So Irresistible

by Lisa Plumley

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A hard-headed, hard-bodied businessman falls for the gorgeous restaurateur he's been hired to ruin in USA Today bestselling author Lisa Plumley's unforgettable new novel. Tantalizing. Hot. And mouthwateringly delicious. The pizzas at the Portland restaurant chain Shane Maresca is secretly priming for takeover are all that and more. Unfortunately for him, so is Gabriella Grimani, the business owner's daughter. He had no idea who she was when they had their first X-rated one night stand. Now she's all he can think about. For someone whose career hinges on ruthlessness, that's a slice of disaster. Tough, take-charge Gabby intends to put her family's restaurants back in the black, and that means no distractions. But somehow Shane keeps getting to the part of her that no one else sees--enticing her to lean on him. To trust him. That could be the biggest mistake Gabby and her business ever made. . .or a recipe for something truly spectacular... "Lisa Plumley creates charming characters. Her books are a delight!" --Rachel Gibson Raves for Lisa Plumley's Together for Christmas "Laugh-out-loud... This sweet romance tugs at the heartstrings from the beginning and doesn't let up until the final page."-- Publishers Weekly "Thoroughly charming. . . Lisa Plumley knows how to craft a terrific, heart-warming story with deliciously happy endings."-- The Romance Reviews

Release date: December 1, 2013

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 367

Sample

This wasn’t going to be an ordinary assignment.

It was going to be a test of everything Shane Maresca believed in.

He realized that fact too late to do anything about it, of course. Quitting wasn’t an option. By the time he noticed that something . . . weird was going on with him, he was already committed—hip deep in research, reconnaissance, and placement.

In the case of Portland, research meant cracking open the dossier left him by the previous “fixer” who’d taken on this job—and then failed to complete it. Reconnaissance meant scoping out the city’s quaint blocks, lush green trees, and idiosyncratic residents. Placement meant situating himself in a high-rise luxury apartment downtown where he’d be comfortable enough—and secluded enough—to do what needed to be done for his latest freelance consulting job.

He had to bring this in cleanly. There was a lot at stake.

That’s why, when the dreadlocked and tattooed barista at the coffeehouse nodded at Shane, motioned him away from the shop’s busy line, and handed Shane his triple ristretto espresso along with a friendly “On the house today. Enjoy!” Shane could only boggle at him. Yes, he’d ordered the same thing the past three mornings in a row. No, he wasn’t exactly undercover here in Bridgetown. Not yet, anyway. Still, the barista had prepped and pulled his coffee order before Shane had even given it.

“You’re practically a regular.” The barista shrugged his burly shoulders. “We take care of our regulars.”

Shane raised his cup in acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

Then the weird thing happened. Shane smiled at the barista. It wasn’t his usual professional mischief-maker’s smile, either. It was a genuine smile. It was a smile that felt connected. Heartfelt. Spontaneous, even. For someone like Shane, who’d fought his way to success in true Dickensian rags-to-riches fashion, that was the freakiest thing of all.

A spontaneous smile? While on the job, Shane didn’t do things that were spontaneous. That’s why he always succeeded.

Well, that . . . and his inborn talent for causing trouble.

Shane didn’t do spontaneity. Especially not when it came to revealing his feelings. That didn’t pay. As much as Shane liked risks, he wasn’t stupid enough to risk being vulnerable—and that’s exactly what grinning like a loon made him. Vulnerable.

Realizing what he’d done left him seriously spooked.

Generally, Shane regarded the world with suspicion. It paid him right back with hard times, setbacks, and punches to the face. He was used to that. These days, he usually got in a few good kicks himself. But ever since he’d set up shop in Portland . . .

Well, ever since he’d arrived, things had been weird. That was the only way to describe what had been happening to him.

Like a cartoon hero in a freaking Disney film, Shane found himself strolling through sun-splashed, American elm–lined park blocks with a whistle on his lips. He found himself loving the sound of chirping birds in the morning, savoring the tantalizing smells coming from Portland’s signature food carts, and embracing every lungful of clean, refreshing springtime air. He marveled at the rosebushes blooming beside the freeways (which thrived despite the traffic thrumming past), and he seriously contemplated shucking his usual suit and wingtips for a pair of Timberlands so he could explore the trails near Multnomah.

That’s why Shane’s encounter with the barista was the last straw. He was not planning to become a regular—especially not in a place where he’d come to wreak havoc (professionally speaking) on another local business. He meant to remain separate. Impartial. As flinty as the goddamned snow-capped mountain peaks outside, which were visible for miles on a clear day like today.

