ON HIS PAINTBRUSH

Chapter 1

Hazel

The desire to create is supposed to be the deepest yearning of the human soul. At least that was what one of my professors at my horrifyingly expensive private arts college would tell us. His name was Gustav, and he was from the Netherlands. Gustav also spent most of the class time that we were paying thousands of dollars for screaming at his agent on the phone about why his paintings weren't selling.

I think that might have been when I started to give up on art, if I'm being honest. Unfortunately, back then I ignored the little voice in my head that said, Switch to accounting. You would do well in accounting.

No, I told that voice, I want to be a cool artist. I had grand visions of owning a chic studio in Brooklyn with all-white walls and glass garage doors. A billionaire art investor would walk in, see my paintings, and buy every single one. It would catapult me into the art-world stratosphere, making me the next Fang Fei. I would be asked to sit on the Art Zurich board. I would travel around, giving talks. My paintings would fetch millions of dollars at auction…

The dream never materialized after I graduated. Did I then listen to the voice in my head telling me to go get a job, for the love of God, any job? No. No I did not. For the next three years, I scraped around in New York City. Instead of getting a chic art studio, I interned for free at snooty galleries and worked nights as a chef for pop-up restaurants. I sublet an illegal apartment that was really a windowless walk-in closet. My roommate was a guy named Melvin who had moved to New York City to live his best gay life. That included bringing random men home to the closet. Ironic right? Melvin seemed to think so. He would remind me of this fact loudly at three in the morning. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes this revelation would be accompanied by Melvin and his hookup du nuit singing that Alanis Morissette song drunkenly off-key.

My life post art college was sad and lonely. The only Sex in the City I got was whatever I experienced vicariously through Melvin. My unpaid internships did nothing to put a dent in the massive student loans I had racked up. I had to face the cold hard truth that, though I may love art, it did not love me back. All it did was make me poor and miserable. So I packed up my paintbrushes and said goodbye to the closet. By that point I was living in it all by myself. Melvin had found a rich guy, adopted a bunch of kids, and moved to Seattle. Meanwhile, I was fast approaching thirty and had nothing to show for myself.

In a delusional fit of third-time's-the-charm, I took out even more debt and bought a historic building on Main Street in my small hometown of Harrogate. I had grand visions, (anyone see a pattern here???) of turning it into the hip Art Café where there would be painting, themed alcoholic drinks, and tasty food. I had the restaurant background and the art background. How could it possibly go wrong?

"Where did it all go wrong?" I wailed to my friend Jemma. We were sitting in the Art Café. We were the only ones there. This was a usual occurrence and the reason I had a minor panic attack every time the mail carrier showed up with a stack of late notices. "Why did I buy this building?"

Jemma sipped on her Michelangelo mojito. "It was so cheap! You're lucky you bought it before the Svenssons snapped it up."

"It's not cheap enough to pay the mortgage." I set down my paintbrush and picked at the bowl of Jackson Pollock popcorn. It had truffle butter and parmesan on it. Usually it was one of my favorite snacks I made at the café, but not tonight.

"It was busy yesterday," Jemma consoled me.

"Because Ida brought all of the seniors over after bingo night," I said, wiping my hands then adding touches of light-green oil paint to the eyes of a baby in a vegetable patch I was painting for an Etsy commission.

"Maybe you could cater more toward that demographic," Jemma suggested, grabbing a handful of popcorn.

"I already have the art retreat," I complained. "If I start hosting canasta evening, this place is basically going to be an old folks' home."

"Hey, if they pay!" Jemma said with a laugh.

"I should have quit a long time ago and found a real job," I said. I looked around at my artwork that hung on the café walls. "I know I'm supposed to suffer for my art, but when does it end?"

Jemma gestured to one of the paintings. Instead of the avant-garde paintings we were trained to make in art school, I now made what I considered to be inspiration porn. Paintings of shoes, purses, and women in suits and high heels with quotes like, I know I changed, darling. That was the point! and Slip on the Louboutins and get dat money! I desperately wanted to be the next It artist, like Fang Fei, and sell my paintings for millions. Instead I was lucky to make a hundred fifty dollars off a painting.

"Your sister could find you a job in the city government," Jemma said.

"Then I'd have to move back home. I'm on the wrong side of twenty-five. I cannot move back into my childhood bedroom."

"You might win that Art Zurich grant," Jemma said, trying to fish a piece of booze-soaked watermelon out of her drink.

"I only win it if Harrogate wins the Art Zurich Biennial Expo," I reminded her. "And to make this place into an international art city would cost more money than what the Harrogate Trust budgeted."

I looked up at the inspiration porn painting in front of me. It was the biggest painting in the café, and the colorful pink-and-gold swirls taunted me with the thought that I simply wasn't trying hard enough.

"Wasn't Fang Fei discovered by a billionaire?" Jemma asked, taking another handful of popcorn.

