friend Eli to take some of the load off. Assuming he’s still available. You’ve dicked around forever and people’s situations change. But even if he isn’t interested, someone will be. You have to face facts. You aren’t a one-man lawyering wonder like Preston. And news flash: that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

I rolled my shoulders as I sat back in my chair. I’d been trying to come to terms with not being as brilliant or skilled or competent in a million different ways as my older brother for many years now. My one saving grace was that I always had an admirable social life while he worked constantly.

At least that was how it used to be.

Now I worked constantly and I was still always behind and most of my friends had stopped calling because I was always busy. I still wasn’t as incredible as Preston—and I never would be—and now I was even doing a piss-poor impression of myself.

Now Preston was the one with the noteworthy social life. He wasn’t out partying and learning to surf during the few months of the year we had good weather on the East Coast. Oh, no, he was happily shacked up with a sexy-as-hell witch who didn’t seem interested in marriage or procreation, but kept him strolling around with a smug smile on his face. He’d even opened his own firm with his best friend Bishop, and was clearly satisfied in his career choices as well, choosing to leave divorce law behind in favor of family law.

The bastard.

How had he landed the damn jackpot? I didn’t know, but it seemed patently unfair.

As for me? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been happy at this point.

“I’ll give Eli a call,” I said finally, giving the globe one more spin. “What can it hurt to talk to him?”

“That’s the spirit.”

“But first, I want to talk to Pink Pantsuit—” I cleared my throat as Isis growled. “Sorry, Shelby. Bishop recommended her work highly and I want to take this place down to the studs. I need this place to be family friendly.”

Isis had apparently chosen that moment to take a sip of some liquid, because she sputtered and went into a coughing fit nearly intense enough to warrant a call to 911. “What did you say?”

“I’m a dog dad, hello. Pets are family. Are you leaving out other family that doesn’t have stinky diapers? How incredibly judgmental of you.”

“Bob has bad breath, which is almost as bad as dirty diapers. But whew. I thought you’d been spending too much time with Bishop and had decided your new life means you have to settle down. Like…what would that even look like for Dexterous Shaw? We both know you got that name for reasons that had nothing to do with work.”

“And you’re the one who snatched it out of the halls of our high school and slapped it on my forehead like a banner. Since you won’t marry me, you have no idea if that’s even truth in advertising. Your loss,” I added lightly.

“I won’t marry you because you can’t handle me, and I don’t want to find out how I look in prison orange. Besides, we both know you’ll never get married. The very idea is preposterous.”

“We used to say that about Preston and look at him now.”

“He’s still not married.”

“Don’t argue with me. Just saying you never really know with people.”

She let out a loud huff. “Whatever. The day Dexterous Shaw settles down in a serious, settled relationship without being blackmailed into it is the day I’ll give you Shelby’s phone number. She doesn’t need your brand of chaos. She has enough going on in her life.”

“I’ll be perfectly gentlemanly,” I promised. “Besides, I could just ask Bishop, you know. He’d be a reference for me.” I was pretty sure, anyway. “Why are you so protective of her? I didn’t even know you were friends.”

“We go way back.”

“As way back as we do?”

She snorted. “Since practically birth? Nah. Our moms being best friends cast that die for us a long time ago.”

“You’re not close with Preston.”

“Maybe I like your brand of chaos. Particularly because you always keep your pants on in my presence.”

“As I will with Shelby.” The regret in my voice was hard to disguise. I hadn’t forgotten the way she’d slapped me back in the fall with her smart mouth or her long wavy brown hair or how she’d thought I was some random weirdo trying to talk to her young daughter.

Fuck. I’d forgotten the kid. She’d been cute as a button actually, but she was still a child.

“Yeah, Shelby is entirely safe from my wiles.” My tone brooked no argument.

The surest chastity belt for a man like me was a woman with a young child. Kids were fun and all, but I knew when I was out of my depth and stayed out of the damn water.

“You know about Berry, huh?” Ice sounded smug. “I should’ve known you would never go there.”

“You’re perfectly safe giving me her number.”

“Fine.” She sounded weary. “But call at a reasonable hour. She’s running herself ragged as is. None of this calling at-two-am-drunk crap you love to pull.”

“It is nowhere near two am and I am not officially drunk.”

“Dex—”

I sighed. “I promise. Now gimme. And hey, while you’re at it, put her address in her digital listing, would you?” Before my best friend could rail at me, I added, “Her business address. Jeez. Chill out. If you knew how long it has been since I’ve had sex, you’d rethink your lecherous beliefs in my direction.”

“Oh, that’s even worse. A shark who hasn’t tasted fresh blood in a while is even more desperate and dangerous.”

