“So it’s a date?”

“If by ‘date’ you mean a mutually agreed upon and strictly platonic social outing intended to cheer up my daughter, then yes.”

JT didn’t seem offended. In fact, his lips actually twitched as if he might…

Yowza. In teir few exchanges, she’d never seen him truly smile. Now a grin transformed his whole face, making his memorable gray eyes bright with humor.

“It’s a date,” he repeated, giving her one last unreadable look before walking past to tell the kids that he’d see them next weekend.

Kenzie, her legs feeling unsteady, stood listening to her daughter’s exultant whoop of delight and the door closing as JT left.

Had she just received a glimpse of the man he’d once been? Because, despite what she’d said about not forming attachments at Peachy Acres, she suspected she could very much enjoy getting to know that man.

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to THE STATE OF PARENTHOOD miniseries, Harlequin American Romance’s celebration of parenthood and place. In this, our 25th year of publishing great books, we’re delighted to bring you these heartwarming stories that sing the praises of the home state of six different authors, and share the many trials and delights of being a parent.

In A Dad for Her Twins by Tanya Michaels, Kenzie Green is not looking for a new man in her life—and her neighbor JT most certainly isn’t looking for instant fatherhood. Despite their outlooks, they find themselves thrown together at the end of one steamy Atlanta summer—thanks to a bit of matchmaking by her well-meaning twins!

There are five other books in the series. We hope you didn’t miss Tina Leonard’s Texas Lullaby (June ’08), Smoky Mountain Reunion by Lynnette Kent (July ’08) or Cowboy Dad by Cathy McDavid (August ’08). Next month watch for Margot Early’s Holding the Baby, a story about a woman who is carrying a child for her sister…a sister who suddenly decides she no longer wants the baby. Watch for our final book in the series, A Daddy for Christmas by Laura Marie Altom, when we head west to Oklahoma for a family holiday story you’ll never forget.

We hope these romantic stories inspire you to celebrate where you live—because any place you raise a child is home.

Wishing you happy reading,

Kathleen Scheibling

Senior Editor

Harlequin American Romance

A Dad for Her Twins

Tanya Michaels

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tanya Michaels started telling stories almost as soon as she could talk…and started stealing her mom’s Harlequin romances less than a decade later. In 2003, Tanya was thrilled to have her first book, a romantic comedy, published by Harlequin Books. Since then, Tanya has sold nearly twenty books and is a two-time recipient of a Booksellers’ Best Award, as well as a finalist for the Holt Medallion, National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award. Tanya lives in Georgia with her husband, two preschoolers and an unpredictable cat, but you can visit Tanya online at www.tanyamichaels.com.

My heartfelt thanks to Kathleen Scheibling for including me in the State of Parenthood series, and all my love to Ryan and Hailey, even if you do keep my life in a perpetual State of Chaos.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“Peachy Acres is a stupid name,” Drew complained from the backseat.

Thank you, Mr. Optimism. Mackenzie Green, intrepid single mom and owner of a minivan that was older than her nine-year-old twins, sighed inwardly.

Kenzie empathized with her son’s unhappiness over moving, but his negative commentary was making the four-hour trip from Raindrop, North Carolina, to Atlanta, Georgia, feel like an interminable cross-country trek. Or a voyage in space, she thought, vaguely recalling some old movie promo about no one being able to hear you scream. Too often Kenzie felt as if she were screaming on the inside.

Behind her, Leslie had adopted the prim, emphatic tone that made her sound like a cranky schoolteacher. “I’m sure it’s called Peachy Acres because Georgia is the Peach State,” she informed her brother.

Drew was unimpressed. “Know-it-all. I hate when you talk like you’re older than me. We’re the same age!”

“A person doesn’t have to be older to be smarter.”

“All right!” Kenzie took a breath, reminding herself that deep feelings of maternal love prevented her from strapping the kids to the roof for the duration of the trip. Well, maternal love and state laws. “You two be nice.”

She was always a touch envious when she heard about inseparable twins who dressed alike and finished each other’s sentences. It would be bliss if her children could just go a day without bickering. Heck, an hour—she wasn’t picky! Tensions were running abnormally high today; the kids had said goodbye to the only home they’d ever known.

Leslie was coping by burying her nose in a young-adult reference book about Georgia during the Civil War, despite her increased tendency to get carsick while reading. Drew, as had become his habit this past spring, was channeling his misery into anger. Would the new setting do him good, giving him the chance for a fresh start and provide distractions like the zoo and natural-science museum, or were Kenzie’s difficulties with her son about to get worse?

She’d debated turning down this transfer to a Georgia branch of the bank she worked for, but the Atlanta location had far more frequent job openings than the small bank in Raindrop, including the position of loan officer, to which she was being promoted. The stress of moving and the higher cost of living seemed worth the much-improved salary and increased odds of upward mobility. Another plus was that Kenzie’s sister lived in the Atlanta area. Even if the two hadn’t been close as children, it would do Kenzie and her kids some good to have family nearby. Nice, stable family.

Besides, although Kenzie was fond of the little town they’d been living in, she was looking forward to having the kids in a different school. She’d chosen their new home based largely on the district in which it was located. At the tiny elementary school in Raindrop, there had been no gifted curriculum to challenge bookish Leslie, and many of the instructors were a stone’s throw from retirement. Drew’s third-grade teacher, who had only a year left to go, had lacked the energy to address Drew’s growing number of outbursts in class, countermanding Kenzie’s warnings that losing his temper would carry consequences. Not that Kenzie blamed Mrs. Blaugarten for Drew’s behavior problems.

While Drew had always been active, last spring had been the first time he’d taken his extracurricular sports seriously. He’d been surrounded by fathers coaching teams and volunteering to work the concession stands, dads coming to watch their sons score goals in soccer or hit a baseball into the outfield. For Drew, the runs he batted in paled in comparison to the fact his father had never witnessed them, despite glib promises to be there.

“Mo-om?” Leslie’s plaintive wail cut through Kenzie’s thoughts. “I don’t feel so—”

“Pull over!” Drew yelled in a panicked voice. “She’s gonna blow!”

Kenzie signaled with her blinker as Drew urged, “Hurry!”

Spoken like someone who’s never tried to drive a minivan hauling a loaded trailer. She steered gently onto the shoulder, kicking herself for not insisting that Leslie put aside her books for once and sing along to the radio or, better yet, take a catnap to make the ride pass faster.

In the grassy ditch on the side of the road, Kenzie smoothed her daughter’s blond hair and handed over a bottle of water from the minicooler in the front seat. Moments later, they were back on the road. Leslie was sufficiently recovered to start bickering with her brother again.