Striving for that stone-cold ideal, Shane scowled. Ordinarily, six-foot-six bouncers quailed in the face of his scowls. They were among Shane’s most useful expressions.

In response, the barista gave a genial nod. “Catch you on the flipside.” Then he waved before going back to his machine.

Hell. Not only had Shane been made . . . he’d been welcomed.

“I won’t be back.” Damn it. He’d have to find another coffeehouse. But before he did . . .

Shane inhaled deeply of the place’s earthy, roasted Yemen Bani Mattari and Sulawesi Toraja coffees, cast a hasty glance at the hipster types waiting in line, then strode to the front. He slid a hundred-dollar bill toward the counter worker. Shane angled his head at the people waiting. “I’ve got theirs.”

The coffeehouse employee stared at his money. Shane half expected the counter worker to accuse him of passing a counterfeit bill. Or shoplifting a pastry. Or something befitting the juvenile delinquent he’d once been.

Instead . . . “You’re offering to buy everyone’s coffee?”

Rapidly, Shane calculated the potential incoming orders. He nodded. “Yeah.” He set down his coffee, then went back to his wallet for another bill. “Plus tips. Have a nice day.”

The inevitable buzz kicked up as he strode toward the doors, triple ristretto in hand. Murmurs whooshed through the line. Customers nudged one another. A flannel-wearing stoner type saluted him. Two women wearing workout gear smiled at him.

Shane couldn’t stop. If he did, he had the unwelcome sensation that he’d want to take up permanent residence in this rain-spackled Shangri-la. After that, who knew? He might start getting to know his neighbors, trimming his own rosebushes, and being recognized by every barista. He couldn’t let that happen.

He was supposed to be getting to know his target, preparing for a corporate takedown that would benefit Shane first and the international company his wealthy father sat on the board of most of all. If Shane was lucky, this job would squash the pervasive sense of grimness he felt. It would make him feel something besides a fierce resolve to win and an urge to prove he hadn’t just “gotten lucky,” the way everyone told him he had.

If he could wipe out that phrase from his own personal lexicon, Shane figured he might have a shot at happiness. Or at least at not feeling as if he were under attack all the time.

You got lucky. No. What’d he’d gotten was tricked. Tricked into believing things could be different for him . . . when he should have known that with him as a constant, things would remain screwed up—no matter how many privileges and wins came his way.

This time, Shane swore as he left the coffeehouse and reached the busy sidewalk outside, things would be different.

This time, he would get in, get out, and get the job done with even more detachment than usual. This time, he would triumph, as ruthlessly as necessary . . . just as soon as he scrounged up some money for Aussie Bill, the homeless guy who hung out between the coffeehouse, Pioneer Square, and Shane’s apartment.

As Shane nodded hello to Aussie Bill and then dropped some money in his battered trumpet case, he suddenly realized what he was doing. A fresh wave of disgruntlement swept over him.

He knew the homeless guy’s name. Hell. What had happened to the kick-ass “fixer” everyone in his business respected and feared? What had happened to the guy who could (and did) solve business problems, maximize opportunities, and take down competitors? Someone had to drive down prices during takeovers.

Until now, that someone had been Shane. He’d turned his flair for being sent to detention at a record number of schools into a knack for surreptitiously “fixing” things behind the scenes for the benefit of CEOs and corporate raiders. At thirty-six, he was at the top of his game. He couldn’t turn soppy now.

Aussie Bill gave him a grimy grin. “See ya tomorrow?”

Unexpectedly, that same feeling of being welcomed swept over Shane. In Portland, he actually felt wanted—needed for more than his ability to derail a potential business partnership or wrangle a letter of resignation from an unpopular executive.

“No. I’m starting a new job tomorrow.” Shane held up his hand toward Aussie Bill in a farewell. “Stay out of trouble.”

Bill gave a raspy chuckle. “You too, mate!”

“Trouble’s my middle name.” Shane couldn’t see any reason not to be honest. “I don’t know who I’d be without it.”

“Only one way to find out, mate. Quit it, that’s how.”

Quit? Shane could hardly fathom the idea. But as he headed away, making himself disappear among the onrush of pedestrian commuters at the TriMet stop, he suddenly wished he could. He wished he could quit causing trouble and just be for a while.

But since that wasn’t going to happen . . .

