Chapter One

Jenna

 

Today was the first day of the rest of my life. The turning point that would mark the end of one crappy chapter and the start of a shiny new one.

I lowered my visor and smiled at myself in the mirror. “Jenna Bennett. You’ve got this. You’re going to sell this house. Cash the big fat commission check. Finally dip your big toe into the dating pool again. Good things are coming your way.”

My reflection didn’t look convinced.

Maybe because it had suffered through the most humiliating divorce in the history of divorces, five attempts to sell the white whale of a house, and knew deep down, my blind date later that night would be a dud.

What can I say? My slice of the American pie had molded a little around the edges.

Nope. No more negative self-talk. I can do this.

I slapped the visor back in place, climbed out of my car, and marched up the stairs of my gorgeous, but ridiculously overpriced real estate listing.

A little white Prius pulled into the drive, and Amy Stewart climbed out. “Jenna. Sorry to keep you waiting. Class ran long.”

The yoga instructor was a tricky client. The new wife of a movie studio mogul, she had a wish list a mile long. We’d been searching for the perfect house for almost a year. During that time, we’d become friends, but we hadn’t found a property that met her and her husband’s needs.

Until now.

“No worries. I have a good feeling about this one.” I was confident this was the right house for them.

It has to be.

“Me too. The photos in the listing were incredible.” Amy shoved her sunglasses to the top of her head and drew a deep breath. “I can smell the salt water from here.”

“Wait until you see the private beach.” I unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

A half-hour later, my optimism began to pay off. I had her hooked on the house—all I had to do was reel her in.

“And here, you’ll see even more additional storage space. On top of the massive garage and the attic, we also have a detached mother-in-law apartment that would be perfect for a home office.” My chipper, over-the-top tone grated on my nerves, but I had to keep going.

This sale would mean a commission big enough to pay the bills for six months, and keep my daughter, Olivia, in pointe shoes. Heck, if I was super careful, I could replenish her college fund.

I can’t blow this.

“You said something about a private beach?” Amy glanced out the glass doors.

I checked my notes, though I didn’t need to. I had already memorized every detail of this house. It was my pride and joy, the one I’d been trying to move for the past eight months.

“The stairs to the water are on the far side of the pool. The decking was installed last year and is absolutely beautiful.” I flashed her another bright smile. “Let me show you.”

“The view is wonderful, but we’re so high up…” Amy followed me outside.

My heels clicked on the stone pool deck as I guided her to the top of the stairs. “You are, but as you can see, it’s a straight shot to the private beach.”

She leaned over the railing and the color drained from her face. “That’s really steep.”

“Yes, but there are three decks on the way down. Would you like to see them?” I prayed she’d turn me down. I hated heights, and the stairs were built on the side of a cliff. They were beyond steep, but I refused to show fear.

“No thanks.” Amy glanced over the water again. “I’m not sure this is the one.”

“Would you like to see the kitchen again?” I refused to let this opportunity slip away. With the beautiful marble counters and stainless-steel appliances, the kitchen was the best-selling point.

“Sure.” She forced a smile.

“This is my favorite part of the entire house,” I said as we rounded the corner and took in the glorious kitchen. “I love the white, solid wood cabinets. And this marble was imported from Italy.”

“It is really nice.” Running her fingers over the countertops, she sighed a dreamy sort of sigh that told me she was imagining herself cooking there.

For the first time all day, I smiled a genuine smile. “This area here is the perfect size for a large kitchen table.”

“Hudson would love this space. It has great flow for entertaining.” She wandered around the massive kitchen. “With Jason and Zarah in college, it’s just us, but we’re looking forward to grandchildren one day.”

“That’s the dream, isn’t it?” My stomach tightened.

It used to be my dream too.

The thought sent me back to a time before my divorce when I was excited for the beautiful future Mark had promised.

What an idiot I’d been. Young, in love, and completely blind to the man I’d vowed to spend the rest of my life with. With a shake of my head, I scattered the painful memories and refocused my attention on Amy.