As she stemmed off the burgeoning argument, Kenzie met her own gaze in the rearview mirror. Are we there yet?

“KIDS? KIDS, WE’VE MADE it to Aunt Ann’s street.”

Both children had fallen asleep…during the final ten minutes of the drive. Naturally. Kenzie might have enjoyed the few moments of peace more if she weren’t so tired herself. She’d been up at dawn to finish last-minute packing before getting the rental trailer this morning. After loading up their possessions and driving for hours, Kenzie’s entire body ached.

Leslie lifted her head from its crooked angle against the seat and peered out the window. It was after seven but, due to the long summer days, still bright outside. Well-dressed children played on shiny scooters in driveways outside two-car, and even the occasional three-car, garages. The first time she’d been here, Kenzie had wrestled with twinges of resentment—who was she to question why the heck Ann and Forrest Smith needed a palatial, redbrick two-story to themselves? It wasn’t their fault that Kenzie and the kids owned a secondhand couch with upholstery so garish it brought to mind the Las Vegas strip, or that they hadn’t been able to afford replacing the dishwasher. Besides, Ann and Forrest had started a family now, so they’d probably grow into the space.

Kenzie was momentarily stymied as she approached the Smith residence. On the one hand, she didn’t have enough experience maneuvering a trailer to comfortably navigate the driveway and the perfectly manicured flowering shrubs that lined it. On the other hand, she suspected the home owner’s association governing the ritzy suburb had some sort of rule about staying parked in the street overnight. She pulled up to the curb for the time being and told herself she’d deal later with any uptight stipulations. The house she and the kids were buying on the opposite side of the city would be their first in an actual subdivision—with a name on the stone entrance and everything—but it didn’t quite merit an HOA.

The front door to the house opened, and Kenzie’s sister emerged. She’d been born Rhiannon, but these days she was Ann, wife of an economics professor at a small but credentialed local college. Kenzie, twenty-eight and technically older by a year and a half, often felt like the younger sibling. Ann was always the one giving advice, accompanied by head-shaking and sighs. She’d been that way her entire life, determined that she knew better than her crazy parents and older sister.

It had taken until the twins’ toddlerhood for Kenzie to realize that, however frustrating Ann’s attitude over the years, her sister had a point. Witness how differently their lives had turned out.

Well, twenty-eight is hardly old, and this move is a new beginning. Kenzie had been making slow changes to her life for the past few years. This promotion gave her a chance to create a fresh start for her and the twins. From here on out, she would be practical Kenzie Green, loan officer and suburbanite.

With help from Ann on the legwork, Kenzie had found the perfect home. It wasn’t a big house, but it came with like-new appliances, and the school system was fantastic. The only drawback was that the sellers, who were moving out of the country, had put the house up early in case it took time to get an offer. They didn’t want to close until mid-October; Kenzie’s job started next week. Hence, the Peachy Acres apartment complex and the short-term lease Kenzie had signed. Ann had made halfhearted noises about offering her guest rooms for the interim, but even her sister’s spacious home would feel unbearably cramped by the time nearly three months passed.

Besides, living out here would create complications once school started, and involve a hellish commute. The apartment building, closer to the city, was just inside the edge of the kids’ new school district. By staying at Peachy Acres until their house was ready, the twins could get settled into their classes and start making local friends. There was no way Kenzie was going to move them from Raindrop, enroll them in school near Ann’s, then ask them to transfer again, later in the fall. She had assured her sister that letting them stay tonight was assistance enough.

“We were starting to worry!” Ann said from the driveway. “We expected you earlier.”

Kenzie stretched, rubbing one palm against her lower back. “I’d planned to be here sooner, but you know how effective plans are once kids are involved.”

Ann tilted her head, regarding her blankly.

What, baby Abigail never disrupted plans? Okay, that just wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t that Kenzie wished her sister ill, but when Kenzie had been a mother for five months, she’d been a sleep-deprived neurotic mess whose shirt was normally splattered in spit-up (Leslie’s sensitive stomach had started from the cradle). Yet here was Ann, looking like an ad from a women’s clothing catalog in her khaki capris, coral short-sleeved shirt and pearl earrings. Granted, she was plumper than she’d been before the baby, and Kenzie knew the pale blond bobbed hair was not her sister’s natural color. Still, Ann was a vision of grace and loveliness.

Drew muscled between the two adults. “It took for-e-ver because Les here had to hurl every five minutes.”

“I only got sick twice! You’re the one who ordered the big soda at lunch and—”

“Kids!” Kenzie didn’t yell, but her tone spoke volumes. If Leslie ever wanted another bookstore shopping spree or Drew planned to play another video game for the remainder of his natural life, they both needed to cease and desist.

“Well.” Ann’s green eyes were wide. “That certainly does sound like an eventful trip. Leslie, do you feel up to eating? I have a roast simmering. Forrest had hoped to join us for dinner, but he’s teaching a weekly night course for the summer semester. He has a meeting in the morning, Kenzie, but he can help move big stuff in the afternoon.”

“Roast beef? I’m starved!” Drew ran on ahead, food being his number one priority in a three-way tie with video games and sports.

“My stomach’s fine now,” Leslie said, “but I’m more interested in holding Abigail than eating.”

“Maybe after dinner. She’s taking her evening nap. I don’t want to disturb her routine.”

Kenzie stumbled as she stepped up onto the front porch. Ann had managed to instill a routine in a five-month-old? Amazing. Kenzie’s recollection of the twins’ first year was blurred, but they’d practically never slept…at least, not at the same time.

Should Kenzie seek her sister’s parenting advice on how to deal with Drew’s recent moodiness? Ann was certainly a solution-finder by nature. But any conversation about Drew’s anger would inevitably lead to a discussion of Kenzie’s ex-husband, Mick Green, absentee father and Aspiring Musician. He always talked about his dream as if it deserved capital letters.

Once, Mackenzie had been his biggest fan, a dewy-eyed teenager who just knew she was marrying the next Springsteen. Mick and Mac—gag. Looking back with adult hindsight, she would call their marriage the biggest mistake she’d ever made, except for one thing…well, two actually. Whatever else he’d failed to provide, Mick had given her the twins.

Even when Drew was glowering and Leslie was tossing her cookies, Kenzie loved them fiercely. The thought steadied her. Her little family could handle this transitional period.

Yesterday’s mistakes had yielded today’s blessings…and tomorrow stretched ahead of them, full of promise.

“NEED HELP?” The man addressing Kenzie had an intriguing voice—sort of low and growly, yet not unpleasant.

