one of the security guards. “Those are salmon eggs on the floor, I think.”
The police were called. Dr. Bellaire was fine. Kyle was fine. Everyone was fine. With the exception of the would-be attacker, who’d landed hard on the marble floor and was whining about an injured wrist.
It was all over in a matter of seconds. Just another day at the office for Kyle. It should have ended there. And it would have. Except for the fact that an eager reporter from Channel 11 had filmed the whole thing. That, and then Kyle received his second job offer of the day.
LIP-SYNCHING TO Carrie Underwood while baking (okay, and eating) cookie dough will be weird with a stranger in my house. No more yoga in my pajamas. No more whale watching from the deck in my pajamas. Binge watching Tiny Dancer while practicing my hip-hop moves is probably out, too.
A bathrobe-clad Harper Jansen searched around her living room and let out a panicky bark of laughter, a sound she hoped not to make on the first date she was about to go on in months. Spotting the lotion she’d been seeking, she shoved the bottle into her pocket, secured the robe’s lapels firmly around her and hurried through the house to her bedroom.
“Bodyguard,” she said aloud and cringed. Even the word felt personal and intrusive. “Body. Guard,” she tried again more slowly and then realized she was gripping the robe so tightly around herself it was hard to breathe. See? There was an inherent threat to her well-being in the very word itself. Although, her dad insisted the position was that of security consultant. “Feels like a bodyguard to me,” she muttered.
She considered canceling so she could mentally prepare for this looming and indefinite invasion of her privacy. Yes, she should stay home and relish her last evening of precious aloneness. As the only child of a single dad—one who worked a lot—Harper was no stranger to being alone. She’d been alone here in Pacific Cove for three months now. Sure, it was a feeling she’d been wanting to shed lately, but it suddenly seemed both essential and precious. Then she remembered she didn’t have the guy’s number.
“Brilliant, Harper.” Lotion forgotten, she donned her carefully chosen outfit.
When her yoga acquaintance and sort of friend, Samantha, had arranged the date, right before leaving for her six-weeks-long honeymoon, Harper declined to take his number, so she wouldn’t be able to freak out and cancel at the last minute. Like she had the last time. It had seemed like a good idea at the moment—a symbol of her courage and commitment to “getting back out there,” as Sam liked to say. The problem for Harper, however, was that “out there” only led to disappointment and heartbreak. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever recover from her last relationship. Owen’s betrayal had taken heartbreak to a whole other level. His subsequent death had exacerbated and complicated those emotions to the point that she’d wondered if she’d ever fully heal. But she had. Or at least she was way, way better. That’s what today was supposed to prove: a better Harper ready to move on.
That’s when the next depressing thought struck her. This will likely be my last unchaperoned outing of any kind for weeks, if not months.
What she needed to do was make this date a good one. Like epic. Technically, there was no making up for lost time, she knew that, but she could make the best of the time she had left.
Fueled by this notion, Harper channeled her frustration into determination. Frantically, she changed out of her dressy clothes, trading skinny jeans, tunic and boots for leggings, T-shirt and running shoes. She twisted her auburn waves up into a bun and tied a long-sleeved fleece top around her waist. She was going to have a good time tonight if it was the last thing she did. Now that she thought about it, even if her date didn’t want to go along for the ride, she’d take that ride on her own. She’d enjoy her final hours of freedom, all right, and not at home fretting and pouting.
Basic security had always been a part of her life. Her father’s house on Seattle’s Lake Washington included a state-of-the-art security system as did the offices and labs at his company, Bellaire Environmental Solutions & Technology. But Harper had always felt like that was more about the important, proprietary nature of her dad’s work and the general safety of her surroundings than about her.
Even so, when she’d moved into her house a few months ago, Denny, her dad’s head of security, had brought the system up-to-date. She used it maybe half the time and not very well at that. The facial recognition technology functioned so that whenever a human stepped onto the property, the cameras began recording, and if it was a person who’d visited before, or was already in the system, their name would pop up on-screen. If not, a close-up still shot was recorded, cataloging the face for later. All visits were logged along with the time and date. The app chimed while Harper was tying her shoes, shooting a surge of nervous adrenaline through her bloodstream.
The irony did not escape her that this was a blind date. Probably, in addition to getting the guy’s number, she should have looked at his photo when Sam offered it, urging her to see how “gorgeous” he was. But Mikhail was a good friend of Sam’s husband, Colin, so Harper had waved the phone away, telling Sam that was enough for her. If they liked him, no doubt she would, too. Looks didn’t matter, she’d asserted, Owen had proven that a beautiful facade did not necessarily harbor a beautiful soul.
But now, phone in hand, she used the app to study the man standing on her porch. Sam was right; he was good-looking if a bit somber. She’d been sold on Mikhail because, like her, he was an artist, a professional musician and successful songwriter. According to Sam, he was also a microbrew master who enjoyed traveling, concerts and long rides on his vintage motorcycle. Also like her, he was a bad relationship survivor. Sam had revealed that his ex-wife had cheated with his best friend and left him devastated. This was Mikhail’s first post-heartbreak date, too. They had so much in common.
As a photographer herself, she thought it would be nice to be with someone who understood her dedication, intense focus, odd hours and the often-transient nature of her job. Someone who could relate to the inherent challenges of putting your work on display for others to critique and value.
A little spike of yearning accompanied this pep talk. She took a second to gauge it, trying to determine if there was more yearning than fear. When she couldn’t decide, she reminded herself that it would be good to socialize again, to find a nice guy who was exactly what he claimed to be. Unlike Owen, who had deceived her and left her way more bitter than she wanted to be. More bitter and distrustful than a woman should ever be. In retrospect, she suspected that he’d intended to use her from the start. With her history, and her dad being her dad, she should have known, or sensed, that something was off, or at least exercised a bit more caution.
“Stop beating yourself up, Harper. Not all men are users,” she muttered and headed toward the door. Inhaling a deep breath, she put on her game face and opened the door.
“Harper Jansen?”
“Yes! Hi!” she said with possibly too much enthusiasm. Dialing it down a notch, she added, “I’m Harper.” Why was he frowning? Nerves, maybe? She rather liked that, the notion that he might be sharing her trepidation. “Please, come in.” She waved him forward.
Tipping his head thoughtfully, he paused for a few seconds before moving inside where he stood stiffly, looking like he was trying to decide what to say.
It seemed prudent to take the reins. “So, I’m just going to come right out and tell you that I’m super excited about this.”
After a beat, he asked, “You are?”
“Of course, I am!”
His mouth turned down at the corners while his gaze narrowed with what might have been skepticism.
Wow, she thought, Sam was right, he has been out of the social scene for a while. She went on, “And I have a fun idea how we can get to know each other.” Gesturing at herself and then him, she went on, “I’m glad you went with casual. Jeans are perfect for