I opened my mouth to ask if she wanted to schedule a time to bring Hudson by when a creaking noise filled the kitchen.

I whirled around trying to find the source of the racket. It was coming from the sink and my stomach, already shaky from my trip down memory lane, did a somersault. I took an unsteady step toward the sink and sent up a silent prayer to the real estate gods that the showing wouldn’t end in disaster.

“Is it the plumbing?” Amy’s voice went up an octave.

“Oh no, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ve had my inspector in here already and—”

The first trickle of water hit the floor. Before I could blink, water poured from the cabinet beneath the sink so fast the entire kitchen would be flooded in minutes.

Biting back a curse word, I flew across the room and wrenched open the cabinet door. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but even more water shot out. Seriously, fire hydrants had nothing on the damned pipe.

I turned my head to avoid being sprayed in the face and twisted the shut-off valve. The geyser slowed to a trickle, but it was too late. The floor was soaked, as was I.

Amy’s footsteps echoed through the suddenly silent room. “Are you okay?”

I dipped my chin, closed my eyes, and drew a deep breath. There was no coming back from this, but I had to try.

Standing, I plastered on my ready-to-please smile and laughed. “Well, that was dramatic.”

“To say the least.” Amy covered her mouth as if to hold back laughter. “Can I get you a towel or something?”

“I’ll get it.” I hurried to the bathroom and grabbed a towel from the linen closet. “Sorry about that. I’ll call my plumber immediately.”

“It’s okay. Stuff happens.” She took one look at my soaking hair and clothes and backed away as if afraid I’d try to hug her or shake like a dog and soak her with water. “I’m sorry. I know we’ve been at this a long time.”

My heart sank. I’d lost the battle and I knew it. “I’m not giving up. The perfect house for you and Hudson is out there, and I’m going to find it.”

Likely picking up on my distress, she tilted her head, sighed, and pulled me into a hug. “I have faith in you.”

I eased back and winced at the giant wet spot on the front of her sundress. “Thanks.”

“We’re open to new construction, even if that means tearing down a less than stellar house and building a new one.” She nudged my side. “And Hudson and I plan to double your commission.”

My throat tightened. Amy Stewart might have been a difficult client, but she was an amazing person and better friend. “You don’t have to—”

“I know, but it seems only fair to compensate you for your time.” She motioned to the foyer. “I should get going. I’ll see you at Merilee’s for girls’ night in?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I waited until the front door closed before pulling out my phone to call the homeowners and a plumber. And because my day couldn’t possibly get any worse, my cell slipped through my wet hands and landed hard on the tile floor.

“No. No. No.” I snatched it up from the puddle.

Luckily, there was no visible damage. However, as soon as I tried to make a call, the damned thing blinked twice as if gasping for its last breath and went black.

I made my calls from the homeowners’ landline, mopped up as best as I could, and marched to my car. Water squished from my shoes with each step and threatened to spill from my eyes.

There’s no crying in real estate. Pull it together, Jenna.

“Stupid, piece of junk.” I tossed my dead phone aside. It landed with a muted thud against the upholstery of the passenger seat, then bounced onto the floor where it crashed against Olivia’s metal water bottle.

“Great. That’s great.”

Leaning my head back against the driver’s seat, I sucked a breath in through my nose and forced it out through my mouth. Not exactly how Amy had taught us in yoga class. No, the perpetually peaceful, thin, and perfectly put together yoga teacher insisted we take deep, slow, calming breaths.

So what if mine are shallow, fast, and violent? At least I’m still breathing.

I snapped my eyes open, shook my head, and then threw my car in reverse. If I had any hope of making it to Olivia’s dance class on time, I needed to stop pouting and get moving. One broken phone and a disastrous showing wasn’t the end of the world. I still had my date to look forward to.

Halfway to the Verizon store, I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Fifty-four minutes to get in, get out, run home to change, and make it to the Carole Mae Dance Studio for Olivia’s rehearsal.

I’ve got this.