His tone, though, was laced with so much skepticism, as if she were clearly beyond help, that Kenzie wondered why he’d offered. Maybe it just seemed like the thing to do since she, a torn cardboard box and all of the box’s former contents blocked his path. Her groan stemmed from equal parts embarrassment and sore muscles.

Glancing up from her sprawled position in the stairwell, she got her first good look at the potential knight in armor. Paint-stained denim and cotton, if you wanted to be literal, which she did. The new-and-improved practical Kenzie couldn’t afford flights of fancy.

Then stop staring at this guy like he’s the mystical embodiment of your fantasies.

Frankly, it had been too long since she’d had a decent fantasy, but if she had, it would look like him. Thick, dark hair, silver-gray eyes, strong jaw and broad, inviting shoulders. None of which were as relevant as her still being on her butt. She got to her feet…more or less.

As if she were having an out-of-body experience, she watched her wet sneaker slide across a piece of debris—the plaster head of a panda, she realized as she fell backward. The handsome stranger grabbed her elbow. Large hands, roughened skin. Since he was theoretically saving her from ignominious death in a dingy stairwell, she could forgive the lack of a delicate touch. The way her luck was running this morning, she would have broken her neck if he hadn’t come along.

The man shook his head. “Lady.” Was the undertone exasperation or amusement? Hard to tell from the single word.

“It’s Kenzie,” she said, grabbing the stair rail with both hands. “Kenzie Green. And thank you.”

“No problem.” He’d stepped back, either to keep from crushing her belongings under his work boots or simply to avoid her rain-soaked aura of doom.

She grimaced at the mess that covered half a dozen stairs. The coasters she was always admonishing the kids to use. Assorted books, her texts from some correspondence courses alongside Leslie’s Mary Pope Osborne stories. Two mauve lamp shades. A statuette of a now-headless panda Kenzie had once received for donating to a wildlife fund, and various other small belongings that had been packed, taped up and neatly labeled Living Room in black marker.

“Guess they don’t make cardboard boxes like they used to,” she grumbled. What was wrong with the stupid box that it couldn’t withstand being weakened with water and dropped down a few lousy steps?

Thank goodness Kenzie was such a levelheaded pragmatist. If she were given to the slightest bit of paranoia or superstition, she might see it as a bad sign that her first summer day in the sunny South was under deluge from a monsoon. She might be rethinking that rent check she’d written for a place where the elevator doors wouldn’t even open.

“Are you the handyman?” she asked suddenly, taking in the man’s clothing and an almost chemical smell she hadn’t initially noticed. A cleaner of some kind, or paint? Maybe the elevator would be fixed before Ann arrived with the kids, not that Drew couldn’t take three flights of stairs in a single breath. But he hardly needed new reasons to complain.

“The handyman?” Tall, Dark and Timely let out a bark of laughter that was gone as soon it came. In fact, all traces of amusement disappeared from his expression so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined them.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she said. “It was an educated guess—Mr. Carlyle assured me that a handyman would be taking care of the elevators today. Which would make moving in a lot easier.”

“Mr. C. is the handyman, in addition to being the property manager and the one who knocks on the doors whenever you’re late with rent.”

She stiffened. “I’m never late with rent.”

He raised an eyebrow at her hostile tone. “I meant in general.”

“Sorry. I take money seriously.”

“You and everyone else.” He grimaced absently, as if he were scowling at an unseen person. Did he owe someone money?

Oh, don’t let him be one of those charming but perpetually broke deadbeats. There were too many of those in the world already. Then again, this guy wasn’t technically all that charming. Hot, definitely, but not so much with the personality.

Imagining how Leslie would react to her mother calling a man hot, Kenzie grinned. “Well, thanks again. It was nice to almost meet you.”

The corner of his lips quirked. “I’m JT. Good luck with the rest of your move.” He started to pass, but stopped, watching as she wrestled with the lamp shades and books. With the box no longer intact, carting her belongings was problematic.

“I hate to impose,” she began, “but were you in a hurry? It’s going to take me a couple of trips to haul everything to the third floor, and if you wouldn’t mind sticking around in the meantime to make sure no one…” What, stole her stuff? Who would want the book of 101 Jokes for Number-Crunchers Drew got her last Christmas? “To make sure no one trips. I’d hate to be sued my first day in the city.”

“I have a better idea.” He was already sweeping up an armful of debris. After years of not having a guy in the household, it seemed bizarrely intimate to see this big man handle her possessions.

Books, Kenzie, not lingerie. Besides, people with better budgets than hers hired strangers to move their stuff all the time.

JT gestured toward the decapitated panda. “You keeping this poor fellow?”

“Sure. That’s what they make glue for, right?” A couple of drops of that super all-stick compound and, as long as she managed not to chemically bond her fingers together, the panda should be as good as new.

Using the soggy cardboard in a way that reminded her of the baby sling she’d bought Ann, JT cradled the awkward bulk against his body. Between the two of them, they got it all up to her floor.

There were four units, two on each side of the hallway. Hers was the last on the left. As she unlocked her door, she heard JT’s slight intake of breath, as if he were about to say something, but nothing followed. So she set down her load, turned to relieve him of his and thanked him one last time.

“I’ve got it from here,” she said, hoping she sounded like a confident, self-sufficient woman.

“You sure?”

She thought about everything ahead—the new job, this temporary moving before the real move, trying to keep the kids from expiring of boredom until school started, and trying to keep them in their teachers’ good graces once it did.

“Absolutely,” she lied through her teeth. Next time she lectured the twins never to fib, she’d have to add the mental exception: unless it’s the only thing between you and a nervous breakdown.

Chapter Two

“You’re late.” Sean Morrow glanced up from his lunch menu as JT took a seat on the other side of the table. With Sean’s lean build, fair hair and expensive suit, the two men were a study in contrasts. “Dare I hope this means you were so caught up in a new painting that you lost track of time?”

“Actually, I was assisting a damsel in distress.”

Sean pursed his lips, looking unsure about whether or not JT was kidding. “An attractive damsel?”

“Only if drenched waif is your type.” To himself, JT admitted his words were a glib, incomplete assessment of Kenzie Green. Good name. Sounded like a vibrant, bright color—the kind he seldom used anymore—and it certainly rolled off the tongue more easily than phthalo green or Antioch blue.

Though Kenzie wouldn’t necessarily turn men’s heads on the street, she was put together with a grace of form that belied how they’d met. She was a slight woman with layers of burnished-gold hair that were probably a lighter honey when dry. Her deep blue eyes looked like the ocean when you were so far out the shore was no longer visible, and there was something geometrically appealing about her small face—delicate blade of a nose, angular cheeks, an almost pugnaciously pointed chin that reminded him of some award-winning actress whose name eluded him. Holly would have known. Holly had been his link to pop culture.