"She was lucky," I grumbled.

"On the off chance that a famous art investor walks in and discovers you, you should at least put up some of your nicer paintings," Jemma said.

"Collages are very much the style right now," I sniffed. "Fang Fei just sold one similar to this for three million dollars."

"Really?" Jemma asked skeptically. "Fang Fei sold a painting that said, 'May your day be as flawless as your makeup' in pink curly letters over a selection of vintage advertisements?"

"Well, not exactly, but motivational artwork is very popular. I've sold two of these paintings in the last month. Also I get Instagram likes off of it."

"Instagram likes don't pay bills," Jemma said.

"Don't remind me. I had to block the phone calls from the bank."

"At least reglaze that one. I think it's flaking bits of newspaper. You don't want the health department in here," Jemma said, munching more popcorn.

"Fine," I grumbled. "I'm just over here trying to move the art world forward."

Jemma snickered. "You don't even like those paintings. Why don't you put up the cute one of the chunky raccoon?"

"Don't underestimate the power of coffee and a girl with a dream," I quipped, gesturing toward the painting that displayed the quote.

"You don't even drink coffee," Jemma reminded me.

"Don't walk all over my dreams. A billionaire art investor could walk in here right now and see the genius behind this painting of a baby in a vegetable patch," I said, gesturing dramatically to the almost-completed canvas.

"'I treat myself to French manicures because, when I snap my fingers, things happen,'" I quoted.

"Your fingernails are covered in paint," Jemma said, laughing.

"You don't know. I could be famous," I retorted, snapping my fingers. "Just like that!"

The door slammed open, cracking against the opposite wall. Jemma and I screamed and clung to each other.

The warm summer air blew in, followed by a man—a very attractive man. I gaped at him. Tattoos traced up his forearms and around his collar and disappeared into the dress shirt that was unbuttoned one button too many to count as professional. He had expensive-looking sunglasses pushed up on his head. Normally I would consider a guy who wore sunglasses at night to be a grade-A douche, but I would allow the infraction to pass this time.

He tilted his head slightly, and Jemma and I swooned.

"Hazel, I think you have a customer," Jemma whispered after a moment.

"Hi," I said breathlessly. Then I cleared my throat. I couldn't be the groupie of a guy I hadn't even seen before. He was just so attractive. His blond hair had this artfully messy style and hung a little in his face.

"Are you open?" the man asked after a minute of enduring our staring.

"I am very open, wide open; you might say, Spread open. I mean—" I coughed, the nervous sweat starting to bead on my skin. "Yes, my shop is peddling wares."

Jemma threw her straw at me.

"Would you like me to drink? I mean, would you like me to make you a drink?" My voice cracked. I always got tongue-tied around attractive men. Actually, tongue-tied was a generous understatement. I got awkward, weird, and frankly downright creepy around attractive men.

Get it together, Hazel. You're a small business owner—for a little while longer at least.

"I'll drink you, if you're offering," Sexy Sunglasses Man said. He didn't wink or anything, just stared at me like I was on the menu. I blushed from my chest to the roots of my hair. Trying to tell myself it was the summer heat, I ran to the bar.

"We have Monet martinis, Old Fashioned Norman Rockwells," I said, rattling off the list of artist-inspired cocktails. The attractive man seemed confused until he realized I was going through all the cocktails along with their descriptions and ingredients.

"That's quite the cocktail list," he said and jerked his head slightly at the chalkboard menu.

"Right, ha ha! I guess you can read. Sometimes you can't tell with really attractive people if they even bothered to learn or not."

You're blowing it, Hazel.

Jemma choke-laughed into her drink at the table. The man's eyelids lowered slightly, and he made this sort of growl in the back of his throat. Gawd, his voice was so deep! It was like the Starry Night painting—I just wanted to fall into it.

"I'll take the Old Fashioned," he said.

"Of course. Would you like to snack on me? Sorry, would you like me to make you a snack?" I gave him a pained smile.

His eyes swept down my form then settled back on my face. "Maybe later."

"We have—" I started to rattle off the bar snack menu.

"I can read it," he said. He was slightly annoyed.

"Of course. You're not that attractive."

Jemma cut off a shriek of laughter.

"You don't think I'm attractive?" he asked, staring at me with intense gray eyes.

"I mean you're not stupid attractive. Just stupidly attractive," I amended. "Feel free to peruse the artwork while you wait." I even did finger guns. Kill me.

The hint of a smirk played around his stupidly attractive mouth as the man slowly walked around the small historic building. I didn't have much, okay any, money really to decorate. I had done what I could with paint and old furniture I refinished. Sweat dripped down my back as the well-dressed man slowly studied my artwork.

"See anything you like?" I chirped.

His gaze swung back toward me. "Maybe."

"If you don't, I can paint you," I offered then mentally kicked myself.

He looked at me. "Paint me? Like paint on me or paint a painting of me?"

