by Mara Wells
Contact. Pinkie finger to pinkie finger. Accidental? Or had she wondered, too, what it would feel like? It was like he’d imagined, only better. Warmer. Softer. Both of them stopped petting the dog. He stared at their fingers. She stared at their fingers.
He wanted to slide his hand until it covered hers, but that wasn’t like him. He didn’t touch women he just met, no matter how soft the skin or how good they smelled. Was it strawberries? Something fruity filled his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, reminding himself that he didn’t do random hookups like his father. He was sensible in his romantic life, dating women with similar interests and incomes so they were always on a level playing field. But he also couldn’t move his hand.
She didn’t move either, not toward him or away. Then her fingers curled in LouLou’s hair, and when they uncurled, she’d put a few breaths of space between them. He itched to close the gap and feel her skin again. Inappropriate, he scolded himself. You’re not some kind of caveman who can’t control his urges. But he felt like one.
Then he felt something else. The frantic wiggle of a dog with a mission. He’d been around Mr. Pom-Pom enough to recognize the signs, so he crouched down to let LouLou go off to do her doggy business. She didn’t go far, though, before copping a squat.
“Oh no! Oh my gosh.” The woman pulled at his arm, and he let her drag him away from the scene of the dog crime. “Oh, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. No wonder she beelined for the elevator before I could get her leash on. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
She dashed next to the elevator where, like many Miami Beach buildings that boasted a common-area lobby, a door displayed the stick figures universally signaling a public restroom.
Soon, she was back, miles of paper towels heaped in her hands and trailing behind her. “The lobby restroom’s mostly used during the holiday party in December and sometimes by the mail carrier. Oh, and that time Rhonda in 202 forced some questionable sausage on the cutie-pie UPS guy when he delivered her new shower seat. It’s usually not a high traffic area, but I will definitely need to restock the paper products after today.”
She tore off a few feet of paper towels and handed them to him, then stooped to drop some on the floor, still chattering in what was apparently a nervous habit. He found himself leaning toward her, the sound of her voice, waiting for the next syllable to fall from those berry lips. About a public restroom. Good Lord, what was wrong with him, waiting to hear more about delivery folks with intestinal distress and paper-restocking protocols?
“She’s really a very good dog.” The woman gave him another wad of towels, although he wasn’t sure what she expected him to do with them. She swiped more around on the floor with her bare feet. “We were at Grams’ longer than usual, and we were on our way back to the dog park when she ran for that stupid elevator.” Swipe, swipe. She pressed more towels, and more words, on him. “And she is getting older. It’s hard to find homes for older dogs, you know? I couldn’t take her to a shelter, not knowing what might happen. That’s how I ended up with her.”
“I’m sorry I waylaid her.” He finally found his voice, although it didn’t sound much like him. Rusty, croaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s okay. These things happen.”
She nodded so vigorously that more hair flipped out of her ponytail to wave wildly around her face. “Sadly, they happen pretty often with her. At home, she has her pads and the patio, but there are still accidents.” She stopped wiping the floor for a moment to inspect him from head to toe. “Sorry about the shoes.”
Shoes? He looked down. Sure enough, they’d taken a bit of spray.
Her bottom lip shifted back and forth as though she were chewing on the inside of it. “I can have them cleaned for you? Do dry cleaners even take shoes? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s easier to give you money for a new pair? What do you prefer?”
Prefer? He’d prefer that she stop throwing paper towels at him and look him in the eye. Her raggedy cutoffs, her Grams living in this old building. She didn’t need the extra expense of designer shoes.
He didn’t have to force his smile. “I said it’s okay. It was an accident.”
She fluttered her hands at him, up and down. “There must be something I can do.”
“Have dinner with me.”
He got his wish. Her eyes flew to his and locked there. Shocked.
She squashed the last clean paper towel in a tight ball and let it fall. From the waist up, she was motionless, but her toes tap-tapped a nervous beat. “You don’t even know my name. I don’t know yours.”