She’d been his link to just about everything outside the studio, reminding him that there was a movie coming out he might like, reminding him of the names of acquaintances at openings, reminding him that he hadn’t bothered to eat in nearly twelve hours. “How can I trust that you’re going to help take care of this baby,” she’d teased him once, “when you can’t even remember to take care of yourself?”

Pregnancy had transformed her from the shyly smiling girl he’d first met to a laughing, excited woman with irrepressible humor. I plan to decorate the nursery behind your back—I know you’re the big-shot artist, but I’m scared you’ll turn it into some abstract expression on spatial dynamics. I was thinking ducks and bunnies.

“JT!” Sean’s tone was pitched halfway between annoyance and concern. “Did you hear anything I said? You had that look again.”

Stalling, JT sipped his water and tried to bring himself back to the present, a difficult feat given how much part of him longed to remain two years in the past. For the first few months after her death, thinking of Holly had hurt, creating electric shocks of pain that racked his whole being. Now that the sting had lessened, recalling cherished memories was comforting, beguiling. Easier than facing a future without her.

“It’s hard,” he said simply.

“I know.” Sean lowered his gaze, a touch of sadness creeping into his own voice. “I know, man, but Holly wouldn’t want you to be miserable. She would have wanted you to move on with your life. And she’d definitely want you to paint.”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. The encaustic series he’d collaged in the weeks after the funeral—a sickening double funeral during which he’d felt he was putting his entire world into the ground—was his best work ever. But the frenzied creation of those paintings had hollowed him out somehow, leaving a void where inspiration had once been. He’d allowed Sean to hang the dark wax-and-oil images at the gallery, but couldn’t bring himself to sell them.

The gallery. JT willed himself to focus. It wasn’t fair that he left everything up to Sean these days; the two men were supposed to be equal business partners. JT was the one who knew art; Sean was gifted with people and finances.

Out of nowhere JT thought of the book he’d seen Kenzie holding—something about number crunching. Then there had been the reproachful set of her rosy mouth when she’d mentioned the importance of money. I should introduce her to Sean. Though the thought was mostly facetious, it certainly wouldn’t be difficult to arrange. JT lived directly across the hall from his new neighbor.

“I’ve lost you again,” Sean muttered.

“I was thinking about setting you up on a date.”

“Seriously?” Sean grinned. “Not that I’ve ever needed help meeting ladies, but I take it as a good sign that you’re thinking about anyone’s love life.”

“I’m not a monk,” JT said defensively.

JT had gone on a half-dozen dates this year, but nothing lasting had come of them. It wasn’t just that he missed Holly, it was more that he was still unsure of who he was without her. They’d met in Chicago when they were both college students. He’d become an adult during the years they’d been dating; he’d become a critically acclaimed artist during their marriage. He’d been about to become a father. With all of that taken away…

Since her death, JT had slept with only one woman, an art dealer Holly had liked and respected. In a bizarre way, JT had felt his late wife would approve. Marsha had been recovering from the shock of her husband walking out on her, needing to reaffirm her own feminine attraction, and JT had craved the touch of another person to penetrate his isolation. Their affair had lasted less than a month before they parted amicably, each somewhat healthier for the encounter, but knowing they had no future together. Sean had hinted several times that JT needed more of a social life. Even Mrs. Sanchez, who lived on the second floor of Peachy Acres and had appointed herself JT’s godmother, for lack of a better description, nagged that his apartment needed a woman’s touch.

Thankfully, the waitress came to take their orders, which gave JT something to think about besides his inability to paint and unwillingness to date.

Would there come a day when he could once again consider painting a joy, not an obligation? Would he ever again view love as a blessing and not a dreaded danger?

Some of his best paintings had evolved from brushstrokes with no direction, just moving his arm intuitively and watching to see what evolved on the canvas. If he kept getting out of bed each morning and facing each day, one after another, would his life begin to take some kind of shape? He couldn’t be certain. But in the absence of an actual plan, he supposed he’d find out.

KENZIE THROBBED everywhere—muscles she hadn’t realized she possessed were angrily making their presence known. She had a ton of unpacking to do, but all she really wanted was a long, hot soak in the bathtub. There wasn’t time, though. Ann had called from her cell phone to say she was en route with the kids and “backup brawn.” Besides, Kenzie was scared to test the bathroom’s hot water. If it, like the building’s elevator, the ceiling fan in her bedroom and the stove’s faulty pilot light, neglected to work, she might cry.

Reminding herself that those were all minor inconveniences easily fixed, Kenzie grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Heck, she’d already relit the pilot light herself, and the worrisome smell of gas had dissipated. She sat on the brown living-room carpet, a shade probably chosen because it wouldn’t show stains. That could come in handy with two kids. When the knock sounded at her door, she wasn’t sure her legs would cooperate enough for her to stand, but she managed. Just barely.

Instead of the relatives she’d expected, it was Mr. Carlyle, a short man of indeterminate age. His thick hair was the color of freshly fallen snow, unmitigated by gray, and he had exchanged the navy track suit he’d worn this morning for an Atlanta Braves T-shirt with jeans and a tool belt.

“Afternoon, Miss Green.” He peered past her at the cardboard boxes stacked beyond. Her apartment looked like an elementary student’s homage to Stonehenge. “You settling in okay?”

“More or less.”

“I won’t bother you long, just came up to tell you the elevator’s working again.”

Oh, happy day! She and Forrest would need to bring the mattresses up through the stairwell, but the elevator would make everything else easier. “That’s wonderful news. Thanks, Mr. Carlyle.”

“Just doin’ my job—and call me Mr. C. Everyone in the building does.”

It’s what JT had called the man this morning. For a moment, it was on the tip of her tongue to ask the property manager about the handsome mystery man. She assumed JT lived here, but didn’t know that for sure. What was his last name? Did he ever smile? She ignored the random thoughts, telling herself they stemmed from exhaustion. Normally she was too worried about taking care of her own household to be nosy about others.

Kenzie had just finished giving Mr. C. a rundown of small repairs needed in the apartment when the elevator at the end of the hall dinged. The doors parted, and a teeming mass of cranky humanity spilled forth. Blond Leslie and dark-haired Drew led the way, bickering and power walking, each apparently determined to reach their mother first. Behind them, Ann’s infant daughter, Abigail, was screaming bloody murder in her car seat. As Ann approached, Kenzie saw two wet circles on the front of her sister’s shirt and tried not to feel relieved that Ann looked harried for a change. With them was her husband, Forrest. At first glance, he seemed to be talking to himself, but Kenzie quickly realized that he was wearing an earpiece attached to his phone and was trying to set up a tee time.