“Trust me, I’m not desperate. Far from it.” 

“So you say. I’m sure you have your usual assortment of floozies to choose from. But Shelby isn’t like them.”

“Just her number, Ice. I want her professional talents. Nothing else. And I’m willing to pay for them.”

She laughed richly before rattling off the number. “Oh, trust me, you will be. Good luck.”

Shelby

I woke to the sound of bells ringing. I slammed my hand in the general vicinity of my nightstand, trying futilely to silence the intrusion. I’d been having the very best dream about Jason Momoa or his nearest statistical equivalent—

And the damn bells would not stop.

I pried open one eyelid, glared at my phone, and willed it to cease making noise immediately. It was a fucking Saturday. My one day to sleep in. Why was work calling me?

This was what I got for not silencing notifications on a day I was not working. And I wasn’t. No matter what. TJ knew the rule. Unless the client had more money than God and a willingness to spend it, Saturdays were sacrosanct.

I grabbed the phone, swiping to accept the call. “Seriously, Teej?”

“I know, I know, I seriously debated calling for like five minutes. But you gotta hear who it’s for.”

“Not even a text? C’mon, man. I was having the very best dream, and I swear, if you just ruined my only dream O for the month—”

“Dear God, if that’s true for you, I’m seriously sorry. Also, I’ve never had that kind of dream. At least that took me all the way to the finish line. For real?”

“When it’s a Jason Momoa lookalike, it kinda happens spontaneously. Or it would have if you hadn’t ruined it.”

She sighed heavily. “I knew no good would come from you browsing that architectural magazine.”

“It’s aspirational. Besides, you neglected to tell me what that builder Kainoa N’ai looked like. Thanks for nothing, by the way.”

“As if it matters. Your vagina is locked tighter than a vault to all but dream men.”

“Yeah, but dream me is a ho, obviously. Still not talking, Teej, and I’m about to hang up.”

“Wait, wait, wait, he’s richer than sin and comes with excellent refs.”

“The Pope?”

She huffed out a laugh. “Not that excellent.”

“K, unless I get a name, bye now.”

“Dexter Shaw.”

“Who?”

She let out an impatient breath. “If you ever pulled your head out of parenting magazines for a minute, you would’ve seen he was listed in New York Magazine’s 40 under 40 to watch just last month.”

“Big whoop. And I read far more design mags than parenting. Those are too preachy.” I didn’t have a clue about this 40 under 40 thing she’d mentioned, but that name sounded vaguely familiar. Or maybe more than vaguely. “What does he want?”

“You.”

I pulled myself up into a semi-seated position. “Why me?”

“Apparently, you wore a pink pantsuit when he met you and treated him like crap, thereby somehow rocking his world. I swear, men are masochists.” 

I must still be dreaming because none of this conversation made any sense. “What?”

“Yeah, kinda blew my mind too. Since when do you wear pantsuits?”

“Since never.”

Except for that one time last fall…

I blew out a noisy breath as the memory of a far too handsome man talking to my little girl and playing with her ball filled my mind. To be fair, he hadn’t said anything untoward to her that I knew of or acted the least bit strangely. But the fact remained that gorgeous lawyers did not make a habit of even acknowledging Berry existed under most circumstances. 

And he’d not only acknowledged her, but he’d also talked to her as if she was an actual human being with a brain, not just a dumb kid.

She’d liked him, too, to the point she’d kept bringing him up the whole night. I hadn’t understood why because they’d spent a sum total of, what, maybe twenty minutes together? But my girl was an excellent judge of character and something about his personality had struck her in a good way.

Too bad he’d had the word “player” written in invisible ink on his forehead.

“You must’ve worn one once for him to be so fixated.”

“Okay, okay, fine. I wore one once, the day I had my first parent/teacher conference at Newfield Academy.” 

I’d dreaded it for days beforehand, sure I’d come across as an overwhelmed, frazzled, incompetent farce of a mother, not the together career woman and loving mom I’d hoped to seem like.

I’d met with Preston Shaw and Bishop Stone at their new office building afterward. I’d had Berry with me, since I’d pulled her out of her normal school aftercare spot because I’d needed to talk to her and give her a big hug. The first parent-teacher conference at a new school—especially an upper-crust one I had no business sending my daughter to—was always nerve-wracking. 

Even if my daughter’s teacher couldn’t stop raving about her performance.

Now six months after that first meeting, the law office had been successfully renovated. I’d just finished it a couple weeks ago, in fact. Berry was still doing amazing at Newfield. Her teacher had mentioned at the last conference Berry could have mood swings, but what kid didn’t?