I pushed the memory of the flood out of my mind and hit the gas pedal. Hard. Water oozed from my shoe.

Today might have sucked but watching Olivia dance always brightened my mood. Not to mention, it was my turn to bring snacks for the team. Fifteen hungry, hormonal teenaged girls were counting on me to supply tasty, yet nutritious treats.

No store-bought, processed garbage for my girls.

Four minutes later, I burst into the phone store and rushed to the counter with my drowned and shattered cell in my outstretched hand. “It’s broken. I need a new one. Fast, please. I’m already running late.”

“No problem. Give me a moment to pull up your account, ma’am.” The young man behind the counter eyed my soaked blouse.

I didn’t know which was worse, being ma’amed or the clerk checking out my version of a wet T-shirt contest.

“Great, thank you so much. My number is 555-756-0086.” Tapping my nails against the counter, I counted the seconds as the world’s slowest computer brought up my information.

He inspected the deceased phone and frowned. “This isn’t salvageable. Do you know what kind you want as a replacement?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have time to be picky. Whichever is the closest to my old phone is fine.”

His smile turned forced. “Then you’ll want the new Samsung. I’ll grab one from the back.”

“Thanks.” As someone who pleases customers for a living, I hated how snippy I sounded. The guy was trying to do his job.

Other than checking out my boobs, he was nice, kind, and patient. I, on the other hand, was acting exactly like the customers I hated. A rude, short, soon-to-be middle-aged divorcee who couldn’t help but take her frustration out on a guy in his twenties.

When did I become this person?

When he returned, he was all smiles. Until the phone he’d selected didn’t come up in the computer or the computer didn’t recognize the phone or whatever-the-hell he’d mumbled under his breath.

Another twenty minutes ticked by while he solved the problem, finished ringing up the new phone, and printed out a receipt for me to sign. “Would you like me to dispose of your old phone for you, ma’am?”

“Yes. Thanks.” I kept my tone friendly, despite my urge to shout my gratitude over my shoulder as I ran from the building.

“No problem. You’re all set.”

“Thank you so much.” I smiled and waved as politely as I could manage before sprinting to my car.

Eight minutes left. No time to go home. Shit.

Behind the wheel, I pulled out my new phone to send Olivia a quick text to let her know I’d be there soon. When I clicked on the icon for contacts, it was empty.

Gah. And he swore he’d fixed the glitch.

Whatever had happened with the computer, the guy hadn’t successfully transferred my data over to my new cell. Then again, hadn’t he double checked it? Was it poor customer service? An oversight? Payback for my shortness?

“I hate this day.”

I manually entered Olivia’s number and shot off a text before pulling out of the parking lot and speeding back across town.

The clock on my dash flipped to four fifteen the second I shut off the engine. I was late.

Twisting around, I hurried to grab the snacks that I’d tossed in the backseat earlier in the day. My hand hovering ready to scoop them up, I froze.

“Of course.” I groaned. “What else can possibly go wrong?”

The organic, homemade, gluten-free snacks I’d spent three hours making the night before were strewn across the backseat. The only snacks that had survived my mad-cap dash across town were the homemade granola bars. Sure, they were a little crumbly but edible.

“Thank God.” I grabbed the bag, wrenched Olivia’s water bottle off the floor, and stumbled out of the car.

I’d made it to the sidewalk when I ran face-first into a chest—a broad, muscular male chest.

“Oh.” I jumped back, my hand flying to my mouth. “I’m sorry, I was just—”

The man juggled a bakery box in one hand and steadied me with the other. “Easy there.”

I blinked the sun out of my eyes and focused on Adam Martinez’s grinning, smug face.

He brushed his black hair off his forehead, and for a moment—I would later chalk up to temporary insanity—I was mesmerized by his deep brown eyes.

And then he laughed. At me.

Stepping back, he gave me a once over. “Running late today? That’s a first for you.”

“Adam.” My once apologetic tone turned to ice. He was the last person I wanted to chit-chat with after such a terrible day.