Amidst the noise—perhaps because of it?—the door directly behind Mr. C. opened, giving Kenzie a clear view of the person framed in the doorway. JT.

JT lived in the apartment across from her?

Her eyes locked with his, but calls of “Mom! Mom!” broke the spell. She looked toward her two kids and, in her peripheral vision, saw JT quickly shut his door. No doubt he was hiding on the other side, thinking, There goes the neighborhood.

FROM THE TWO HOPELESS expressions aimed at Kenzie as she set paper plates on the coffee table, one would think the kids were being served their last meal.

She sat cross-legged on the floor on the opposite side—tomorrow, she’d get around to assembling the white pine dinette set. “Guys, you know this is only temporary. Everything will get better soon.”

“Easy for you to say,” her son said morosely. “You’ll meet new people at your job. How are we supposed to make friends this summer?”

Kenzie knew from asking Mr. Carlyle that, of the twelve units in the building, ten were currently occupied, including hers and Mr. C.’s, which was on the first floor. He’d said there were a few teenagers in the building and one toddler, but no other elementary-school-aged kids.

Drew heaved a dramatic sigh, sounding for a change just like his sister. “We’ll practically be shut-ins until school starts!”

The twins had protested that they were too old for day care. Kenzie had grudgingly said they could stay here by themselves for the duration of summer break—with her coming home each day for lunch and Ann making habitual drop-ins to keep them on their toes. Yet even after they’d begged permission to stay alone, Drew managed to make it seem as if a form of torture was being inflicted on them.

“School starts in a few weeks,” Kenzie told them. “It will be here before you know it!”

Leslie picked at the crust on her tuna fish sandwich. “I miss my friends.”

After less than twenty-four hours? “North Carolina isn’t far. We can visit sometimes. Once we move into the house, we’ll invite Stacy to come stay for a weekend.”

“What about Paul?” Drew demanded from around a bite of sandwich. He never let being depressed stand in the way of his appetite. In fact, if Leslie continued to ignore her own food, he’d probably ask if he could have it.

“Sure,” Kenzie said. “We could invite Paul, too. If the two of you behave, and after we’re all settled.”

“You mean once we have furniture again?” Drew asked.

With a spring starting to poke through the ugly upholstery, their thrift-store couch hadn’t been worth the trouble to move. At this precise moment, just about everything seemed like more trouble than it was worth. But, as she’d promised the kids, it would get better. She had a few more days before she was due at work; maybe they should check the budget and spend half a day on something fun.

“There’s lots of cool stuff to do around Atlanta,” she stated. “Stone Mountain, the aquarium downtown, the Coke Museum, a planetarium.” When she received only halfhearted murmurs of agreement, she played her ace. “Six Flags?”

Leslie glanced up with shining blue eyes. “Really? You never let me go anywhere with roller coasters!”

“Well, it’s not like we had any theme parks in Raindrop.”

“You promise you’ll take us?” Leslie asked skeptically.

“Yes, but I’ll need to get my first paycheck before we go.”

“At least that’s something to look forward to,” Drew allowed before his face fell again. “We may not have had roller coasters back home, but I could have spent the summer swimming at Paul’s. What kind of apartment doesn’t have a pool? I thought that was, like, standard.”

Instead of a pool, there was a communal balcony area on the roof, complete with grill and a couple of lounge chairs, which spared her the arguments about the kids swimming unsupervised while she was at work, thank goodness. “This place isn’t so bad. And it’s the only three bedroom we could afford.”

“Small bedrooms,” Leslie muttered, joining her brother for a seat on the Whiny Train.

“You guys would rather I find a place where you can share a room?”

The twins exchanged looks of mutual horror, quickly chorused, “No, Mom,” and went back to their sandwiches without further complaint.

Drew didn’t speak again until he was finished. “Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Leslie darted a glance at her brother, shaking her head emphatically. Uh-oh. Whatever was coming next, the twins had clearly discussed it already…and disagreed. Big surprise.

“What is it, you guys?”

Drew steadfastly refused to look at his sister, who was attempting to bore holes in his skull with her glare. “Did you let Dad know we were moving? Does he have a way of, I dunno, reaching us here?”

“Oh, honey.” Kenzie’s heart constricted into a tight fist. “I left a message at his last known phone number, but the person who lived there said she hadn’t seen your father in weeks.”

“Told you.” Using her thumb, Leslie crushed a corn chip on her plate. “If he cared about seeing us, or even hearing from us, he’d make it easier to find him.”

“You take that back!” Drew’s features contorted in fury, but beneath the youthful rage, he looked achingly vulnerable. Kenzie wanted to pull him into her lap for the hug she knew he wouldn’t accept. “Dad does care.”

Leslie rolled her eyes. “You really are a dummy.”

“Leslie Nicole! You can apologize to your brother or go to your room.”

The girl stood, her posture defiant.

“Les…” Far from sounding angry now, Drew’s tone was imploring. He wanted her to share his belief that their father loved and missed them and would make more time when he finally “hit it big.” Drew was the one who still allowed himself to hope, and Kenzie thought that was why he was always the angriest when Mick let them down.

Leslie tried to feign indifference. When the subject came up, she informed people that she didn’t miss her father and that they were better off without him. But Kenzie had heard Leslie sniffling behind closed doors after these declarations. Kenzie watched her daughter go now, wondering what was the best way to handle the situation. Which was more detrimental—verbally bashing her ex and disillusioning her kids, or allowing them fruitless hope?

“Dad will visit us again,” Drew maintained. “Eventually.”

They never knew when Mick would pop back into their lives. His sporadic phone calls usually came—at an inappropriate hour—from wherever his band was playing. Most years he managed to send small, truck-stop Christmas presents that his son treasured as if they were gold. Three times since the divorce was final he’d actually sent Kenzie cash. Mick Green wasn’t an evil man, but he was unreliable, inconsistent and suffered tunnel vision, keeping his eye on an unlikely prize and clinging to a fantasy of what he wanted to be when he grew up. Just as he hadn’t listened when she’d said the Jagger-nots might not be such a great name for his band, he’d resisted her suggestions over the years that maybe it was time to find a different way to earn a living. Preferably something that generated income.

Would it be best if he stopped contacting the kids altogether? Given the way Drew was looking at her now, his heart visible in his sapphire eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to ask Mick to do that.

“He could visit,” she finally conceded. “I think it’s unlikely we’ll see him soon, but you never know.”

Kenzie had never found time for another man in her life—not that there’d been a huge selection of age-appropriate bachelors in Raindrop. If she ever dated again, it would be a steady, predictable man with no creative aspirations. Someone she could depend on.

