Author: Kristan Higgins

So this was what house flipping       was like. Backbreaking, ever more expensive, built on a frail hope, but kind       of fun anyway.

Especially with Thing One. He       was eternally patient with her dopey questions—she hadn’t been able to       figure out how to change a vacuum-cleaner bag the other day—and he never       made her feel useless, the way Harry did. And when he smiled at her, she       felt a rush of something so sharp and sweet, it actually hurt her chest. Add       to this the fact that he walked around half-dressed all the time, and heck       yeah!

James knelt down to check       something on the roof, then stood and crossed his beautiful arms over his       beautiful chest. “Put up or shut up,” he said with a wink.

“Jeesh, Thing One! Such an ego.”       She paused. “But you are fun to look at.”

“You look nice, too,” he said.       “I’m on fire. Stunned with lust.” Her beige carpenter pants were grubby, the       T-shirt from Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano was torn, and her hair was stuffed       under a Yankees baseball cap—one didn’t forget where one was born, after       all, and Parker had been born at Columbia Presbyterian, New York, New York,       thank you too much. She was sweating like a racehorse and could only imagine       the shade of red her face had taken on: beet or boiled lobster. Either way,       she was not flushed a delicate pink; she knew that. The bathroom had a       mirror, after all.

Well. She’d cool off with a swim       in another hour or so, and hopefully James would be the one ogling then.       Seemed only fair. She knew he didn’t like her swimming—he watched her like       Nana watched the kids in Peter Pan when she was out there—but she also knew he       couldn’t take his eyes off her, eleven pounds be damned.

So. Mutual lusting. Always       fun.

“Parker? Oh, dear God, tell me       that isn’t you, sweating like an Ecuadoran stonemason.”

Parker’s eyes widened in shock       at the sound of the voice. She turned. Oh, Lord. It was true. “Mom? What are       you doing here?”

Althea Harrington Welles Foster       Brandheiser Levinstein was staring with openmouthed horror at Parker, the       house, the yard. She wore Jackie O–style sunglasses, a long silky scarf and       a white linen suit. The car was a red BMW with rental plates.

“This?” Althea said.       “This is       what Julia left you? Oh, the old shrew! I’d kill her if she wasn’t already       dead! She always made it sound like… Oh, Parker, you poor, poor thing. And       that father of yours. I’ll kill him, too. I hope he’s someone’s girlfriend       in prison. I hope he’s on a chain gang. I hope—”

“Mom! Wow. I can’t believe       you’re here.” Parker wiped her forehead with her sleeve and walked toward       Althea.

“Neither can I. I’m rather       hoping this is a bad dream or a hallucination. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me       you inherited the Pines. Please.”

“This is it. It’s all I have in       the world, Mother dear.”

“Oh, my God. You may as well       throw yourself off that dock and hope to drown quickly. The smell in this       town! How can you bear it?”

Actually, Parker had gotten used       to the smell of baitfish. She gave her mother a robust hug, which Althea       accepted, daintily patting Parker’s shoulder. “It is what it is, Mom. But       what are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me?”

Her mother removed her       sunglasses and gave Parker a level look. “When one hears that one’s daughter       has been in prison, one hops on the next plane. Apparently, you’re following       your father into a life of crime.”

Parker sighed. “Yes, Mother.       That’s it exactly. I’m a drug dealer. It wasn’t prison, by the way. It was       just a holding cell. And the charges were dropped.”

“Just a holding cell. Dear Lord,       what have we come to? Have you gained weight? You look beefy.”

Only Althea would call a size       ten beefy. She herself had the scrawny size-four physique of the desperately       middle-aged—those women who were liposuctioned and implanted and had tans       applied and paid a personal trainer to deny Nature its due. “And calling me?       Why was that a bad idea?”

Althea stared. She might’ve been       scowling, but Botox had frozen her eyebrows into that shiny, plasticine       look, as well as given her a permanent half smile, so Parker could never       tell.

“I wasn’t sure you could get       phone calls, dear. I thought time might’ve been of the essence.”

“How did you know I was in       trouble?” Parker asked.

“Lavinia tracked me down on       Facebook, then called. My goodness, the woman sounds like Yul Brynner on his       deathbed.”

“Since when do you and Lavinia       talk to each other? She told me she hadn’t seen you since you were       kids.”

“Well, I appreciated the call,       Parker. I’m here because I thought you might need bail money.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Althea would       never win Mother of the Year, but her heart was in the right      place.

“What is that?” her mother asked,       squinting as best she was able. Beauty stood on the steps, not quite ready       to defend the place, not quite ready to back down from a stranger, either.       Progress, in other words. “Is that a dog?”

“Shoot, I thought it was a pony.       No, you’re right, it’s a dog. Dang.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of       humor, Parker. Did Harvard teach you nothing? And who on earth is       that?”

James was coming down the       ladder. He walked over, all sweaty male glory, and extended his hand. “Hi.       James Cahill. We’ve met a few times.”

Althea deigned to look at him.       “Have we?” she asked.

“Yes. At your grandson’s       christening and again on his third birthday.”

“He works for Harry, Mom. He’s       helping me out.”

“Is he? How fascinating. Put a       shirt on, young man. If I wanted to see a naked man, I would’ve stopped at       Chippendales.”

James smiled that wonderful,       achingly wide smile, causing Parker’s Lady Land to squeeze hot and hard. He       gave Parker an amused glance and went off. He did not, she was pleased to       see, put his shirt back on.

Althea huffed. “Well, this ruins       my plans. I thought we might spend some time together, do a little       redecorating, but I see it’s hopeless. I absolutely cannot stay       here.”

“Actually, you could have my       room, and I’ll—”

“No. I’ll find somewhere. Surely       there’s a B and B around this godforsaken area.”

“It burned over the       winter.”

“Small wonder. Well. Give me       some time. I’ll see what I can find. Dinner tonight, darling? I’ll pick you       up around six.” She put her sunglasses back on and climbed back behind the       wheel, then gunned the motor, leaving Parker in a cloud of dust.

“What a happy surprise,” James       offered.

“So happy,” Parker      said.

“By the way,” he added, “I think       you look great, beefy or not.”

“I’m not beefy,” she       snapped.

“You’re beautiful,” he       said.

There was that knowing grin, the       I’ve seen you naked look. “Just…just pipe down, you,” she      said.

“Gorgeous.”

“Stop it, Thing One.”

“Stunning.”

“Okay, you’ve pushed your       credibility enough for one day. I’m going swimming. Want to      come?”

That shut him up. “No thanks. Be       careful.”

And as always, she felt his eyes       on her as she and her little dog swam through the cold water.

* * *

AT SIX O’CLOCK       that evening, Parker heard the purr of an expensive car coming down the       road.

“Here comes trouble,” she said,       opening the front door. James came up behind her, smelling of soap and       laundry detergent and sun. So good it should be illegal. She could feel his       warmth behind her, and if she stepped back a little bit, she’d be nicely       cozied up against his—

“Who’s that?” James       asked.

“My next stepfather?” Parker       guessed.

“Sweet ride,” he murmured, his       breath stirring her hair. And not only her hair. Lady Land perked right up.       She cleared her throat and stepped forward a little bit.

Her mother was sitting in the       passenger seat of a chocolate-brown Porsche convertible; at least it wasn’t       black or red, so points to the driver for not living the total midlife       crisis cliché. He was blond, maybe forty years old and wore aviator       sunglasses.