“That’s easy to fix. What’s your name?”
She shot out a hand to shake his. “I’m Riley, Riley Carson. And you are?”
He didn’t take her hand. He couldn’t. “I’m here to fire you.”
Chapter 3
“Fire me?” Riley’s outstretched hand dropped to her side, and she took a step back, heel sliding in her rush to put distance between them. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could you possibly get me fired? Besides, I said I’d replace your shoes. Geez, it’s not even LouLou’s fault. Her age makes her somewhat incontinent is all.” Her eyes darted guiltily to the expensive loafers that she for sure couldn’t afford.
Why couldn’t he have been wearing some dollar-store sandals? The precise crease down the front of his trousers, the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down revealing a watch that probably cost as much as her eight-year-old Mazda, if not more, all indicated this guy didn’t buy anything at the dollar store. Chalk up another credit-card expense to the joys of dog ownership.
“I can. I should. This place is a disaster.” The man raked a palm down his face. His familiar face. She swore she recognized him but couldn’t quite place from where. He didn’t know who she was, though; maybe he had one of those faces. But no, the combination of eyes so blue she expected to see a dolphin swim by and the strong line of his jaw was not a common sight. At least not for her. Local TV anchor maybe? Someone she might’ve seen but who’d never seen her?
Riley sniffed, and her lips tightened. “This place is historic. Maintaining it is complicated.” To think she’d liked the guy, liked him enough that when their fingers touched, she’d fought off the crazy urge to cover his hand with hers and gaze at him as adoringly as LouLou gazed at Mr. Cardoza when he slid her a few bites of chicken. That was when she’d remembered what a mess she was from spending two hours becoming intimately acquainted with Mr. Cardoza’s garbage disposal—the one he should never have installed with pipes as old as the ones in this building—pulling chicken bones out of places chicken bones should never be. Again. “I’m not coming back,” she’d told him, shaking a slim bone covered in slime at him. “I mean it this time.”
“You are too good to me.” As usual, Mr. Cardoza ignored her scolding and continued making his delicious café, knowing that once she’d cleared his drains, she’d sit and chat with him for a while. He always had news to share about his sister in Spain and his grandson, a philosophy major in Tallahassee, who’d taught him how to use Facebook so he could see the family’s pictures and posts.
Riley’d gritted her teeth and gotten back to work, suspecting—not for the first time—that Mr. Cardoza clogged his drains on purpose for the company. Then Grams texted with another of her nonemergency emergencies, and she and LouLou had to scram before she got even one drop of her café solo.
Maybe that was why she was feeling off. Nothing was better than Mr. Cardoza’s hand-ground coffee, and between Grams needing her to reboot her computer so she could check her lotto numbers and LouLou’s escape, Riley’d missed out on some much-needed caffeine that would’ve helped her more quickly put together precisely why this guy thought he could fire her. But on second thought, you know what?
“No, just no. The only person who can fire me is the owner of the building, and since that person happens to be my grandmother, I don’t even want to hear it from you right now.”
Riley shut him down with a hand chop through the air between them. “I know she doesn’t handle the day-to-day or get involved in running the place. Are you from the management company?” Technically, Grams’ management company, Rainy Day, hired her and could fire her.
He took a long time to answer. “You could say that.”
Her stomach did a little twirl, but LouLou’s comforting presence helped her stay calm. “You work for Grams, not the other way around. You can try to fire me, but I’m not worried. I’ve done good work since I took on this job.”
“A good job? A coconut bombed my Porsche!”
“Oh, your Porsche. How tragic. Next time the tree trimmers cancel on me three times in a row, and the new service I ask to come give me a quote never shows up, I’ll be sure to put out a Beware of Coconuts sign for the local Porsche owners.” Riley backed away, feet slapping the terrazzo with every step. “And you can be sure I’ll let Grams know how you threatened to fire me. I’d be worried about my own job if I were you.”
