CAMERON MONTGOMERY WAS, by nature, a content person. He was doing exactly what he’d always wanted to do (despite his surgeon father not understanding why he’d want to have cats and dogs for patients rather than people, who paid better) and living exactly where he wanted to live, and he was especially happy on Wednesdays, which was when he spent his lunch hour with Megan Larson, owner and operator of the Clean Team. Not that he got to spend the entire hour with her. For the first twenty minutes or so, he enjoyed watching Emma, Megan’s three-year-old daughter, play with the dogs and cats in the shelter he’d established on the property, while Megan bustled around the second floor of the old Italianate Victorian mansion where he’d established his clinic.
A neat person by nature—a necessity in the medical profession—he always took extra time to tidy up on Tuesday nights—enough so that Megan had told him more than once that although she wasn’t about to turn down his business, she honestly wasn’t sure he needed her. What she had no way of knowing, at least not yet, was that he’d had his eye on her ever since he’d arrived in town.
He’d learned from his staff that she’d grown up here, had married and divorced, and was not only a successful entrepreneur, but, as he already knew, also the mother of a three-year-old girl.
He’d also discovered the very first day she’d arrived for her interview that just being in the same room with her triggered his hormones. But the attraction wasn’t solely sexual. He’d come to look forward to those Wednesdays when she arrived to clean his house the same way children waited for Santa to arrive every Christmas Eve.
Her second week, he’d maneuvered her into having lunch with him, during which time they’d talked. She told him about how she’d attended Clearwater Community College at night after cleaning houses all day, finally earning an AA in business management, which had given her the skills to establish her own business, which had turned out to be successful enough that she was expanding into neighboring Sequim.
He’d told her about how he’d grown up on the peninsula in Port Angeles, gone to college and vet school at WSU, then took an offer to work for a large, multi-vet practice in Sacramento. But he’d missed the lush green Pacific Northwest, so when he’d seen an ad from Dr. Palmer, Honeymoon Harbor’s retiring veterinarian, on an internet page listing practices for sale, he’d jumped on it. He’d also told her that he considered the day he’d come across the ad the luckiest of his life. But did not share that that was in large part because of her.
The lunches had turned into a standing weekly event. After trading brief biographies over that first meal, they’d spent the next few months talking about everyday things—like the leafy trees that had been planted all along Water Street, decreasing rainwater runoff and adding a natural element to the downtown that worked with the water view and refreshed everyone’s moods. When some local business owners complained about the added cost of planting and maintaining the trees, John Mannion, Honeymoon Harbor’s mayor, had produced a study showing that shoppers tended to spend more time and money in business districts where street trees had been planted, because trees provided a more appealing environment. And that had sealed the deal.
They laughed about the local gossip posted daily on the town’s Facebook page, and Megan had informed him that his impending arrival had caused quite a stir after the Honeymoon Harbor Herald picked up a story, along with a photo, from the Sacramento veterinary hospital’s website.
“You were, for a few weeks, the talk of nearly every single woman in town,” she’d said on a laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t feel the flashing target on your back when you drove into town towing that U-Haul.”
That had explained the initial rush of women bringing pets in for checkups. He’d also wondered, but did not ask, if Megan had been one of those interested women. Their lunches over the past months had become the best part of his week. So much so that he found it hard to remember what life had been like without Megan Larson in it. It also had him thinking that he’d like a lot more lunches and thought every day for the rest of their lives sounded just fine.
While he’d dated over the years, and stayed friends with most of the women, he’d never felt that special zing that told him this was the One. Until Megan walked into Mannion’s with a group of girlfriends, and he’d known, in that instantaneous flash of recognition, that he’d found the woman he’d been waiting for.
WEDNESDAY WAS MEGAN LARSON’S favorite day of the week. And not just because of all the photos of hot hump-day guys that would show up on her Twitter and Facebook feeds, but because it was the day she had lunch with Cameron Montgomery.
Wednesdays were also the day that her mother, who watched Emma during the day, had her Zumba class at the fitness center. Megan had grown up going on jobs with Brenda Larson, who’d taught her at a young age that cleaning houses was not only honest work, it was important work, and, if you had the right attitude, it could also be a job of joy.