“Jenna.” He mimicked my tone, but his grin remained firmly in place.

Yep. Still laughing at me.

“We should get inside.” I squared my shoulders. “We’re both running late, after all.”

I took great pleasure in emphasizing the word both, and even greater pleasure in watching the muscles in his neck tighten.

“You’re right, we are.” He motioned toward the entrance.

Turning away from him, I rolled my eyes and hurried toward the front door of the Carole Mae Dance Studio.

Could he be more pompous? Even his footsteps are smug.

“Good afternoon, Yolanda,” Adam called to the receptionist from behind me.

Her face lit up. Seriously, the woman behaved like he’d handed her a diamond or a winning lottery ticket or a freaking puppy.

Against my better judgment, I glanced back at Adam.

The jerk winked at Yolanda, which of course made her dip her chin and twist her hair around her finger.

Why did he have to flirt with every woman in the studio?

Correction. Every woman—except me.

 

 

Chapter Two

Adam

 

I stood in the warzone otherwise known as my kitchen, feeling more than a little shell-shocked.

Vanessa had always been the cook in the family. Before she’d died, I had a hard time boiling water. For the past three years, every meal and every snack had been my responsibility. Some days, I still marveled at the fact that neither Maya nor Miguel had starved to death.

“Okay brownies, you may have defeated me the last three battles, but not this time.” I slapped my hands together before tying my apron around my waist. If I wasn’t careful, this batch would turn to black tar like my previous attempts.

Tossing one ingredient in after the other, I wrinkled my nose at the foul odor oozing out of the mixing bowl.

Who the hell puts black beans in baked goods?

The brownie recipe was a Jenna Bennett special. Sugar-free, gluten-free, and packed with vitamins and minerals to keep a group of seventeen-year-old ballet dancers fit and healthy.

“If only they didn’t taste like absolute ass,” I mumbled to myself as I threw in the last ingredient and gave the mixture a quick stir.

The preheated oven sat hot and ready as I dumped the batter into a square cake pan before sliding it onto the top rack.

“There.” I nodded before turning to face the disaster that was my kitchen. I didn’t have long before I needed to leave for the studio where my daughter Maya had danced competitively for the past six years.

It wasn’t easy being a dance dad, especially after my wife died. Losing Vanessa had about broken me and adjusting to the new normal was hell.

Miguel had bounced back fast. He had only been four at the time of Vanessa’s car accident and already, his memories of her were fading.

But Maya…she hadn’t been the same since. Slower smiles. Fewer friends. The all-consuming need to follow in her mother’s footsteps and get into a college dance program.

“Dad.” Miguel slammed the front door.

“In the kitchen.”

He bounded into the room, stopped, and gagged. “Ugh. What are you cooking?”

I laughed at his theatrics. “Don’t worry mijo, it’s not for you.”

“Good, because it smells like butt.”

He wasn’t wrong. Jenna Bennett’s famous brownies were terrible. Actually, all her recipes were terrible because of her obsession with making every meal an organic experience.

What that woman needs are more orgasmic experiences. Since when did a little processed sugar hurt anyone?

“They’re healthy brownies,” I told Miguel. “But I’ve never managed to make them right.”

“Why do you keep trying?” He jumped up on a barstool and tossed his backpack on the counter.

“Because your sister loves them, and I’m supposed to bring the snacks to dance class today.”

“Maya loves those?” Miguel screwed up his face, drew a deep breath through his nose, and gagged again.

“Yup.”

Much to my dismay. Maya didn’t just love Jenna’s cooking. She raved over everything the woman did. Whether it was the way she cooked, the way she did her daughter’s hair for competitions, or how amazing she was at her job as a real-estate agent, Maya practically idolized her.

Part of me wondered if Maya looked at Jenna as a surrogate mom, or maybe her adoration had more to do with the fact that she was best friends with Olivia, Jenna’s daughter. Whatever the reason, I had to watch the snarky comments whenever Maya was around.

Miguel, though, couldn’t care less.