The guy’s jaw worked up and down, like LouLou when she got peanut butter on the back of her tongue. If he were like LouLou, it’d take him awhile to work through whatever he was chewing on, so she left him there in the lobby.
Left his icy gaze that should feel cold when it hit her but instead made her skin heat and brain scramble. Left his tall, trim body that should look stuffy in his chambray button-up and high-end loafers but only made her imagine what he’d look like when all the layers were stripped away. Left him saying, “But I don’t, I mean, your grandmother can’t possibly—” because her grandmother did a lot of impossible things for someone her age. Left his familiar face behind because she was getting a sinking feeling that she knew exactly who he was. Damn it.
“Wait!” His voice stopped her, the voice she was pretty sure she could find in online video clips saying how his family was innocent of wrongdoing and his father’s trial would prove it. Ha! He didn’t work for Rainy Day at all, the liar. If he was who she suspected, his family was guilty of destroying her career. Now he was sniffing around her grandmother’s building? Oh no, she was not going to wait.
A hand on her arm stopped her retreat. “Please, I shouldn’t have said I was here to fire you. I’m here to look around.”
Riley pressed LouLou to her side. He wanted to look around? She’d gladly show him the exit. But even as the thought surfaced, two things occurred to her. One, no way would she let him off the hook that easily—the man had ruined her life once, and here he was, threatening to do it again. Two—and this one pained her to admit—she doubted he’d be that easy to get rid of. Nope, not this guy. If he was indeed the Donovan heir apparent, he’d move heaven and earth to get his way. That didn’t mean she’d make it easy on him. Nuh-uh. No way.
“Hoping for a tour?” She owed Mr. You-Could-Say-That a bit of a hard time, didn’t she? Perhaps they’d start in the laundry room, and he could enjoy the symphony of twenty-five-year-old washers on spin cycle. Or the water-heater closet where, no matter how many notices she posted or emails she sent, residents insisted on piling boxes and beach chairs in a giant fire hazard she had to clear out at least once a month.
“That’s right.” He reached out to pet LouLou.
“You’re not old enough to rent here.” Riley snapped her fingers to get LouLou’s attention and was ignored. The traitor dog covered his hand in doggy kisses.
Why didn’t that hard jaw crack when he grinned up at her? “I can assure you, I’m well over the age of consent.” He threw in a wink, clearly intent on charming her.
He was flirting with her? Flirting? After she’d been given zero days’ notice of being laid off and spent weeks sleeping on Grams’ sofa? She stopped outside her apartment door, kicking a pair of flip-flops off her Home Is Where the Dog Is welcome mat to clear the way. “It’s a fifty-five-plus building.”
His eyebrows shot straight up, but then he quickly got them back in line. “Of course it is. But don’t you have an empty unit I could see?”
“Is your wife over fifty-five? Because that’s the only way you could rent here.” She wasn’t fishing for marital status. She wasn’t. Everyone in Miami knew his wife left him the day after his father was found guilty. And no, she wasn’t trying to be spiteful or mean-spirited—although the man did threaten to fire her—but she couldn’t resist prodding a bit to see if his façade would slip.
“It’s for—” His jaw worked the peanut butter again. “—someone else.”
“Your father?” she suggested with narrowed eyes, opening the door. LouLou ran for the patio. Maybe he’d come clean and tell her his father was in prison, maybe admit why he was really here.
He didn’t. Riley turned to block the entry to her apartment, hands propped on the doorframe on either side of her.
His smile slipped. “My grandfather. Do you have something available or not?”
Truth was, half the building was empty. Residents passed on, moved to assisted living or in with relatives, or simply moved away, and no one was knocking down the door to rent here. Riley loved her neighborhood, had essentially grown up here, but the Dorothy was no longer in her prime. Riley acknowledged that, but fifty-five-plus renters were on limited incomes, and the building had long ago spent its reserve budget on hurricane windows and doors. In her old job as an assistant manager at the Donovan Resort, she’d had an entire staff on call to make repairs. Now she had a long list of to-do items right next to the budget spreadsheet that said she couldn’t afford them.