She’d learned how taking care of a house, setting it to order, leaving even the humblest of homes looking like something out of a magazine, not only allowed her clients to live a calmer, easier life, it brought her a sense of pride and satisfaction of a job well done. Something she’d learned from both parents, who still laughed whenever her dad, a former Marine, told the story of how he’d attempted to perform a white-glove inspection of their marriage bed after a three-day honeymoon at Olympic National Park’s Lake Quinault Lodge. Brenda, a tidy person, had informed him that if he’d wanted a maid, he could damn well hire one.
The irony was, that after he’d gotten out of the Marines and begun crabbing in Alaska as all the men in his family had done for generations, Brenda had begun cleaning for others to earn extra household money, which proved important those seasons when the crew didn’t make its quota. Knowing how difficult and dangerous his job could be, and how each year had seemed to take a bit more out of him, Megan never ate crab without thinking of her father and the sacrifices he’d made for his family.
At first Brenda hadn’t had many clients. After its boom days in the 1800s, Honeymoon Harbor’s residents didn’t embrace the concept of hiring someone else to do their housework. But Brenda’s prices were reasonable, she left homes immaculate and gleaming, and as word spread, she’d developed a loyal clientele of working couples who discovered that not having to clean or even grocery shop, which she was also willing to do, allowed them more time to spend with their families.
Much later, when Megan began taking business classes at the local community college, she realized that rather than try to come up with a new start-up idea, the smartest thing to do would be to stick to what she knew. Which was how the Clean Team was born. And how her mother, now retired from housekeeping, had become her CFO. Which, in all honesty, was basically a bookkeeper, but they both enjoyed the official title. Brenda was also grandmother-in-chief, taking care of Emma while Megan took care of business.
Although there’d been times, out of necessity, that Megan would have to take her daughter on a job with her, her own days of cleaning were mostly in the past. Her company had now grown to the point that she could tend to the business end of the Clean Team while her employees did the actual cleaning. She’d even promoted one of her first and most meticulous hires to be the new team member trainer, ensuring their work would be up to the company’s high standards. Megan did, however, continue to do a move-in cleaning for Seth Harper’s completed remodels, because he’d been the first person in Honeymoon Harbor to hire her back when she was pregnant, newly divorced, living with her parents and cleaning houses while going to college at night.
She’d also taken on cleaning Cameron’s home above his veterinarian office. Not because she didn’t believe the crew she’d hired and trained could do just as good a job. But he hadn’t minded her bringing Emma, who’d wanted a dog since she was in her stroller and loved playing with the shelter pups. The idea of letting her interact with the animals had been Cam’s, and although Megan had worried that a three-year-old ball of energy who had turned into a chatterbox now that she’d learned to put words into sentences would interfere with Cam’s job, he’d proven as patient with Emma as he was with the ill and injured pets he treated.
Whenever Megan glanced out one of the windows she was polishing to a glistening shine that sent rainbows dancing across the walls and saw her daughter romping on the fenced-in lawn with puppies, Cam playing with her and making her giggle, she’d occasionally drift into what-if land.
As she gave the gleaming quartz kitchen countertop one last swipe with her cleaning rag, she wondered if he’d ever felt the same attraction to her as she had him the moment their eyes had literally met across a crowded pub. She’d gone to Mannion’s on a rare girls’ night out, and although she hadn’t yet taken a sip of the mojito she’d ordered, she’d suddenly felt as dizzy as if she’d been tossing back tequila shots.
Although she’d given up on men—having neither the time nor inclination to date, let alone remarry—when he’d called the next day to ask for a housekeeping quote, she’d managed to tamp down the burst of lust and suggest a meeting five days later. Not only did she not want to appear too eager, she needed time to weigh the pros and cons of taking this particular job.
She’d admittedly made her share of mistakes over the years. But as rocky and challenging as her marriage had been, Megan wouldn’t change a thing. Because if her life hadn’t played out the way it had, she wouldn’t have Emma, who was the sparkling jewel in her admittedly tarnished crown.
The kitchen completed, she’d taken the clothes out of the dryer and was putting them away in the big pine chest. Like all home cleaners, she knew a great many personal things about her clients. It wasn’t that she was snoopy, but when you found a vibrator and a blindfold while changing the sheets on Mr. and Mrs. Miller’s bed on a day they’d been running late and rushing out of their house to open their CPA office on time, it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that the couple enjoyed spicing up their sex life.