I exaggerated rolling my eyes. “I don’t know what’s so wrong with a good, old-fashioned bag of Chex Mix, ya know? Or maybe some of those chocolate-covered granola bars?”

He held his arms out wide and gave me a what-the-heck look. “I love those.”

“Me too.”

“So, why not buy something instead of making butt brownies?”

I snorted. “Please don’t call them butt brownies around your sister.”

“I won’t.” He drew a cross over his heart.

“Because if I bring anything other than healthy food, Jenna will lose her mind. And when Jenna Bennett loses it…”

“Bring me with you. Miss Jenna loves me.” Miguel grinned.

“Nice try. You have math tutoring in twenty minutes.” I reached across the bar and messed up his hair.

He groaned. “Why does Maya get to do something fun like dance, and I have to do stupid math tutoring?”

“Because Maya’s grades are good and yours are—”

“Sucksville,” Miguel finished for me.

“Exactly.”

“Ugh. Fine. Can I at least have a snack before Zarah gets here? Something that actually tastes good, please?”

Grinning, I opened the cupboard and grabbed a bag of fruit snacks. I could only imagine the look on Jenna’s face if I showed up at the studio with a box of over-processed jellified blobs.

Her steely-gray eyes would widen in absolute horror before she’d press her lips so tightly together, they’d form one sharp, thin line.

I could almost hear her snooty voice. “There’s red dye in those. And did you even read how much sugar they put in? Just because it says fruit on the package does not mean it’s healthy.”

I tossed the bag to Miguel. “Here ya go.”

He ripped it open and popped one in his mouth. “Mmm. Now, that’s a real snack.”

“Much better than Miss Jenna’s famous butt brownies.”

Miguel laughed. “Butt brownies sounds so wrong.”

Soon, we were both cracking up. There was something so easy about hanging out with a seven-year-old. Nothing bothered him for longer than five seconds and everything was absolutely hilarious.

Unfortunately, I had to get it together. If I showed up still laughing at Jenna’s reaction to less than healthy snacks, she’d somehow know my private joke was about her. I swore, the woman could read my mind and hear me talking shit from across town.

I didn’t understand why she had a problem with me. Everyone else at the dance studio liked me well enough. I’d been the team’s photographer since Maya had started taking classes, which made it easy for me to get to know the dance moms.

A blessing and a curse.

Although I’d been a widower for three years, I still didn’t consider myself on the market, and even if I was, I wouldn’t shop at the dance studio.

Too damned much drama.

Before Vanessa had died, the women had been friendly enough. After she passed, they’d stuck to me like magnets to metal. At first it was under the guise of helping me through such a difficult time, but it hadn’t taken long for their concern to morph into flirting. I didn’t think any of the moms took it too seriously, but for some reason, it really seemed to piss off Jenna Bennett.

“Um, Dad?” Miguel’s worried tone called me back to reality.

“Yeah?”

“I think your butt brownies are burning.”

“Shoot.”

Sure enough, smoke poured through the cracks in the oven door. I ran over and yanked it open. An acrid plume of black air billowed around me, blocking my view of the brownies. I grabbed a potholder, wrenched the cake pan out of the oven, and threw it on the counter.

Waving my hand to clear the air, I inspected the charcoaled snacks. They were a total loss.

Seconds later the smoke detector went off with a piercing wail that made Miguel shout and cover his ears.

“Perfect.”

“It’s okay, Dad. No one wanted to eat those things anyway.” Miguel yelled over the incessant noise.

One glance at my son’s expression, and I was laughing again. He really was the best at lightening the mood.

After I’d opened all the windows and had shut off the smoke detector, I double checked the brownies. They were black and hard as rocks.

I pried one out of the pan, but it crumbled to dust. “Well, there goes that idea.”

“Just take some fruit snacks.” Miguel shrugged.

“We don’t have enough. I’ll run by the store on the way to the studio.”

“Good idea.”