There was a creepy answer and a less creepy answer. Guess which one I went with.

"Paint on you." His eyes widened ever so slightly. "That came out wrong. Whoops! Make a painting of you. I just—you have a proportional face. I didn't mean that as some sort of innuendo. That would be creepy, and besides, I couldn't paint on you. You're wearing too many clothes," I finished lamely.

Geez, Hazel, go right for the dial and turn the creep factor up to a hundred, why don't you? I tried to ignore him and hurried to measure out the ingredients for the drink.

"That's easily remedied," he said then turned back to the painting. It was the big collage that Jemma had been teasing me about earlier. I was acutely aware of him studying my artwork. Maybe Jemma was right and I should have hung up something a little more intellectual.

"This is the ugliest painting I've ever seen," the man declared.

I froze. Jemma looked wide-eyed between us.

"It's perfect," the man announced. "How much?"

"Wha—"

"How much for the painting?" he prodded. I gaped at him.

"A thousand dollars," Jemma answered.

"Sold," he said, walking back toward me.

"Seriously?" I sputtered and spilled some of the liquor. "Sorry," I muttered, searching for a rag. Sexy Sunglasses took the glass and slowly licked off the spilled droplets. I swallowed. He put down the drink.

"Nice cocktail," he all but purred.

"You too…"

He almost smiled. "Cock… tail?"

"What I meant was—" I swallowed. My throat was dry. "I'm sure it's very adequate."

"Adequate?"

I nodded then realized what I was doing and shook my head. "I'm sure it's the talk of the town."

"She takes credit cards," Jemma called out. Sweat dripped down under my boobs. I flapped my cropped T-shirt to try and get some air under there. His eyes followed the motion.

"Sorry, you're making me wet," I said then hastily corrected myself. "Like sweaty, not the other kind. That would be weird."

"It is getting a little hot in here," Sunglasses said.

"You're not that hot." I coughed and flapped the shirt.

"You said I was stupidly attractive."

"Obviously you are hot, but this room is not that hot… see I have a condition…"

"A condition," he repeated. "Like a medical condition?"

"Like a sexual condition!" Jemma called out. The man seemed confused yet amused as I floundered.

"You're not helping," I hissed at Jemma. I swallowed again. The sweat dripped down my scalp.

"It's not contagious. I just go a little weird around—" I swallowed again. "Stupidly attractive men." The last bit came out in a rasp. I took a sip of the drink I had just made for Sexy Sunglasses. "Crap. I'll make you another one."

He held up a hand to stop me. "So, attractive men make you wet? I mean sweat?"

Trying to avoid his gaze, I rang up the painting. Or tried anyway. My iPad wouldn't register the finger taps. I wiped my hands. "It's almost as if it doesn't want your business," I joked while silently threatening the iPad with a baseball bat in an empty field. "To think, this is supposed to be a quaint, historic town, and yet here I am, offering my nighttime services," I joked desperately as the app made a frantic beeping noise and told me it couldn't connect to the server.

"This is a brothel?" Sexy Sunglasses asked, confused.

"Lord no! This is an upstanding establishment! I was just trying and failing to be funny. I don't do that for payment. I just paint. That's my painting. It's a joke, ha ha." More finger guns. I could feel Jemma cringing. It was like those dreams where I was back in middle school and suddenly I didn't have any clothes on, except this guy was so attractive, I actually wished I sort of didn't have any clothes on.

"I know," he said and smiled. Then he took out a wad of cash and put it on the counter. "For the painting." He took the drink and downed the rest of it. "And that."

I counted the money. "I can't charge you for the drink. Let me get you your change." I knew I didn't have enough cash lying around to give him money back, and I prayed some would magically appear as I opened and shut the drawers on the bar.

"Keep it," Sexy Sunglasses said.

I mentally did the math. "It's a seventy-five-dollar tip."

"I like to support local business," he replied, taking the giant painting off the wall and hefting it easily with one arm. The muscles bulged under his shirt. "I like making art too. I'm a very talented finger painter, you know."

I made a squawk like a dying chicken.

He slipped on the sunglasses and looked over the top of them at me. Jemma shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth.

"Actually, I think I will take that snack," Sexy Sunglasses said, looking right at me but reaching for the popcorn. "May I?"

"This is mine," Jemma said around the popcorn, holding the bowl to her chest. I grabbed the bowl from her, and we engaged in a brief tug-of-war.

"It's mine."

"You said you were on a diet, Jemma," I hissed.

"I lied."

"He paid a lot of money. Give me that popcorn." I wrenched it out of my friend's hands and shoved it at the man. "All yours! You even get the bowl! Come in me anytime! I mean, come back in to see me anytime!" My clothes were drenched in sweat.

The man paused and looked at me. Seeming like he decided something, he slid a black business card across the tabletop. "If you ever want to get creative in a way that doesn't involve selling a painting," he said in that atrociously deep voice, "call me. Ask for Donut Danish."