In the meantime, she’d just keep depending on herself.

Chapter Three

Though JT routinely lost track of time, his stomach always growled right on schedule at six on Friday. Enchilada night, or possibly taco casserole. His doorbell buzzed at exactly the expected hour—you could set a clock by Mrs. Sanchez—and he crumpled the drawing he’d been working on, tossing it in the general vicinity of an overflowing wastebasket. I should empty that. Mrs. Sanchez would bust his chops about the mess.

He opened the door of the apartment. Roberta Sanchez, who’d raised four children and was approaching double that in grandkids, lived below him with her husband, a MARTA bus driver. When she’d first heard that a widower had moved into Peachy Acres, she’d shown up with a covered pot of chicken tortilla soup. Food had followed every Friday since, with flan on his birthday.

“Buenas noches, Jonathan.” She marched toward his kitchen with a foil-wrapped glass pan.

“Nobody calls me that,” he reminded her.

Over her shoulder, she hitched a dark eyebrow. “Are you calling me a nobody?”

“Of course not.”

“Then shut up. Now be a good boy and find me a clean spoon, if such a thing exists here. No wonder you are uninspired to create beauty, living in such disorganization! Have you painted at all this week?”

He rummaged through a drawer. “You sound like Sean.”

“I sound nothing like that degenerate!” She sniffed. “You should have heard him flirting with my daughter Rosa in the elevator. It’s inappropriate, the things he says to a married woman.”

JT grinned inwardly, knowing full well that Mrs. Sanchez adored Sean, a feeling that was mutual even though Sean called her the Battle Ax.

She paused. “You’re not expecting him, are you? Maybe I should have brought more.”

He eyed the pan. “That would feed an entire dinner party. Is Enrique working the night shift? You could join me.”

“If you want me to join you, you should clean up this pit first.” Despite her words, she pulled two plates down from the cabinet. “I’ll stay. The good Lord knows my company is as close as you’ll get to a dinner party. You don’t want to be a hermit, Jonathan.”

“I’m doing my part to uphold the reclusive artist stereotype.”

“To qualify as an artist, shouldn’t you produce art of some kind?”

Touché. “Nag, nag, nag. It’s a wonder your children haven’t moved farther away.”

She sniffed again, not dignifying his jibe with a response.

The Sanchez family was the kind of close-knit group neither JT nor Holly had ever possessed. Holly would have loved Mrs. Sanchez; initially, that had been why he’d put up with the older woman’s intrusions. But she’d won him over with her drill-sergeant tone and twinkling dark eyes. She seemed to understand his loss without ever expressing the cloying pity that made him want to withdraw more. Plus her cooking was a little piece of pepper-laced heaven.

JT didn’t have a kitchen table, merely three padded, high-backed stools pushed up to the counter. He cleared away a pile of junk mail and an empty pizza box to make room for them to eat. Mrs. Sanchez pulled a carton of milk out of the refrigerator, opened it and immediately grimaced.

“Jonathan, this milk is older than some of my grandchildren.”

“An unfair comparison. You have grandkids born every ten minutes!” He said it lightly, but it was the Sanchez babies that had made him leave the rooftop Fourth of July picnic last month.

Roberta had browbeaten him into attending, but he hadn’t been able to bear it for long. Just as he hadn’t been able to bear the empty nursery in the house he’d shared with Holly. After all the work she’d put into it, wanting it to be perfect for their child, he couldn’t bring himself to paint over a single duck or bunny. The crib he’d assembled sat obscenely empty, and a month after he’d lost his cherished wife and the daughter he’d never had a chance to know, he’d bent over the railing and finally cried, ugly hoarse sobs that felt as if they were splitting him in half. From the moment the doctors had given him the news at the hospital, throughout the memorial service, he’d been too shocked and disbelieving to truly cry. Once he had, instead of feeling better for having poured out some of the pain, he’d been pissed off at the senseless loss.

He’d locked himself in his studio, barely eating or sleeping, trying to purge his enraged grief with painting. When he’d finished the series, he’d been like a man coming out of a coma, disoriented and unsure of how much time had passed. He’d wandered through his own house like a ghost, stopping in the nursery—that bright, cheerful room where he’d wept until he wished he’d died with them. Then he’d walked straight to the phone and arranged to put the house on the market, not caring where he lived as long as it was elsewhere.

“Jonathan.” Suddenly Mrs. Sanchez was there, touching his shoulder. “Sit down. Eat. You need sustenance.” She blessed the food, with a little pause before saying amen and making the sign of the cross. Had she added an extra silent prayer on his behalf?

It was odd. The only child of a wealthy couple, JT hadn’t felt guilty that he was “disappointing” his parents by not going to law school and following in his father’s footsteps. The elder Trelauney stubbornly spoke of a father-son practice even though JT had no interest in becoming an attorney. Instead of wasting his time arguing, JT had simply continued painting, ignoring his father’s scorn over the “pointless scribblings.” You’re on the cusp of manhood, son. Act like it! You’re not some finger-painting toddler. Yet JT had refused to feel ashamed. Now, by not painting, he felt he was disappointing Sean and Mrs. Sanchez—people who were better to him than he deserved—and that bothered him far more than his family’s disapproval ever had.

Though he wasn’t particularly hungry, he forced himself to take a bite of the enchiladas and was immediately rewarded with a spicy blend of rich flavors. “This is really good.”

“I believe you meant great.”

“I believe I did.”

She reached for her glass of water. “You are a good boy, Jonathan. Even if you are a slob.”

He surprised them both with a genuine chuckle.

Mrs. Sanchez looked pleased by this progress. “Mr. C. tells me that someone has moved in across from you. I’m glad. It’s too quiet up here, with 3A unoccupied and that flight attendant in 3B gone half the time.”

JT thought of that moment yesterday when he’d heard a baby shrieking, and had flung open his door. He still didn’t know exactly why he’d reacted that way or what he’d expected to find. Though there had been only a handful of people on a floor that was often deserted except for him, it had sounded as if a deafening mob had descended. He’d heard plaintive shouts of “Mom” clearly directed at Kenzie. Was the baby hers, too? He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t stuck around long enough to inquire.

He winced at the memory and turned to his dinner guest. “It looks like my quiet days are over. The new neighbor lady has kids. Two, maybe three.”

“Two,” Mrs. Sanchez confirmed. “I asked Mr. C. He also mentioned she has no husband.”

Was Kenzie divorced? Widowed, like himself? Technically, the presence of kids didn’t require a husband in the first place. Maybe she’d never been married. There could still be a serious boyfriend in the mix. JT experienced a funny twinge in his chest he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Feeling that he was being watched, he jerked his head up and found Mrs. Sanchez studying him. He didn’t like the speculative gleam in her eyes.