Well, he’d just have to make the best of things. If he played his cards right, Shane told himself as he approached his home-for-the-moment, the mayhem he created might even be fun.

After all, everyone was good at something. Shane Maresca was good at orchestrating chaos. He’d made his reputation on it.

Northeast Portland

There were hours to go before the 5:00 opening time at her family’s pizzeria, Campania, and already Gabriella Grimani felt overwhelmed. Which was disappointing for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that she prided herself on getting things done. She always had. Originator of her middle school math squad, captain of her high school soccer team, and sought-after study-group leader during her years earning an MBA at Portland State University and a bonus degree from culinary school, Gabriella had always found a way to guide her chosen teams to victory. Her parents joked that she’d been born on her own darn schedule and had started bossing around the hospital nurses straightaway. That story wasn’t far from the truth.

Whether wearing diapers or kitchen clogs, Gabriella knew what she wanted. She knew exactly how she wanted it. She didn’t mind speaking her mind to let people know about that.

Not that doing so had helped her much lately.

In fact, it had landed her in a whole heap of trouble.

Maybe that’s why, while Gabriella was still running around doing her usual morning routine, she started imagining things.

It started off innocently enough. She’d gotten up (relatively) early for a head-clearing run. She’d refueled afterward with Stumptown coffee and marionberry pancakes at the café down the street from her house. Then she’d bicycled to the Wednesday farmers market to see what had been newly harvested.

As a restaurateur, it was important for her to network with her local farmers, suppliers, and vendors. It was good for her to know what they had on offer at any given time. As a pizzaiolo who made traditional “Nonna-style” pizzas, Gabriella didn’t have much need for produce beyond tomatoes, basil, button mushrooms, and garlic. Truffles, shitakes, and fiddlehead ferns were out. But as she wandered through the market that morning, examining the green spring lettuces, newly dug leeks, berries, and freshly baked baguettes, Gabriella couldn’t help wishing she could expand Campania’s menu. Just a little. Just enough to remain competitive in the Pacific Northwest’s up-and-coming food scene.

Predictably, that traitorous thought made the hallucinations kick in. Because one minute, Gabriella was dreaming up mushroom bruschetta with arugula and a drizzle of hazelnut oil . . . and the next she was seeing her father, the longtime head of her family’s chain of local pizzerias, ducking behind the piled-up boxes at a central Oregon dairy’s cheese stall. What the . . . ?

Her father should have been at home. Resting. Those were his doctor’s strict orders. After the ordeal Robert Grimani had been through while trying to keep their family’s pizzerias afloat during a takeover bid, he’d begun having chest pains. His doctor had prescribed medication for his elevated blood pressure, then had ordered him to “cut the stress.” Knowing how impossible doing that would be for her husband of thirty-five years, Donna Grimani had phoned Gabriella for help. Immediately after getting that call, Gabriella had ended her self-imposed exile in the coastal Oregon town of Astoria and come home to Portland.

Home to run Campania . . . and to see her mother now scurrying away behind a five-foot-tall stack of boxed farm-fresh eggs?

Frowning in confusion, Gabriella followed her. She had to be imagining this. She knew her parents were probably both at home, in the same house Gabriella had grown up in, reading actual paper newspapers and watching television. Maybe, if they were feeling really frisky, they were puttering in their garden.

They definitely had no reason to be casing the farmers market. Or to be hiding from Gabriella if they saw her. Sure, things had been . . . strained among the three of them, ever since Gabriella’s legendary showdown with her father. But they were all adults. Gabriella had come home to do the right thing. In time, all would be forgiven. Right? Wasn’t that how things went?

As Gabriella rounded the next corner, she caught a mushroom purveyor giving her a perplexed look . . . and realized she was actually skulking around trying to catch her parents, as if they were hiding from her in a colossal (and imaginary) game of hide-and-seek. She straightened. This was ridiculous. It didn’t take a Freudian psychologist to know what was really going on here.

She was worried her parents wouldn’t forgive her. End of story.

Too bad that insight didn’t make Gabriella feel any better. Neither did knowing that she hadn’t even been aware of the takeover attempt her father had been fighting until it was too late. No one had told her. After the final face-off that had caused their estrangement, Gabriella had deliberately tuned out from the pizza world. Unfortunately, her father had apparently done the same thing. Distracted and distressed—but too stubborn to hammer out a truce with Gabriella—he hadn’t overseen all his pizzerias quite as diligently as he ordinarily would have. As far as Gabriella could tell, that misstep had led directly to their family’s business becoming vulnerable to a buyout bid.