"I'd like to eat his donut Danish," Jemma muttered under her breath. I kicked her.

My friend and I waved furiously through the window as Sexy Sunglasses walked to a sleek sports car parked across the street. He didn't turn around, just drove off like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"Man," Jemma said a moment after we both managed to calm down. "You really blew that one. It was one for the record books. I was about to have a stroke from secondhand embarrassment."

I took her drink and downed the rest in one go.

"Blue-eyed devil walks into a bar," she said, eating a piece of spilled popcorn off the table.

"Gray," I said automatically. "His eyes are gray."

Jemma looked at me in bemusement. "You noticed."

"I'm a painter. I notice colors," I said, crossing my arms.

"Uh-huh. Well, he did say he was a good finger painter. Maybe you two should compare notes." She waved the black business card.

"I'm not going to call him!" I shrieked. "I can never see him again!"

***

Jemma left a little while later, and I set about cleaning the café and locking up for the night. Sexy Sunglasses's card was still on the counter. I looked at it. It only had a phone number printed in a shiny ink against the matte black. It was so pretentious it had to be a little tongue-in-cheek.

I'd like his tongue somewhere else…

"Shut up," I said out loud.

But the card beckoned me. I missed out on my true Sex in the City New York experience. Maybe I would channel my inner Melvin. Maybe I would call.

Chapter 2

Archer

I am a creature of the night. When other people are waking up, that's when I'm just going to bed. Work hard, play hard. Of course that lifestyle choice makes more sense for a single billionaire playboy out on the town in Manhattan. It doesn't work so well in a historic small town at the family estate complete with three dozen younger non-drinking-age little brothers.

I had barely fallen asleep when they woke me up. I'd like to say I was using my middle-of-the-night awake time productively. It wasn't like I didn't have work to do for my hotel conglomerate. I needed to come up with a game plan to make my conference center idea profitable and to get my older brother Greg off my case. But instead, all I could think about was the curvy painter in the cute crop top. I sat for hours in front of the painting I had just bought. It was insane—the glitter, the pink, the collage—but I kept studying it, taking in the small hidden sketches layered onto the vintage makeup advertisements accentuated by the subtle shading of pinks. It spoke to more depth than I would normally find in a craft-store inspirational painting.

I should know quality when I see it. I collect art. I put it in my hotels and use it as a secondary investment portfolio along with all the real estate I own. Still, this painting wasn't my normal style. I wasn't even sure why I bought it except that the café owner was so adorably cute in her paint-stained pants, her hair a big poofy ponytail.

She wasn't like any of the women I usually went for, and I went for a lot. My usual women were like photographs printed on canvas—all flash and no substance. Hazel was different.

Stop it, I told myself. I wasn't ready to admit that I was tired of the playboy life. Besides, I had ruined any chance of being with the café owner by simply giving her that card.

The door to my room rattled as several of my younger brothers banged their fists on it.

"Breakfast, Archer!"

"Don't you want breakfast? Josie's cooking."

I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed the bowl of popcorn that was on the nightstand. There were a few handfuls left, and it was just as good the next morning. I hadn't even bothered undressing before collapsing on the bed a few hours ago. Now I was starving.

"I can't say no if Josie's cooking," I said, swinging the bedroom door open. My brothers shrieked. Henry, the youngest, clung to my leg. I picked him up and swung him under my arm as we went down to the large kitchen in the estate house.

My identical twin brother, Mace, was already downstairs. Though we looked alike, he was my polar opposite. His suit was neatly pressed, his hair combed back. He was concentrating on helping Josie, his girlfriend. She was formerly Mace's assistant. There had been a kerfuffle, and long story short, Josie now lived here.

She was also somehow in charge of making breakfast. Josie ran around the kitchen, hair flying. She knocked into a pan, and Mace caught it before it fell on the floor. I felt a pang of jealousy that I stuffed down. I was happy for my brother. I just couldn't believe that the perfect woman had dropped into his lap.

"Need help?" I asked Josie, setting Henry down.

"Yes," she said. She looked frazzled. Mace lovingly tucked one of the errant curls back in her bun. "But I'm the worst at organizing, and really what I need is a field marshal to get everyone in an assembly line. All the college kids are throwing me off."

My college-aged brothers were back home for summer break. They stood around the kitchen, tall, still a little gangly, and very, very hungry.

"It's double the amount of people," Josie continued.

"I know. This place is like a prison," I said.

Mace frowned at me. "It's nice to have everyone together. You should set a better example." He looked meaningfully at my rumpled appearance.

"I thought you were helping him lighten up," I said to Josie.

"Not right now. I have to go into Manhattan to help your brother, Liam, with his marketing plan. And I had food stockpiled." She glared lovingly at Eli, Tristan, and the rest of the cohort. "But they ate everything!" Josie said as she grabbed a large casserole pan out of the oven. My mouth watered. "It's already gone. All of it!"