“No,” he said automatically.

She blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Deciding this was as good a time as any to take her advice about tidying up, he rose and went to the dishwasher.

“You told me she had kids,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “So you’ve met them?”

“Just her. Briefly.” Despite his attempt to sound dismissive, the memory was vivid.

Kenzie Green had looked like the wreck he felt like on most days, yet there’d been determination glinting in her eyes and an unmistakable lifting of her chin when she’d stood to regather her belongings. He’d had the impression that life had knocked her down before and she was resolved to get back on her feet as many times as necessary.

“Well,” Mrs. Sanchez prompted. “What is she like?”

“I don’t know. About your height, blondish. I didn’t exchange life stories with her.”

“No,” Mrs. Sanchez said, her voice disconcertingly gentle. “You wouldn’t have, would you?”

He stiffened. “If you’re so curious about Kenzie, you could have taken her the enchiladas instead of knocking on my door.” The churlishness in his tone reminded him of his self-important father, and JT flinched.

But Mrs. Sanchez held herself above his rudeness with reproachful aplomb. “I fully intend to take her a dish this weekend and welcome her. I thought it better not to show up on her doorstep her first day, when she might be feeling tired and overwhelmed. I hate to intrude,” she added with a faintly challenging air.

JT walked her to the door. “We’re lucky to have you in the building, Mrs. Sanchez.”

“You certainly are.”

He hesitated before saying goodbye, unsure how to ask what was on his mind without putting ideas in her head. Mrs. Sanchez herself had said that, if any of her grown daughters had been single when JT moved in, she would have sent her up to deliver the homemade soup. So far, for all her fussing that he needed a woman’s touch in his life, she’d lacked a spare female to nudge his way, deeming the flight attendant down the hall too frequently absent. Now there was a seemingly available woman living less than two yards from his front door. Surely Mrs. Sanchez knew better than to…

“You weren’t planning to mention me to her, were you?” he demanded, unable to help himself.

“Hasn’t she already met you for herself? What possible reason could I have for bringing you into the conversation? Is she some sort of art critic?”

He rocked back on his heels. “You’ve been known to spout the opinion that I would benefit from female companionship.”

“I’ve also said you should eat more regularly, clean up this disorderly pigsty and go back to painting. Why would I inflict you on some girl who is already burdened with raising two children alone? Jonathan, mijo, you’re probably the last thing she needs.”

He stole a glance over her shoulder at Kenzie’s door and tried to take stock of what he could possibly offer any woman at this point in his life. “You’re undoubtedly right.”

ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, Kenzie excused herself to go downstairs and check the mail. She wasn’t expecting anything other than standard Dear Occupant fare, but she’d been going a little stir crazy in the apartment. The kids seemed louder than normal today, and she couldn’t chuck them out into a backyard to play. Showing the resilience of youth, they were back in better spirits. During a televised Braves game the night before, Drew had allowed that maybe living in Atlanta could be kind of cool.

Punching the elevator button, Kenzie considered the evening ahead. Would their finances, currently stretched by moving expenses and utility deposits, allow dinner out and a movie? Maybe if they went to the movie first, taking advantage of matinee prices, and eschewed concessions, then drank tap water at dinner rather than paying for sodas…She reached the bottom floor and dug in her pocket for the small silver key Mr. C. had given her. This was the first time she’d checked to make sure it worked.

She gathered the handful of mail, sorting through it in the elevator on her way back up. Coupons, catalogs, the bill that her cell phone company had thoughtfully forwarded so that she wouldn’t miss this month’s opportunity to pay them. One yellow envelope was addressed to Jonathan Trelauney. Previous occupant? When she noticed the “3C,” she realized the mailman must have just dropped it in her slot by mistake.

Jonathan Trelauney must be JT. His full name sounded familiar, but after dealing with so many people through the bank, eventually all names caused her moments of déjà vu. She’d encountered nearly half a dozen account holders with her sister’s name.

When she stepped off the elevator, Kenzie glanced at JT’s envelope. She’d been unpacking all day and was dusty. Her hair was tidy, pulled back in the habitual French twist she favored for work, but she didn’t have any makeup—

Oh, for pity’s sake! Handing the man his misdirected mail does not require mascara and perfume. Did she even own perfume? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d treated herself to anything more luxurious than scented body wash.

Annoyed with herself, she rapped on his door a bit more curtly than she’d intended. At first she wasn’t sure anyone would answer, but then she heard footsteps on the other side. JT appeared in the doorway, unshaven and shirtless!

Kenzie had taken a breath as the door opened; now she choked on her own oxygen. It took all her discipline not to let her gaze dwell on his leanly muscled torso or the dusting of dark hair across his broad chest. “I…is this a bad time?”

He rubbed a hand across his face. “I was sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh.” It seemed like a practically sinful indulgence, snoozing smack-dab in the middle of the afternoon, but then he didn’t have two kids bouncing around and a zillion boxes to unpack. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

He regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes. “Did you need something?”

“Just bringing you this. It was in my mailbox.” Their fingers brushed when he took the envelope, and she told herself that such a platonic touch would ordinarily not make her light-headed. It was the proximity of all that naked skin making her heart flutter. He must have a naturally golden complexion. He wasn’t pale, but his color didn’t seem to come from a tan, either. And, good grief, was she staring again?

Because she was actually staring, she noticed a splotch of dark violet paint near his rib cage. Suddenly the name clicked. “Jonathan Trelauney! I know you. Of you, rather. You’re an artist.”

JT was startled by two things—three, truthfully, but he was trying to ignore the unexpected sensation that had washed through him when their hands met. He didn’t think the reaction came from the fleeting contact so much as her expression. Something akin to desire had flared in her eyes, and it had rocked him. No woman had looked at him like that in a long time. Hormones aside, he’d been surprised that Kenzie had heard of him. While his work had been renowned in certain circles, he was hardly a household name. Second, the way she’d said “You’re an artist” had been filled with horrified discovery. She might as well have pronounced “You’re a leper.”

He frowned. “Do you follow art?” It seemed the only logical conclusion for recognizing his name, yet didn’t explain her negative reaction.

“No. My hippie parents follow art. I’ve absorbed a few details here and there during the rare visit with them.” Though she kept her voice matter-of-fact, disdain leaked into her expression. The warmth in her earlier gaze had cooled completely.

Hippie parents? “Ah. I see.”

Her hands went to her hips. “Just what do you ‘see’?”