In a sense, the whole horrible snowball of events was all Gabriella’s fault. At least it felt that way to her.

But still . . . hallucinations? It was either that, or her parents really had just given her the slip. Inexplicably. They definitely weren’t anywhere in sight anymore.

Ordinarily, Gabriella was much tougher than this. The pressure must be getting to her. If she didn’t let off some steam soon . . .

“Hey, Gabriella!” The mushroom guy held up his hand. “How’s it going? Are you guys planning to reopen Reggio soon? It’s the pizzeria closest to my house. I hate seeing it shuttered.”

“Me, too.” The Grimanis owned six pizzerias throughout Portland. All were named after cities the Grimani family had once lived in in Italy. Reggio, Abruzzo, Tropea, Salerno, and Benevento were temporarily closed, thanks to the expenses her father had incurred while trying to fight the takeover. Now, only Campania remained to carry on the family tradition. “If everything goes according to plan, I’ll have the other pizzerias up and running soon.” She eyed the mushroom vendor, belatedly recognizing him. “If you have any leads on kitchen staff looking for work, send them my way. Staffing’s been a beast.”

“Yeah. I heard you’ve been having problems since you came back.” Idly, he rearranged a basket of chanterelles. “It’s not that surprising. Nobody wants to work for a bad house.”

“Campania isn’t bad!” Gabriella was shocked he would say so. Especially to her. “None of our pizzerias are—”

“Ever going to reopen?”

“—bad.” Surprised by his hostility, Gabriella regrouped. Obviously, she’d missed something here. He’d sounded friendly enough at first, but she’d been distracted. Evidently, she’d misinterpreted him. “As soon as I get my feet under me—”

“You’ll run away to Astoria again?”

His bitter tone made Gabriella frown. Her split from the Grimanis’ pizzeria business was pretty well known around town. Especially in foodservice circles. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be attacked this way. She had an urge to hit back—say, with a snarky comment about his foraged mushrooms—but decided not to. Being defensive and combative wouldn’t help. She needed to be smart. So she squared her shoulders and faced this situation the same way she did everything else in life.

Straightforwardly.

“Exactly what is your problem with me?”

He seemed taken aback. “Wow. Hostile, much?”

Argh. She hated it when people got passive-aggressive. It didn’t solve anything. “Quit taking shots at me and explain yourself. Otherwise nothing will ever get sorted out.”

“Hmmph. I can’t imagine why you have staffing issues.”

“Sarcasm isn’t helpful, either.”

“Geez.” He pulled a goofy face. “Settle down, will ya?”

“I’m not the one who picked a fight.” She crossed her arms and waited. “I don’t need to settle down. You need to explain.”

“I was just saying.” The mushroom vendor glanced around at the other farmers market visitors as though beseeching them to come to his rescue. “You don’t have to get all bent.”

With effort, Gabriella held on to her patience. She didn’t understand why people went through all these gyrations, when they could just as easily speak their minds. Deliberately, she softened her voice. “You’re right. I can be blunt. Big deal.” She smiled at him. “At least you know where you stand with me.”

That seemed to get through to him. The mushroom vendor inhaled deeply. He gave her a sheepish look, then said, “My brother worked at Reggio. He lost his job when it closed.”

Aha. “Then you weren’t asking about reopening Reggio because you have a die-hard craving for a sausage pie.”

“No. I saw you, and I got pissed.” He cast her an aggrieved glance. “I didn’t expect you to go all ‘Terminator’ on me.”

Gabriella broadened her grin. “We don’t know each other very well. My default mode is Terminator.”

He nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard. But you look so—”

Illustratively, he gestured at her and her typical uniform: boy-cut jeans, clingy rose-colored T-shirt, several necklaces, and just enough smoky eyeliner to make her feel edgy. Just because she was a ghostly pale restaurateur who got more heat from the kitchen salamander than she did from the sun didn’t mean she couldn’t roll her own glam-rock-boho personal style.

“So like a quirky best friend straight out of a romcom movie? Yeah. I get that a lot.” Gabriella ruffled her close-cropped dark hair. “It’s the haircut. It’s misleadingly twee.”

The mushroom vendor nodded. “Usually, the toughest person at the farmers market isn’t wearing lip gloss and pink high-tops,” he pointed out, “while standing six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than me. But you’re pretty tough.”