I slowly took a bite of the popcorn.

"What are you eating?" Arlo asked, looking up at me with big eyes.

"You guys are like pigeons," I said as several of my younger brothers crowded around me.

"You made popcorn?" Mace asked disapprovingly as I chucked pieces of the snack at my little brothers.

"I got it from a bar."

"I thought you came to Harrogate to work, not go barhopping," an annoyed voice said behind me. There was Greg, the ever-present look of general disapproval affixed firmly to his face. He was followed by Mike, my business partner at Greyson Hotel Group.

"I need to hire someone to play villain music every time Greg walks into a room," I said. "You want a job, Henry?"

"I want a job," Eli said. "You should hire me and Tristan. We're almost done with college."

"Um, no. I'm not a babysitter."

Mace frowned. "I'm taking in several of our younger brothers as interns at Svensson PharmaTech. You need to take a few of them on at Greyson Hotel Group. Family should support each other."

"And look how well that worked with Adrian," I scoffed. Adrian glared at me. "Did you ever get the money back?"

"He made a mistake," Mace insisted.

I snorted.

"You were a mistake," Adrian shot back at me. "Mace should have eaten you in the womb."

"Gross."

Greg turned to Hunter, the oldest, who was handing carafes of coffee to the kids to take into the dining room. "Is this what you allow to go on over here? This place is a zoo."

"Right? I can't believe how disorganized this place is," I said to Greg, knowing it would rile up Hunter. I enjoyed irritating Greg. Sometimes when I felt like really flying close to the edge, I would try and set him and Hunter against each other. Bonus points if I could set Mace off as well and let the three of them spiral into chaos. I snickered to myself. They should call me Loki.

"Maybe if you did more than breeze in here, throw your weight around, and then leave," Hunter growled.

"Are you going to let him talk to you like that, Greg?" I asked, hugging the popcorn bowl to my chest in mock shock.

My older brother's eyes narrowed. "This type of behavior is not inspiring me to invest in your conference center."

"You were supposed to butter him up," I complained to Mike. "You know, make a really nice spreadsheet and show him how much money we're going to make."

"I'm not even sure Harrogate can physically hold a conference of the size you're talking about," Mike said, rolling up his sleeves. "The old Mast Brothers' chocolate factory is huge, yes, but we need hotel space, and the city of Harrogate will not allow us to demolish any of the existing historic brick buildings to build hotels."

"We have enough space. Svensson Investment owns all that land in Harrogate," I said as Mike cut up fruit.

"I will not allow you to build hotels on every single parcel I own," Greg said, setting down his briefcase and jacket on a stool.

"There's the strip mall next door. Buy that," Hunter said.

"We need to talk to the city about it," Mike warned. "I think they own it with the Mast Brothers' chocolate factory site. They may not want to sell it."

"The bigger issue," Hunter said, "is that you don't even have a marketing plan to attract conferences large enough to justify such a large complex of exhibition halls. You need to bring tens of thousands of people here several times a month to make a profit."

"We're like two hours outside of New York City. By car, it takes about as long to drive here for a conference as it does to sit in traffic going into Manhattan," I scoffed. "Besides, I'll pay Josie to do a killer marketing campaign."

"My plate is full," Josie said as she slid another breakfast casserole out of the oven. She motioned to me, and I tossed a piece of popcorn at her. She caught it in her mouth. "That's pretty good."

"It's Jackson Pollock popcorn," I said. Greg looked at me in disgust.

"You know what you could do?" Josie said thoughtfully. "The Harrogate Trust has an art and beautification committee. A few of the girls on the committee are trying to convince the Art Zurich Biennial Expo to choose Harrogate for their big exhibition in a couple years. The Art Zurich Biennial is like the Olympics but for art. There are grants associated with it, and the convention is enormous. But to win the host spot, Harrogate has to show we can handle such a large influx of people. There're a couple more spots on the committee. Maybe you could join up."

"I'm not really a committee person," I said. "I'm a lone wolf."

"Well then, it sounds like you're not really a conference person because that's the only solid plan anyone has put forth for how this conference center isn't going to be an abject failure," Greg snapped.

"You like art. You collect it," Mace cajoled.

I groaned dramatically.

"You need to prove to us Harrogate has a market for large conferences," Hunter warned, "if you want Svensson Investment to give you money for the real estate deal."

Mike looked at Josie. "Do you think Harrogate can win?"

Josie smiled at me. "If Archer's there helping give the entry some pizzazz, I think we might have a good shot. Meetings are at nine in the morning. You should be able to make the one today."

I sighed. "I guess I'll go. I just don't want to get wrapped up in small-town politics."

"Harrogate isn't that small," Mace said. "Besides, it's not the size that counts. It's how you use it." He smirked at Josie.