While sorting out Jarle Biornstad’s apartment pantry, she’d discovered that the man who’d cooked for a crab boat crew in Alaska before going to work at Mannion’s pub had a fondness for sugary kid’s cereal. Given that he was six foot seven and, if spotted in a dark woods, might be mistaken for Sasquatch, she’d wondered how many boxes of Froot Loops it took to fill him up in the morning.
She also knew that Cam Montgomery had solved the boxers or briefs question with knit boxer briefs. All colored. As she rolled up a pair of red-as-sin ones, she wondered if he wore them to bed. Or if he slept naked. Although she knew it was horribly unprofessional, she couldn’t deny that changing his sheets and pillowcases, which still carried his scent, had her imagining scenarios hotter than any of the Wednesday social media hump-day hunks. And in her male stripper fantasy, he wasn’t wearing boxer briefs. Or anything else.
Stop that! she told her reckless mind. Unfortunately, more and more since that night at Mannion’s, her rebellious body seemed to have taken over, fogging her brain.
She’d gathered up her supplies and equipment and was taking them out to the car when Emma came running up to her with what had to be the homeliest dog ever born in her arms. It had ears so large they looked as if it could take off flying at any minute, like Dumbo after those crows had given the baby elephant that feather. Its bottom teeth stuck out while patches of white fur were scattered like small icebergs across a sea of mottled pink skin.
“Look, Mommy,” she said. “Somebody left this poor doggie in a box.”
“A box?” Megan looked over at Cam, who was following Emma with his easy, long-legged stride.
“The guy clearing the ferry landing parking lot found her a few days ago. She doesn’t have tags, though collars can get lost when a dog’s on the loose. But I scanned her for an identification chip, which she also doesn’t have. Good thing the sweeper had strong lights or there could’ve been a serious tragedy.”
Megan didn’t want to be judgmental, but the poor dog already looked like a tragedy.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“A bad person,” Emma answered before Cam could. “Can we keep her, Mommy?”
“We’ve been over this before,” Megan said with a sigh. “It wouldn’t be fair to leave a dog alone at our house all day.” Not to mention the puddles and other mistakes that she’d undoubtedly come home to.
Although her office was in her home, Megan still spent a good part of her day either visiting potential clients to give them quotes, or, more recently, driving to nearby Sequim, where she’d begun taking on additional clients. Although she trained all her team members to that same exacting standard she’d grown up with, she’d occasionally drop by a home unexpectedly to ensure things were going well. When she left the office for those occasions, Emma would spend the day at her grandparents.
“Mommy...” The whine had become one of Emma’s favorite tools, although it was more effective with her grandmother than with Megan. Which was ironic, because Megan couldn’t remember ever getting away with the ploy.
“Not now,” she said. “We need to let Dr. Montgomery get back to work.”
“I still have time for lunch,” he said. “I have pizza and an antipasto from Luca’s that I can’t eat all by myself.”
“Pizza!” Emma exclaimed, clapping her hands together. Then frowned. “But no ’shrooms.”
Cam’s lips quirked at that. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. I had your portion made with cheese and sauce.”
“Yay!”
And so there Megan was again, sitting on the balcony of the bright blue Victorian, eating pizza and drinking iced tea. Their weekly lunches had begun one day four months ago seemingly by accident, when she’d finished her work and Cam had mentioned that he had too much leftover takeout spaghetti to eat alone, and maybe she and Emma would like to help him finish it so he wouldn’t have to toss it out. The next week it was fried chicken. Then mac and cheese, which was when she figured out that all those leftovers were not coincidental.
And now, as she watched the white-and-green ferry chug up to the dock, its horn, which could be heard all over town, announcing its arrival, she wondered if he was just being friendly or if, just maybe, he’d been having those same naughty thoughts about her that she’d been having about him.
Of course, it could be that he simply enjoyed having company while he was eating. And perhaps she’d been alone in her feelings that day of the double wedding at the Mannion family farm. Having left Emma home with her mother, she’d danced with Cam to Usher’s upbeat “Don’t Look Down,” which didn’t involve any touching. But then that segued into “All of Me,” John Legend’s beautiful tribute to his wife, and when he’d taken her into his arms, one hand warming her back through her flowered sundress, it had taken all of Megan’s restraint not to wrap around him like ivy.