“I make up with willpower what I lack in muscle power.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t want to get between you and a goal, that’s for sure. The look on your face a minute ago . . .” He shuddered, then pantomimed wiping his brow. “I feel lucky to have escaped with my portobellos intact just now.”

“I like your portobellos. I wish I could use them at Campania.” Feeling suddenly stricken, Gabriella touched his forearm. “I’m sorry about your brother. I know my dad didn’t want to let anyone go. If there’s any way I can help—”

“Well . . . I can try sending him to Campania. If he’ll go.”

“If? Why wouldn’t he, if he wants a job?”

The thought of people being out of work, even temporarily or tangentially because of her spat with her dad, left Gabriella feeling awful. She wanted to help if she could.

The mushroom vendor looked away. He cleared his throat. “Nobody wants to work for you. Not now. Not when all the other Grimani pizzerias are already closed. You’re on death watch.”

Ugh. Hearing it made Gabriella feel worse than ever.

“You know how it is,” he went on semiapologetically. “This town is full of solid restaurants. It’s a kitchen worker’s paradise. Easy in, easy out. My brother does have another job now. He likes it okay. Not as much as he liked working for Mr. Grimani, but well enough.” He cast her a pitying glance. “You’ve been around, Gabriella. You know as well as I do that the only people who’d be willing to work in a dying house like yours—”

“Whoa.” Gabriella held up her hands. “Too much honesty.”

“—are down-and-outs. Shoemakers just looking for a quick buck.”

“That explains a lot about my current staff. I’ve hired some real questionable types lately, just to get pies in the oven and on the tables.” Determinedly, Gabriella rallied. “But that’s temporary. That’s why I’m looking for more workers.”

He nodded, silently acknowledging her request for help.

“Once I’ve gotten Campania back on its feet,” she went on, “I’ll reopen the other pizzerias. So if your brother wants a job later, after I’ve saved the day, tell him to come see me.”

“You sound pretty confident. Or crazy.”

Gabriella shrugged. She was used to hearing herself described that way. It had been happening ever since she’d started up her first lemonade stand at the age of eight—and kicked ass on the other neighborhood kids with her special top-secret recipe . . . and her earnings. “Maybe I’m a little of both.”

“Speaking of crazy”—the mushroom vendor looked around—“when you got here, were you chasing somebody? Because I thought I saw—”

“I was chasing something,” Gabriella interrupted before he could make her seem even crazier. I was chasing redemption. And a chance to rebuild my family, too. Not that she intended to share anything as sappy-sounding as that. “But it got away.”

Catching her unintentionally wistful tone, the mushroom vendor gave her an empathetic look. “Better luck next time?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Gabriella picked out a packet of dried wild mushrooms. Then she added four more to her pile. “That’s the thing about us crazy types. We just keep coming till we win.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I have the feeling you might make it.” Amid the bustling market, he accepted her money, then dished out some change. “Sorry about what I said before. I saw you and I just . . . lost my mind for a second. I didn’t mean it.”

“Mmm.” Unbothered, Gabriella wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s okay. I have that effect on people sometimes.”

Then she tucked her dried mushrooms in her messenger bag, offered the vendor a nod, and headed on her way . . . off to save the pizzeria she’d accidentally imperiled with her own stupid stubbornness and inadvertent inattentiveness. Gabriella knew she could do it. From kickball games to projects at PSU, she’d always had a knack for assembling a team and then leading that team to victory, no matter what the odds were.

Sure, the stakes were high. But they were nothing she couldn’t handle, Gabriella assured herself as she wended her way back to her bike and pedaled away from the farmers market. All she had to do was follow the rules, stick to the chain of command, and remember to keep tradition in the forefront. Because when crunch time came, rules inevitably triumphed over chaos, authority always prevailed, and tradition trumped everything else.

As long as she remembered those principles and made them work, Gabriella knew she could win. Definitely.

She hoped.

Well, if all else failed, at least she had a plan....

“They won’t even know what hit ’em,” Lizzy Trent announced as she sailed into Shane’s high-rise apartment. Moving with her usual air of purposefulness, she plunked a pile of shopping bags from Pioneer Place mall on Shane’s plush new sofa. “We’re almost set here. By the time you’re through in Portland, the Grimanis will be begging you to take their pizzerias off their hands.”

“Mmm. Probably.” Dispassionately, Shane turned his gaze back to the rapidly darkening view outside his windows. Beyond them, the sylvan hillsides of Forest Park rose into the cloudy evening sky, turning an ever deepening shade of green as the sun called it quits for the day. With effort, he transferred his attention back to his assistant. “Have you ever been hiking?”