"Not that anything about you is small," she said, her mouth quirking slightly.

"There are children present, Mace!" I said, clapping my hands dramatically over Henry's ears. He was too interested in the food waiting on the counter to notice.

Josie waved oven mitts at Greg and Hunter and motioned them to each grab a casserole and take it to the dining room.

"Before we worry about the Art Zurich expo," Greg said, "we need to buy the land. The meeting with the city about the factory site is in a couple of days. There won't even be a conference center if Archer blows it."

"I've done hundreds of these types of presentations!" I countered, taking the platter of fruit. "I'm the master of sales pitches."

Greg's phone rang, interrupting my speech. I adjusted the fruit platter, and I helpfully pulled the phone out of his briefcase and glanced at the number.

"It's a Harrogate area code," I told my half brother.

"Put it on speaker. I've been trying to get people to give me more information about the strip mall site since apparently I have to do your work for you now," he said as I followed him into the large dining room. My older brother Remy was already in there, setting out utensils and stacks of plates.

"Hello," Greg called in my direction while he slid the casserole onto the long buffet.

The phone was staticky for a moment, then a woman's voice came on. I recognized her as Hazel, the cute Art Café owner. I tried to keep my expression neutral.

"Hello? I—this is awkward," Hazel said.

"Your name is awkward?" Greg asked, eyes narrowing.

"No, it's Hazel. Uh, you left your card last night?" Mike chortled and clapped a hand over his mouth as Greg took off the oven mitts.

"I'm sorry. Who did you want to speak to?" Greg asked, voice flat. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop the snickers.

"Um, I'm calling for Donut Danish? Is that you?"

I silently choked on my laughter as a scowl formed on Greg's face.

"This is a private line. I don't appreciate you prank calling me," Greg said in a clipped tone, taking the phone from me.

"I didn't!" she cried. "I mean, you told me to call you last night."

"I wasn't with anyone last night," Greg snarled. "Let me guess. Someone with messy hair, terrible taste, too much money, and not enough sense gave that card to you?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, that would be yet another ill-advised prank by my younger brother Archer, who is childish, immature, and a stain on the Svensson name." Greg glared at me. I rolled my eyes.

"I'm really sorry," Hazel said in a small voice that made me feel ever so slightly guilty.

"Do not call this number anymore." Greg hung up.

Mace glared at me. "You're terrible."

"It was hilarious!" I said, laughing.

"You can't just give out my number, Archer," Greg warned. "You're already on thin ice."

"Greg, lighten up! I'm about to make you even more billions with this conference center."

"We can't even be certain you're going to be able to purchase the property."

"Of course I'm going to!" I said. "Harrington Investment doesn't have the vision I do. Besides, Mayor Barry likes us. He'll be at the pitch meeting."

Hunter didn't look convinced. "I just wish Josie had been able to work on this pitch."

"I am really tapped out," Josie said, coming into the dining room and slumping down in a chair.

"Of course, dear future sister-in-law," I said, cutting a huge piece of the sausage, egg, and cheddar cheese casserole, placing it on a plate along with some fruit, and handing it to her.

Josie demurred, "Mace hasn't proposed."

"He needs to," I said, dishing up more pieces for the kids who lined up. "You're living in his house, taking care of these heathens. You have him by the balls. If you left, this place would descend into chaos in a matter of hours."

"On the vein of not falling into chaos, Otis and Theo are participating in a summer art camp they found," Mace informed me.

"It's for our business," Otis said excitedly as he and Theo dug into their food. "We're selling T-shirts online."

"Because that's not sketchy," I said. "Is that even legal?"

"I helped them set up a corporation," Hunter said, scooping fruit onto each of the kids’ plates who he felt weren't eating enough plant matter. "If you don't want to be useful, you can go back to Manhattan and stop wasting space."

"Fine. I will be soccer mom this afternoon."

"We'll get you a minivan," Mike said with a smirk.

"The billionaire playboy gets domesticated," Josie said with a grin.

Greg scowled. "He's not that domesticated if he's orchestrating prank calls like a child."

Chapter 3

Hazel

I threw down the phone as soon as I ended the call. Then I screamed, "Oh my God!"

When I decided to call that morning, I was assuming Sexy Sunglasses, or rather, Archer, I guess his name was, wouldn't be awake. He didn't seem like the early-riser type. I was certain I would just leave a voicemail. I had even written out what I was going to say. But when his brother answered the phone, my script completely flew out the window.

I had been so humiliated. Then I was furious. How dare Archer play a joke on me? Stupidly attractive, huh. Actually he was just another stupid idea, just like my art education, just like the Art Café, and just like this Hail Mary grant I was hoping to win from the Art Zurich Biennial Expo.

I took a deep breath and tried to channel my inner boss babe as I grabbed a broom and went out into the early morning to sweep the sidewalk in front of my café.