“Are you going to the boat festival?” he asked, dragging her mind back from that afternoon when she’d been so lost in a gauzy, romantic world, she’d even missed the drama of Chelsea Prescott and Gabe Mannion’s short-lived breakup.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
She felt a little dip in her spirits as she remembered the year her ex-husband had been so stoned she’d stayed home from the festival rather than risk Jake embarrassing not just himself, but her and her family. It certainly wasn’t any secret that their marriage had been less than ideal. What had seemed sexy and dangerous back in high school had turned out to be exhausting in a grown man. The first three years of their marriage, she’d followed him around the Pacific Northwest, drinking club soda at seedy bars where the audience was either too stoned or drunk to pay attention to the five-man rock band shouting their songs loud enough to wake the dead.
After the band had predictably broken up, not only had Jake, unable to keep a job because of his undependability, blown more than one unemployment check at the casino on the coast, he was always falling for a series of wildly improbable get-rich schemes that would flood into his email in-box, dressed up like the golden ticket. But they’d never paid off. Instead they’d depleted their bank account, which was usually bleeding red by the end of the month. When she realized she’d never be able to depend on her husband, Megan had started taking business classes at Clearwater Community College at night while cleaning houses during the day.
She’d been three months pregnant when Jake had left town with the female singer in the band, off on his latest venture—flipping houses—after wiping out their meager savings account and maxing out their credit cards for a seminar assuring him that he and his new lover would be the next stars of HGTV. Quinn Mannion had handled Megan’s divorce pro bono and helped her change back to her maiden name.
“I’m sorry.” She dragged her mind from those difficult days. “My mind was wandering.”
“No problem.” He plucked a stuffed olive from an antipasto plate so beautifully arranged, it should have been on the restaurant’s Instagram account, and held it out to her. “I was just saying that after letting myself get talked into taking part in that charity bachelor auction, it’d be really embarrassing if no one bids on me.”
Eating the olive from his fingers felt so very intimate. Although she hadn’t had sex since the Ice Age, Megan did have a memory, and this felt a bit like foreplay. While she’d never, ever regretted having Emma, at this moment a part of her wished she’d left her daughter with her mother today so she and Cam could be alone. Not that she’d be able to get away with that. Emma would have to be in bed with the plague not to insist on coming here on her dog-day Wednesdays.
“I doubt you’ll have to worry about that,” she said, somehow managing to sound calm while her hormones were exploding. “And you could never make a fool of yourself.”
“Would you do me a favor? From one friend to another?”
Friends? Maybe it hadn’t been foreplay. “Is that what we are?”
“Well, I like you. And you seem to like me.”
“Of course I do.” And wasn’t that an understatement?
“And we’re certainly friendly with each other. So, although I’m not a walking, talking dictionary like our town librarian Chelsea Prescott, I’d say that defines friends.”
“I can always use another friend,” she said mildly. Emma, having finished her piece of pizza, had gone back into the house to play tug-of-war with the dog and a small stuffed orca.
“I’m seriously dreading that auction,” he admitted.
“Why?” She had no doubt that while the other Honeymoon Harbor men taking part were handsome and more than a little appealing, Cam would bring in the most money. And yes, she might be prejudiced, but not only was he super nice, she doubted any woman in town could resist that photo Kylee had taken of him for the auction brochures, posters and even a full-page ad in the Honeymoon Harbor Herald.
“Because it’s embarrassing. And unprofessional.”
“Says the man who posed shirtless holding a cocker spaniel puppy.”
“Do you have any idea how impossible it is to argue with Kylee Campbell?”
“I do know. And am smart enough not to try.” Though she’d worried Kylee had been serious when she’d suggested Megan wear a sexy French maid outfit for her Clean Team website photo. Kylee had found the idea outrageously funny. Megan had not. “And it’s for two good causes.”
“That’s the only reason I agreed. There’s another problem.”
“Which would be?”
He dragged a hand through his summer sun–streaked chestnut hair. He had long fingers, which she decided would be helpful when he was performing delicate surgery on small dogs and kittens. His nails were also nicely trimmed, which not every guy, including her ex-husband, bothered to do. Which had her wondering what those hands would feel like on her body. All over. “What if no one bids on me?”