I still couldn’t afford her school. I was hanging on, just barely. Hoping I could manage to make it the next few weeks until summer break.

I was juggling every single plate I could to pay all the bills—the mortgage on our cottage and the utilities, along with Berry’s piano and language lessons, and my many professional organizations, plus this pricey tuition—but one by one, they were starting to drop.

Starting with the cable late payment warning I’d received yesterday.

No big deal, I reminded myself. Berry preferred streaming Discovery Plus anyway. I’d just have to look into their parental controls. She was good about not watching stuff she shouldn’t, but she was nearly nine and far too smart. And curious. 

God only knows what she could find to watch.

Teej snapped her fingers. “Shelby? Are you spiraling?”

“How did you know?” I asked guiltily.

“When you’re quiet, you’re in your head. Never a good thing. He found you attractive. Which turned out to be a good thing, since he remembered you enough to want to hire you for this fucking amazing life-changing job. And not just for you. For Designing Women. Your innate hotness is going to put us on the map, baby girl.”

My snort gusted across the phone. “Innate hotness? I think you have the wrong number.” 

I hadn’t showered in two days. I wouldn’t even consider how long it had been since I’d shaved my legs.

Never mind other more forest-like parts of my anatomy that hadn’t seen any action since many moons ago.

“He has a nickname for you, toots. He didn’t mean to say it, I don’t think. After, he tried to explain it away that he had memory issues, so he named people that way to trigger his recollection…” 

“What nickname?” This particular question broke my no-loud-voices rule so violently that I winced, knowing there wasn’t a chance in hell my enhanced bat-hearing child wouldn’t hear it. Therefore ensuring any chance of my going back to sleep went up like a poof of smoke.

Fuck my life.

But my bedroom door remained closed. I cocked my head, listening closely for any noises that indicated Berry would soon be on the warpath. Nothing.

Which had me worrying for another reason altogether.

“Yeah, I know. It’s kinda out there, but he honestly seems nice. No weirdo vibes. He claims Bishop will give him a glowing recommendation, but he isn’t as certain about his brother, though he claims that’s due to Preston’s lifelong jealousy in his direction.”

“Oh, sure. I believe that.”

“You know how it is with siblings.”

“Actually, no, I don’t.” I sighed. “I basically grew up without my brother around, remember?” Casey was a decade older than me, and he’d split for the opposite coast the minute he turned eighteen. Visits were still rare.

“Sorry, forgot you’re the next thing to a lonely only.”

“My kid too, and she’s not the next thing. Just only. That was the last thing I wanted for her after I grew up without brothers and sisters around.” I blew out a breath. “Not relevant, sorry. Did you make an appointment for Mr. Wonderful?”

“Yeah.” Her wince came through loud and clear in her voice, and preemptively, I tugged the covers over my head because I just knew what she was going to say next. “In ninety minutes. Give or take. Look, I’m sorry! I know it’s Saturday. But I also know you have cashflow issues. We have cashflow issues. Just talk to the guy. He’s not going to bite.”

“He sounds like he’s more interested in my clothes than anything else.”

“Not entirely. He also asked about Ber.”

“My daughter?”

“Do you have another Ber? Yes, Shelby. He didn’t remember her name,” she hastened to add. “I filled him in. But he did ask about Fire-Breathing Mama’s cute kid.”

I was not going to soften toward this man. Using the kid as leverage was a prime tactic of a certain kind of man. Probably one like Dexter Shaw, who certainly was used to getting his way. “Fire-Breathing Mama, huh?” 

I preened just a little. Far better than spineless, like a certain someone used to call me. But when it came to my daughter, I was anything but.

“Yeah. He said it like a compliment.”

“It is a compliment, no matter how he said it. Fine, I’ll meet him at the office in ninety minutes.” 

I was already juggling my schedule in my head. Hopefully, my parents could watch Berry. They were almost always good for a last-minute visit from her, but I didn’t know if they were even home. It was an almost summer weekend, after all.

“Uh, how about his house?”

“His house?” There was no tempering my screech. I’d have to go see what Berry was up to momentarily anyway. Her silence concerned me. “Not sure what kind of meeting he’s looking for, but it ain’t happening.”

“No, no, nothing like that.” TJ let out a bawdy laugh. “He wants to redo his place and wants you to see what you’re working with first.”

“Jeez, how come he didn’t request for me to swing by after dark?”

“If you’d prefer that, I can call him back—”

“You’re an ass. Verify that Bishop rec and get back to me. Assuming Bishop says he’s not a dick, I’ll go to his damn house. Address?”