"'I am an entrepreneur doing big things. These are four-inch stilettos, so don't even waste your time trying to bring me down,'" I quoted. But I wasn't wearing any stilettos, just my red slip-on Toms.

I looked down at my scuffed-up shoes. It was another reminder of the disconnect between who I wanted to be and who I actually was.

"I want pancakes. Raspberry dark chocolate soufflé pancakes," I yelled out to the empty street. One of the problems with having a failing café was that I ended up eating all the leftover food. And there was a lot.

"Don't make pancakes. Don't stress eat." I looked down at my white overalls. Slouchy artist had become my signature look since opening the café. Not because of any real conscious decision, but because I couldn't really fit into my other nicer clothes.

For a few weeks when I first opened, I had tried to serve breakfast, but I never attracted enough customers. I looked over at the brick building next to mine. A sign on the front said, Grey Dove Bistro, Coming Soon!

That was the other reason why I knew I was in the death throes of a failing business. Chloe Barnard, popular contestant on the Great Christmas Bake Off and dessert-maker extraordinaire, was putting a franchise in Harrogate. And of course it was going right next to my business. Talk about a real boss babe. She was building an empire of cool restaurants. Her Instagram game was on point. She had a gorgeous billionaire boyfriend, Jack Frost, and an impeccably decorated penthouse.

When the Grey Dove Bistro opened, no one would ever come to my little café. I slumped down on the stoop.

The train from Svensson PharmaTech rumbled down the street. It was another quirk of Harrogate that I loved, the freight train that rumbled down Main Street several times a week. I waved to the train conductor, and he blew the horn. I sighed as he passed. I would miss that if I lost my café.

What I wouldn't miss were the several idiots who had taken to racing their motorcycles down the street in the middle of the night. I had to wake up early to make the sandwiches that Ida sold at her general store. On top of the humiliation from Archer's practical joke, I had a headache from lack of sleep.

"Did you call him?" Jemma called, walking down the street toward me.

"Keep your voice down," I hissed and pulled her inside the café. "I did call," I said.

"You did?" she squealed then added, "But it's early. He might have still been asleep."

"That was the plan," I replied, going to the large fridge to take out the deli meats, cheeses, and locally sourced vegetables to make the sandwiches for Ida. Jemma washed her hands and put on an apron. "But it was a joke," I continued, angrily slapping the loaves of bread onto the counter.

"What?" Jemma exclaimed as she started slicing tomatoes.

"He gave me the number to his mean older brother, and let me tell you, he was not amused I called him Donut Danish."

Jemma started laughing and almost dropped her knife. "You didn't!"

"Now I'm going to have to listen to my sister give me a lecture about not trusting Svenssons."

"At least he bought a painting!"

"He came in here like he owned the place," I grumbled. "He's just like those horrible art collectors in Manhattan."

"Money is money."

"I'd rather not take his money," I said. "Especially if Archer's just going to use it as an excuse to be a douche."

"We should have known," Jemma said. "Who wears sunglasses at night, right?"

"At least I have Ida as one nice customer."

"Ida said she wants as many sandwiches as you can make," Jemma told me as I smeared various fancy aiolis on the slices of bread. "Apparently a lot of people from Svensson Investment are coming into her shop to buy them. They like the cute names and the Instagram-worthy labels."

"Ida is so sweet."

"Olivia says Ida's driving her crazy. She said she's heard way too much about her grandmother's sexcapades."

I laughed, some of the tension easing out of my back.

***

Jemma and I spent the next few hours finishing the sandwiches.

When they were done, I wrapped each in brown butcher paper and tied them with baker's twine. The cardstock tags that were tied onto each tasty package were letterpressed with a watercolor design of that particular sandwich and a quirky but inspirational quote.

Then Jemma and I loaded the boxes of sandwiches into my bike trailer and hauled them to Ida's General Store. I huffed as I pushed my bike, dragging the heavy cart behind it. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes. It wasn't even nine in the morning, and it was already boiling.

"Hey, look!" Jemma said as we turned on a side street. "That building's done. They have all the paper out of the windows." We stopped to peek inside.

As I looked through the windows, my heart sank. "It's a gallery."

"It's not as nice as yours," Jemma said as we peered inside. Except I knew she was lying. It was a beautifully decorated gallery with gorgeous art.

"What am I going to do?" I moaned. "This is turning into one of the worst days of my life." A woman came out of the back room.

"I think she sees us," Jemma said and started to pull me away.

I knew she did. The tall, waifish woman with the perfectly straight blond hair sneered when she recognized me. There was a real boss babe, in her designer clothes and mile-high stilettoes. She even walked like she ate men for lunch.

"McKenna?" I asked when she opened the door. "What are you doing in Harrogate?"