“Hiking?”

He nodded. “Walking around outdoors. In the woods. With a campfire and s’mores at the end of it.”

“I know what hiking is. I didn’t think you did.” Setting aside her purse and keys, Lizzy gave him a concerned look. “Are you all right? The Walthams don’t ‘do’ outdoorsy, remember?”

“I’m not a real Waltham,” Shane reminded her.

“You’re ‘real’ enough to have a trust fund—”

“Which I don’t spend.”

“—and apartments in Paris, Tokyo, and London—”

“Which I only use for work.”

“—and connections all over the world—”

“Not all of those came from the Walthams.” Shane tossed her a disgruntled look. “They didn’t adopt me until I was fifteen, remember?” When Shane had first come “home,” his adoptive father had introduced him to his new stepsiblings and to twenty-five-year-old Highland single-malt whisky, all in the same day. It had been a “celebration” meant to commemorate Shane’s move from a grungy foster home to the mansion. In retrospect, it should have been his first warning sign. “I have friends of my own.”

“Right.” Playfully, Lizzy tossed her wavy brown hair. Her shaggy layers only partially hid the way she rolled her big blue eyes at him. “Friends, financial perks, and a facile grasp of cynicism—the inestimable advantages of prep school. I forgot.”

“The advantages of living,” Shane disagreed. He hadn’t gotten any of those things the easy way. He’d paid for all the “advantages” he’d garnered . . . one way or another. “And the advantages of years’ worth of troublemaking.” He couldn’t help grinning. “Not all my friends are the reputable kind.”

“You and your knack for finding fellow miscreants.” His assistant stepped away. “I guess that’s what happens when you get tossed out of numerous prep schools. Both here and abroad.”

“Yeah. Fun times. Academic faculty members get so bent about little things like selling exam answers or dating the dean’s daughters.” It wasn’t Shane’s fault he hadn’t been able to choose between the two girls. “Both here and abroad.”

“Right. So . . . remind me why we’re taking this trip down memory lane?” Unaffected by his mercurial mood, Lizzy began pulling out items from her shopping bags. Throw pillows. Framed photos. Candles and knickknacks and a pair of umbrellas. She’d been setting up Shane’s home base for this job with her usual competence and meticulousness. Clearly, these were the finishing touches, since D-day was tomorrow. “Are you testing my prep? Because I can promise you, when I’m on the job, not a thing goes down that I don’t notice and remember. That’s why you hired me.”

“I hired you because you made me.”

Lizzy shrugged, then removed some hardcover books from a Powell’s Books bag. “What’s a little blackmail between friends?” She started shelving. “Things worked out okay for both of us.”

They were more than okay. Shane knew it. Without Lizzy, he’d have been even more alone in the world than he already was.

He trusted Lizzy. He relied on her. Once, he’d also tried to charm her. He was glad that mistake was behind them both.

Shane felt her patient gaze return to him and knew she was still waiting for an answer. She’d wait forever if necessary.

Remind me why we’re taking this trip down memory lane?

He refused to admit the real reason—that being softened up by free “regular’s” coffee, Aussie Bill’s advice, and a daylong bout of smiling at strangers had left Shane feeling weird and regretful and susceptible to sentiment in a way he never was.

Screw those things. They had no place in his life.

Instead, stubbornly, Shane asked, “Do you like it here?”

Hands on her hips, Lizzie gazed at him curiously. “It’s okay.”

“You don’t think it’s . . . weird here in Portland?”

“Sure, it’s weird. You’ve never heard that saying they have? ‘Keep Portland weird’? They’re unique and proud of it.”

“But it hasn’t . . . affected you? Being here?”

With a frown, Lizzy headed straight for him. She put her hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.” Her astute gaze probed his expression, undoubtedly seeing the confusion he felt. She glanced at the bound dossier he’d left untouched on his lap. “What’s wrong? Usually you’d be champing at the bit to get started. This is a big job. Your father is counting on you.”

At that, Shane gave a derisive chuckle. “I can’t believe he actually said it.” He mimicked his father’s aristocratic tone. “‘I’m counting on you, Shane.’” He clenched his jaw and added an arrogant chin jut for authenticity’s sake. Gregory Waltham was nothing if not self-important. “‘I need your skills for this one. I need you.’”

Lizzy nodded in acknowledgment. But Shane shook his head, still feeling dumbfounded by that phone conversation.

Un. . .