“Your parents were artistic, touchy-feely types, and you—” he hazarded a guess “—rebelled by growing up to be ultraconservative.”

Her burst of laughter caught him off guard. “Whatever you do, don’t give up art for psychiatry, because you couldn’t be more wrong. My younger sister, Ann, was the conservative in the family. I married a musician at eighteen.”

He glanced at her baggy shirt, sensible sneakers and pulled back hair. “You married a musician?”

“Yeah. And by nineteen, I had two babies to feed and clothe, so I reevaluated certain lifestyle choices.”

JT wished she looked cynical instead of vulnerable. He felt…well, he wasn’t sure, but she was a virtual stranger. He shouldn’t be required to feel anything on her behalf. If he’d been more awake when he answered the door, his normal barriers in place, he would have said thanks for the mail and dismissed her without further conversation.

He could always try that now. “Well, thanks for the—”

Behind her, the door to 3D opened, and two kids stuck their heads out, seeming surprised to see their mother talking to some shirtless dude across the hall.

“Mom!” This from the girl, who looked scandalized. The boy glared silently in JT’s direction.

Kenzie didn’t help matters, blushing as if she’d been caught in the midst of something illicit. “What are you guys doing out here?”

“We were worried about you.” The daughter fisted her hands on her hips. Mini-Kenzie. “You said you were going to run get the mail, then you didn’t come back. For all we knew, the elevator was stuck between floors!”

The boy looked faintly disappointed. “I had this plan for prying the doors open. Who’s he?”

“Kids, this is our across-the-hall neighbor, Jonathan Trelauney.”

“JT,” he told the children. “Nice to meet you.”

“These are my twins,” Kenzie said. “Drew and Leslie.”

“Not the identical kind of twins,” Drew interjected.

JT bit back a smile. “I noticed.”

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” The boy’s tone was thick with suspicion. “Doesn’t your air conditioner work? If you’re hot, it would be smart to wear shorts instead of jeans.”

Kenzie’s head whipped around as she shot her son a warning glance. “Use your manners, Drew.”

“But, Mom, I was just—”

“Let’s get back in our own apartment and leave Mr. Trelauney alone.”

Yes, JT thought with relief. Alone would be good. He attempted his goodbye again. “Well, thanks—”

The elevator ding sounded, reminding him that Mrs. Sanchez had said she would bring Kenzie food and an official welcome today.

“—forthemail,” he blurted. Then he shoved his door closed.

He caught a glimpse of Kenzie’s mouth falling open. She was probably taken aback by his rudeness. If she’d known he was saving her from possible matchmaking attempts, she might have appreciated his efforts. A moment later, there was another knock. JT, trying to learn from his mistakes, was slow to answer.

“It’s Sean,” his friend called from the hall. “I know you’re home. I just saw you shut the door in some poor woman’s face.”

JT ushered him in. “Don’t judge me. It’s complicated. You want a beer? I could use a beer.”

Sean, dapper in a button-down shirt and slacks, and making JT feel like the Wild Man of Borneo in comparison, frowned. “Do you even have beer in the apartment?”

“Um…no.” On his wedding anniversary, back in February, JT had gotten stinking blind drunk. After that, the thought of booze had made him sick for months and he’d avoided keeping any around. “Can I get you some lemonade?”

“All right, but only one, I have to drive,” Sean deadpanned. “Tell me about the hottie in the hall.”

“You can’t call Kenzie a hottie,” JT objected as he pulled a pitcher out of the refrigerator. “She has two kids.”

“The boy and girl? She doesn’t look old enough to have kids that age.”

JT recalled what she’d said about marrying as a teenager, but didn’t share the information with his friend; it seemed like a violation of privacy. “Why exactly are you here? Please don’t tell me it’s to ask if I’m painting anything. I was up until dawn, sketching and mixing colors on a canvas until my vision blurred.”

“About that.” Sean squirmed, looking uncomfortable, which was worrisome. Sean rarely let anything discomfit him. “Now don’t be mad.”

Lemonade missed its destination, splashing on the counter rather than into a glass. JT narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

“I was thinking entirely of you,” Sean said. “Well, mostly of you. Partially. We are business partners. Financially linked?”

“I’m aware. Cut to the chase.”

Sean swallowed. “I accepted a commission for you.”

“You what?”

“This older couple, the Owenbys, came into the gallery last night. You’d like them. Real marine-life enthusiasts, big contributors to the aquarium—”

“Sean!”

“They saw the abstract seascape mural of yours in Tennessee and want to hire you to do a much smaller version for their home.”

“No.”

“I told them they could leave a down payment with me and that I’d work out the details with you. Think of me as your agent.”

“Which you aren’t!”

“Don’t you even want to know how much they’re paying?”

“You had no business accepting that check!” JT thundered. He’d contact them and tell them no. Sean would refund their money. That would be that.

“I’m trying to help.” Sean had raised his voice, too. It was unlike him to show such blatant emotion, which made his angry insistence doubly effective. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve bottomed out.”

“Gee, that escaped my attention.”

“JT, I’m the best friend you’ve got, so get your head out of your ass and think it over. This doesn’t even require the creativity of having a new idea. All you have to do is duplicate what already exists.”

Pathetic. People were really willing to pay him money for that?

He wondered absently what his checking account looked like these days. He’d been coasting on some previous investments, what he’d made on the house sale and his part of the gallery proceeds. Gallery earnings, according to what Sean told him at lunch the other day, had steadily dipped for the past quarter. God, he was pathetic. Sean essentially did all the work in what was supposed to be a joint venture, picking up JT’s slack for two years. Shame burned in his gut.

Maybe this was a way for JT to step up to the plate. Skulking around his apartment and waiting for his next great idea hadn’t netted results.

“I thought it would help get you back in the habit,” Sean pressed. “Kick-start your artistic drive.”

“Oh, well then, I’ll just slap some blue squiggly lines on a canvas and we’ll all be happy, won’t we?” But JT’s sarcasm had lost its venomous edge. If he revisited a former painting, might it help him recapture what painting had been like back when he actually had inspiration?

He would do the painting, but he was still infuriated by Sean’s high-handed techniques. Infuriated that he’d been reduced to this. He took a swig of his lemonade and walked past Sean, carrying both glasses.

“Where are you going with those?”

JT didn’t bother glancing back. “To my studio to see if I can find something toxic to mix into yours.”

“So is that a yes?”

“You should leave before I change my mind.”

The front door opened before JT even finished his sentence, followed by a muffled whoop of triumph from the hall. JT was alone with two glasses of lemonade and the sudden fear that the only thing more pathetic than repainting something he’d already done would be painting a version that sucked.

Then again, at this point, what did he have left to lose?

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