Megan almost choked on her iced tea. “You are kidding, right?”
“No. Did you see that photo of Flynn Farraday wearing those red suspenders?”
“He looked hot,” she admitted. Flynn had also been shirtless, which seemed to be a theme with Kylee. As had Luca, in a black chef’s apron, and all the other men Kylee had posed in varying tasteful stages of undress. Quinn Mannion had somehow managed to escape the auction. She suspected that was because, having been an attorney before returning home and opening a brew pub, he might be the one person on the planet able to hold his own against Kylee. “But everyone loves you.”
“I’ve never saved anyone’s life by carrying them out of a burning building,” he muttered.
“No, but you have saved a lot of people’s fur babies.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“You do realize that you’re sexier than all of them put together.” At least he was to her. As good-looking as those other bachelors were, he was the only one who, every Wednesday, had her lady parts pointing out how neglected they’d been.
“That’s exactly what friends are supposed to say.” As he swiped that hand through his hair again, she imagined them ripping open her green Clean Team T-shirt. Not that she actually believed such a thing was possible, but it certainly sounded sexy in romance novels. “Can I ask a favor? As a friend?”
“Of course.”
“Would you start the bidding on me if no one else does?”
“Sure. Though I honestly don’t believe that’s going to be a problem.” The problem would be having to think of him out on a romantic date with another woman.
“Have you decided what you’re doing on your date?” she asked with forced casualness.
“If the winner, whoever she turns out to be, has something special she wants to do, I’m up for just about anything. But I do have my own secret idea in mind.”
“Want to share?”
“Then it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”
“You already trust me in your house.” And his underwear drawer. Which, dammit, had her thinking of those sexy red boxer briefs again. “Are you suggesting I’d tell?”
“No, I’m merely suggesting that if you win, I want to surprise you.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” she said. “Unless I win the lottery or discover a money tree has sprouted in my backyard since I left the house this morning.”
“You never know.” He lifted one of those broad shoulders, undoubtedly capable of lifting a bull mastiff onto his operating table. Now her hand was practically itching with the desire to touch him. All over. Across those manly shoulders, down his sinewy arms—one of which had the veterinarian symbol he’d told her was an Aesculapius staff with a superimposed V inked on his rock-hard biceps—continuing over his chest, tracing a happy trail downward to...
Stop that!
As if he’d read her sex-crazed mind, he winked just before Emma came back out onto the balcony carrying that wretched-looking dog, which Megan assured herself must not have anything contagious, or Cameron wouldn’t let her play with it.
“What kind of dog is that?” she asked.
“The best kind!” Emma pressed her case yet again.
“Your daughter’s not far off. Mixes do have more going for them than purebreds. My guess, from the papillon ears—”
“That means butterfly,” Emma broke in. Obviously she’d been asking Cam questions. “And I love butterflies.”
“Who doesn’t? They also don’t need feeding and walking like a dog would.”
“Mommy...”
“I have an idea,” Megan said, trying to appease her daughter, who’d mostly outgrown her terrible twos, but there were still relapses. Like this was threatening to be. “Why don’t we go over to Wheel and Barrow and ask Amanda Barrow what seeds or bulbs we can buy to make a butterfly garden? Then next spring when the plants flower, you can have all the butterflies you want. Maybe we’ll even get migrating monarchs. I heard they eat milkweed, so we’ll plant some of that. It’ll be fun.”
“Okay.” Just when Megan thought she was off the hook, Emma said, “But I still want a dog. And not just any dog. I want Butterfly.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” Megan wanted to shut this conversation down before it turned into a tantrum. “Right now I’m talking with Dr. Montgomery.” Thinking perhaps a dog might be a nice addition to their little family, she turned back toward Cameron. “What else is she?”
“From that malocclusion, which is vet-speak for a misaligned underbite, I’d guess shih tzu, but her body and legs point to some Boston bull in the mix somewhere.”
“So she’s not going to grow to Great Dane size?”
“Signs, including the petite size of her feet, suggest that would be a no.”
“What about that...” She waved her hand toward the unfortunate skin condition.
“That’s not as bad as it looks. It’s alopecia. I’ve done all the blood tests and skin scrapings and wouldn’t allow Emma to play with her if there was a possibility she was contagious, but all I could find was a thyroid problem that can be fixed with medication. And, given that someone dumped her suggests that she hasn’t been well treated, so it could also be stress caused. She’s had puppies, but not recently.”