She rattled off the address of a house on the lake road that wound around Crescent Lake in nearby Crescent Cove.

Big money, all capital letters.

Big sprawling houses with spectacular waterfront views. 

Big time ass-kicking for both Dexter and my bestie if this turned out to be a waste of my Saturday.

“Just reel in this giant fish for us. Bat those baby browns.”

“Whatever. Text me that rec. Bye.” I clambered out of bed and crossed to the bedroom door, yanking it open and charging into the hall barefoot. “Berry?”

No reply.

I tried again. “Berry? Are you up?” Her sleeping past seven am on a weekend was unheard of, but just in case, I hurried to her bedroom and opened the door.

Her bed was in its usual state of chaos along with the room itself. But no bright red hair and sparkling hazel eyes and mischievous giggle.

Where was she?

My skin went cold as visions of kids being stolen from their bedrooms filled my head. I rushed to her row of windows to check them. I huffed out a breath as I realized all the locks were still firmly in place.

Not stolen. Not stolen.

I gripped my throat and raced downstairs into the living room. She was probably just watching cartoons—

The living room was undisturbed. No chaos to be found.

I checked the kitchen. She liked to get herself a bowl of cereal while I was sleeping in, but all the dishes were still neatly stacked in the drying rack. I didn’t even see any evidence that she’d eaten cereal and washed the dish and put it back.

Swallowing hard, I rushed to the front door. Where else could she be? 

Soon as I opened the door, the sound of running water made me whirl toward the driveway—where my daughter was plastered with water and aiming the hose at my small SUV. A bucket of soapy water was next to her feet and a soap-laden sponge had been tossed on the hood.

“Berry?”

She spun around, forgetting to lower the hose, and I was instantly drenched—and instantly squealing and laughing despite being outside in my now dripping pajamas.

“Oops, sorry, Mom! I didn’t see you there!”

Somehow I was still laughing. My panic had subsided into hysterical giggles and Berry was just staring at me as if she was confused.

She wasn’t the only one.

“You’re washing my car?” I mean, it was fairly obvious, but she’d never done it before.

“Huh?” she shouted over the water.

“Turn off the hose, Berry.”

“Huh?” she repeated.

I mimed putting down the hose and she finally got the message to turn it off. “I wasn’t done yet,” she complained. “It’s still all soapy.”

That was the truth. Soapy rivulets were running down the doors and collecting on the tires.

“You can finish in a second. Why did you decide to wash it?”

“Because it was dirty.”

My daughter was far too logical—and a bit of a smartass. No idea where she’d gotten that from.

“Want me to help you finish?”

“I’ve got it.”

She was stubborn too. That was definitely not one of my traits.

“Okay. Thank you for washing it.”

She shrugged, flinging water everywhere from her long curls. “No big.” She gave me a critical glance. “You should take a shower. You’re kind of a mess.”

“Gee, thanks. How do you feel about going to Grams and Pops’ house today for a while so I can meet with a client?” 

Potential client, I reminded myself.

“Whatevs.” She’d already turned on the hose again.

Supposed we were done.

I trudged inside, peeling off my sopping pajamas as I went. I dumped them in the basket in the laundry room then headed up to shower and dress after I placed a quick call to my mom and dad.

Thankfully, they didn’t have plans and couldn’t wait to spend time with Berry. I’d truly lucked out with them.

What I hadn’t lucked out with? My unruly hair.

I showered and washed it, then I got out and dried myself off and tamed it into a semblance of a style. Then I went to evaluate the contents of my closet. After some deliberation, I slipped into a white wrap dress with a modest thigh slit.

I’d intentionally bypassed my pink pantsuit. Only Dexter Shaw could somehow develop a fixation on such a completely non-revealing piece of clothing.

Not that I knew anything about the man. Except he’d seemed smug and insufferable upon our first meeting.

For one, he was far too good-looking. Men like that were dangerous.

If you were a woman looking to meet a man, that is. I was not. I was basically a born-again virgin with a child.

A text came through and I rooted around through the bedding on my unmade bed until I found my phone.

TJ: Bishop said he’s a decent dude and he pays well and on time. Magic words!

I forced myself to unclench my fingers around my case.

I went to the closet and got out my favorite purse, red patent leather. Completely impractical. Went with my red heels. I didn’t know why I chose those. My arches would be screaming later.

Maybe now I’d be Red Heels Hottie instead.

And maybe Dexter Shaw would regret this day. Somehow I had a feeling he was about to be officially in over his head.

Or maybe that was me.

GET HER BILLIONAIRE BARGAIN HERE!

We’ll see you on DECEMBER 15th!!