The smoke had dissipated, but I didn’t like Miguel sitting so close to the toxic waste still swirling in the air. “Hey, grab your backpack and go wait on the front porch for Zarah. She’ll be here any second.”

“Okay.” Miguel jumped down from the barstool and skipped out the front door.

I glanced back at the pan and sighed. For the fourth time, I’d somehow managed to screw up yet another thing Jenna made look so easy.

Jenna Bennett, with her perfectly pinned bun and clean, precisely pressed power suits. In all the years I’d known the woman, I had never once seen her in yoga pants or a T-shirt. She was the walking embodiment of perfection, except for that stick up her ass.

Part of me felt bad for her. The entire dance studio had buzzed with gossip about what supposedly happened between her, her ex-husband, and one of the dance moms a few years back. Everyone said it was ugly. Divorce lawyers and secret mistresses. Now that the second Mrs. Bennett and Mark had a new baby, the gossip surrounding Jenna had gotten worse. Her name was often used along with words like “pathetic,” “lonely,” and “bitter.”

Leave it to the Bored Housewives of Carole Mae Dance Studio to prolong what had obviously been a painful experience.

I would have liked to strike up a friendship with her for our daughters’ sakes. That is, if she wasn’t such a pain in the ass and didn’t snack-shame me every time I copped out and brought a bag of store-bought cookies.

I set the ruined brownies in the sink and ran water over them. They would need to soak before I’d have any hope of scraping them out of the pan. In the meantime, I had to hurry if I was going to get to the grocery store before Maya’s class.

Outside, Miguel had already started his tutoring session.

“Hey Zarah.” I smiled as I closed the front door behind me. “Did Miguel tell you all about our exciting afternoon?”

“I smelled the smoke down the street.” She laughed.

Zarah was a friend of mine’s daughter who’d offered to help Miguel for a little cash and a few free pizzas. Miguel loved her. Maya had practically adopted her as a sister. And right now, she was my lifesaver. Unfortunately, she was also an up-and-coming movie star who’d landed a role in a major motion picture. I’d be losing her sooner rather than later.

“Listen, I have to run, do you think you could watch Miguel for an hour or so after his session? I’m on the list to bring snacks to Maya’s dance studio today, and if I don’t get there on time, I’m dead. I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Sure,” Zarah said. “No problem. You go. I’ve got him.”

“Thank you.”

I kissed the top of Miguel’s head, then jogged to my car. A few minutes later, I grabbed the first thing I could find in the grocery store and practically sprinted to the checkout line. I paid as fast as I could, then hurried back to my car with a large bakery box in my hands.

“Five minutes to get there,” I said, placing the cupcakes on the seat beside me.

Carole Mae Dance Studio was the biggest and best dance school in San Sera—maybe Southern California. It’d taken almost a full year for Maya to earn a place on the competitive team. Every time I showed up late, I was convinced my crappy time management skills would somehow reflect poorly on my daughter. Ridiculous, I know. But I had a terminal case of single-dad guilt.

In the parking lot, I hurtled toward the front door. It was no wonder I almost ran smack into a woman coming from the opposite direction.

My heart raced as I fumbled to keep the box upright.

“Oh. I’m sorry, I was—” Jenna Bennett eyed my cupcake box like it was a diamond back rattler coiled and ready to strike.

Perfect. Just freaking perfect. She’s judging me already, and I’m not even inside.

“Running late today? That’s a first for you.” I tried for humor but came off lame.

Her gray eyes grew colder by the second. “Adam.”

“Jenna.” I caught myself mimicking her and frowned.

I really need to get some friends that aren’t seven-years-old.

“We should get inside. We’re both running late, after all.” She raised her chin.

“You’re right, we are.” For the first time since our near collision, I took a good look at her.

Jenna’s normally perfect bun had chunks of dark hair sticking out. Her eyeliner had smudged around the edges and her skirt was bunched up on the side. When she took her first steps toward the door, I heard the unmistakable squish of wet shoes.

And holy wet blouse-contest, Batman. Who would have thought Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass Bennett wore hot pink lace bras?