“Well, that’s a plus. I’d hate to think of little puppies left alone in boxes all over the peninsula. Will her fur grow back?”
“Probably. With a possible caveat. I can’t guarantee all of it will.”
Megan glanced over at the dog, who, if an animal could look happy, appeared to be in seventh heaven being held in Emma’s arms.
“We might not get much snow here, but she’d get awfully cold come winter without a coat.”
“Amy’s dog wears sweaters,” Emma broke in. Amy was a friend Emma had made this summer on the playground.
Megan had never owned a dog. She’d wanted one and had, probably, when she was Emma’s age, lobbied for one, but she had come to understand how impractical it would have been. Her mother was allergic to cats, so kittens were also out. As Megan studied the dog, she found herself being drawn into those big round, brown puppy-dog eyes.
“As impossible as it is, I swear that dog knows what we’re talking about.”
“She’s a smart girl,” Cam said. “Dogs have developed the ability to read human behavior and expressions. Some dogs can even raise their eyebrows to make their eyes look bigger, which we unconsciously respond to. There have been studies that show dogs with that ability are the most likely to get rescued first in shelters.”
“Seriously?”
“I’ve seen it in action. Just this past spring, a couple came in planning to adopt a cat and left with a fifty-pound bulldog they’ve named Winston. Who, by the way, now rides their son’s skateboard.”
“I’ve seen those competitions on Animal Planet. Now that I think about it, I’ve seen dogs with ears like this.” But their coats had been white and flowing.
“Papillons are smart and take to agility training like play.”
“I don’t really have time to get into all that.”
“No problem. They also enjoy lying around and handing out kisses. A daily walk is all that’s needed to keep them in shape.”
“I can walk her,” Emma said, on cue.
“There aren’t that many times I’m away from my home office all day,” Megan mused. “Even my time in Sequim is usually half days. Most of my business comes from word of mouth, or people seeing the logo on the vans and cars, so it’s not as if I’m out knocking on doors anymore.”
“We can keep her?” Emma squealed.
Butterfly—heaven help her, Megan was already starting to think of the dog by that name—suddenly perked those oversized ears, looking as if she was going to take off like the Flying Nun at any moment.
“It means we’ll see,” she repeated. Then turned to Cam. “How likely is she to be adopted over the weekend?”
“I suspect everyone will be at the boat festival. Debbie, Marge and I will be there pitching the shelter with booklets of available adoptees, and although she’s listed on the pages, she’s up against some pretty stiff competition. Unfortunately, with her current appearance problems, I can’t see people lining up to take her home, and if someone did happen to be interested, I could hold her back for a few days.”
“I wouldn’t want to prevent her from finding a home.” Which she had to admit didn’t seem likely, unless you were looking for a dog who was a shoo-in to win Honeymoon Harbor’s Ugliest Dog competition.
“She’s a sweet girl, Megan. And from what I’ve seen so far, she’s smart enough that she’d be easy to train. She appears to be housebroken, and while she’ll need some exercise, she isn’t like a Lab or Aussie who needs a lot of activity. She’d also be a good TV-watching buddy.”
“I’d have to get her stuff. Bowls, a leash, a bed—”
“She could sleep on my bed!” Emma shouted. “Amy’s dog sleeps on hers.”
Megan was getting a little tired of hearing about Amy and her wonderful, sweater-wearing dog.
“Mutts really are the best,” Cam offered. “You’re less likely to inherit genetic problems. And everyone I know who takes home a shelter dog swears it knows it’s been rescued. They often bond quickly and are unrelentingly loyal.”
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m being double-teamed?”
“I’d never send an animal home with a person who didn’t really want it,” Cam said mildly. “It makes for a bad situation for the new owners, and dogs that boomerang back to the shelter because they weren’t a good fit become less likely to engage with other strangers. Which makes it more difficult for them to be adopted. And one last thought—beauty is in the eye of the beholder. She’s a sweetheart, and I’ll adopt her myself before letting her go to anyone who can’t love her for her personality and not her looks.”
He was such a good man. Not for the first Wednesday since she’d begun working here, Megan found herself drifting back into if only land.