Thank God for YouTube videos. She’d learned to snake drains and regrout tile with the help of DIY channels. She didn’t need some Donovan coming around and telling her the place was a disaster. Like any aging woman who’d spent too much time in the sun, the Dorothy might need some cosmetic repairs, but Riley was proud of how she’d kept the essentials running on such a tight budget.
“Give me a minute.” She closed the door in his face. LouLou followed her to the bathroom where Riley washed up before changing into longer shorts, a pale-pink T-shirt, and a well-loved if slightly ratty pair of Skechers. She grabbed a dental chew from the box on the kitchen counter and bribed LouLou outside to enjoy a bit of sun on the screened-in patio.
One more thing and she’d be totally ready: a quick Google. Caleb Donovan. Smiling, frowning. With his father, his mother, his ex-wife. In newspapers, on the covers of tabloids. How had she not recognized him immediately? He was everything the Donovans stood for—wealth, privilege, and now corruption. A quick scan of a few articles said he’d lost millions, so what was he doing here? Scoping out run-down properties to buy at a deep discount? Grams would never sell the place; he was welcome to waste his time making offers she wouldn’t accept.
When Riley reopened her apartment door, he was no longer the Friday-casual businessman.
He was hottie-on-the-way-to-the-gym, his sneakers so high tech with their crisscrossed cords and rubberized tongue adorned with the Ferragamo logo that she figured they did the workout for him.
“Had my gym bag in the trunk.” He tugged on his wrinkled gray shirt, releasing the scent of fabric softener that said this was a going-to-the-gym outfit that hadn’t actually made it there yet. “Thought I’d change my shoes, but it’s pretty hot today, isn’t it?”
“It is August.” She had to reach down deep to remember how the general manager praised her mere days before she’d been laid off, saying she was the quickest rising star on the management track, and if she stuck with it, she’d have her own hotel to manage before she was thirty-five—a full five years ahead of the schedule she’d painstakingly laid out for herself when she’d started working the front desk of a smaller Donovan property out in Doral. Managing this place was paying her bills, but it wasn’t making her dreams come true, and no amount of muscled bicep should make her forget that.
She dragged the mop bucket along b
ehind her, ignoring the fresh laundry smell even though it reminded her of how much she loved to snuggle down in her bed when the sheets were still warm from the dryer. Great, now she was thinking about Caleb Donovan on her sheets and in her bed. And she didn’t hate the picture it made.
She shoved the mop at him. “You don’t mind helping, do you? Now that you’re perfectly dressed for the next event of my day?” She flashed him some teeth, afraid the expression came off more as a snarl than a smile, but he bought it. Chuckled when he dunked the mop in the soapy water and gamely mopped away, though he’d clearly not had much practice.
Riley crushed the flare of disappointment she felt when they were done. Was it evil of her to enjoy a Donovan doing janitorial work at her building? She resisted the urge to snap a photo.
“Have I earned the right to see inside an apartment yet?” His blue eyes lightened with humor, and her heart hammered a too-loud thump-thump that she attributed to pushing around the weight of the industrial-size and filled-to-the-brim mop bucket. It wasn’t because Caleb Donovan was flirting with her, that was for sure. She was on to him, but he didn’t know it. If she kept her mouth shut, how long would he stick with his I’m-looking-for-a-home-for-my-grandfather story? Did he really think she’d just up and forget his threat to fire her?
They’d fallen far, the Donovan clan, but surely not to the Dorothy level. No, he’d given himself away with that I’m-here-to-fire-you nonsense he’d lobbed at her after asking her out. Donovans didn’t rent. They bought; they developed. She felt a hostile takeover brewing. Wary and not really sure what to make of Caleb, Riley tilted her head and considered how to play this. Call him out and let the chips fall? Bide her time and see if she could figure out exactly what his plan was so she could warn Grams? In the end, she decided to go along with his ploy to see how far he’d push it before showing his true Donovan colors.