My nemesis from art school stood framed in the doorway, hand on her hip, towering over me. She had made art school miserable by sabotaging my work, making hurtful comments about anything I produced, and spreading rumors about me. When I moved home, tail between my legs, ego stinging from the failure of not making it in the New York City art scene, my only consolation was that I would never have to see McKenna again.

Yet here she was. Scratch what I said before—this was the worst day of my life.

"If it isn't Hazel." McKenna flipped her glossy hair.

"Why aren't you in Manhattan? Why do you have to be here?"

She inspected her perfectly manicured nails and smirked. "Harrogate is a happening place. There are lots of people with money from Svensson PharmaTech here."

"Oh, of course, we should have known—you're here for a Svensson billionaire," Jemma shot at McKenna. My friend had been there through the years when McKenna's nasty comments had caused me to call Jemma, crying, from the bathroom.

"Unfortunately the Svenssons here are a little out of your league," my friend continued. "They like women with souls, not plastic harpies."

McKenna looked down her perfect nose at Jemma.

"Billionaires like the Svenssons want women they can show off at parties, not ones who serve the food at the parties." She looked pointedly at the cart of sandwiches. "Are you a caterer now, Hazel?"

"She owns a café," Jemma said. "And it's very successful!"

That was an oversell, but hey, thanks for sticking up for me, Jemma.

"Do you?" McKenna sneered and looked me up and down from the top of my frizzy ponytail to the rolled-up hems of my white overalls that were admittedly a little snug on the boob and hip areas. "You do know you're supposed to sell the food, not eat all of it?" With that she swept back inside the gallery.

Feeling dejected, I pushed the cart after Jemma.

"Don't worry. The Art Café is so much better than her little gallery," Jemma assured me.

"Except it's not," I said sadly. I had done what I could with the café, but my real vision was exactly what McKenna had done to her gallery. I wanted those pristine white walls, the impeccably restored stamped-tin ceiling, the terrazzo floor, the minimalist paintings like bright spots of lipstick on an attractive man's shirt collar.

Stop. You are not thinking about Archer.

"I know what you're thinking," Jemma said.

"I'm not thinking about Archer!" I shrieked.

"Whoa, that was not where I was going," Jemma said, "but good to see your libido hasn't completely shriveled up and crawled into a ditch to die. I was just saying you have to put McKenna out of your head. Haters are the reminder that you're doing something right."

I tried to relax and only channel positive energy into the universe when Jemma and I rolled the cart into Ida's General Store. Ida hustled over and hugged us.

"My favorite artist and my favorite shop girl!"

"We have sandwiches."

"They're so cute!" Ida said. "Look at how pretty you wrap them."

"It's the same as always," I said.

"But they look amazing. You're so talented and creative!" Ida said. The older woman was like a cool grandmother, and she always pumped up my spirits. "Stand in front of the display," Ida said, pulling out her phone. "I want a picture. I've got an Instagram account, you know. Josie helped me set it up. I have to post every day. It helps give the general store that personal touch. I have two hundred followers!"

I posed awkwardly in front of the sandwich display and made a peace sign.

"Smile and stick those tatas out! Be proud of what you got!" Ida exclaimed as she snapped the picture.

"All these creative little labels are really putting me in the mood for the art retreat this afternoon," Ida said excitedly as she took close-up shots of the sandwiches. "All the girls are. I told Dottie you were going to have live nude painting."

"That's not the kind of art retreat we're having," I said, blushing as my thoughts took a hard right to Archer. No, brain. Bad brain.

I stuffed down thoughts of Archer posing nude. I didn't even like him. He was a terrible person, and having him nude in my café would be a terrible idea.

"Something to consider," Ida said. "Stay for a drink? Art's been making mead."

"Jemma and I have the art committee meeting," I said. I didn't understand how Ida could want alcohol this early in the morning.

"Make me proud!" Ida called after us as we walked as quickly as we could in the heat to city hall.

"I hope this isn't going to take too long," I said to Olivia when Jemma and I met her in front of the ornate city hall building. Inside was a gorgeous mural of Harrogate in the early eighteen hundreds, when it was first founded. That was really the type of art I liked though it would have me tossed out of the art world. Real artists weren't supposed to like, let alone create, paintings that looked like photos. But that was my style.

"So I saw something weird today," Olivia said as we went upstairs to one of the conference rooms.

"Was it McKenna?" Jemma asked.

"Yes! Isn't that the stuck-up snooty girl who was mean to you in college, Hazel?" Olivia asked. "Why is she here? I thought her family was rich. Harrogate seems a little on the small side for her. What's she up to? I don't trust her."

"Maybe she's here to stalk me," I joked.

"I think she's here to stalk Archer," Jemma said, holding out her phone. There was a picture of McKenna in a dress that looked like it cost more than I'd made in my entire career as a painter. Standing next to her was Archer, handsome in his tux. I felt a little nauseous.

"She would be exactly the type of girl guys like Archer go for," I said irritably.

"Let them have each other," Olivia said. "They're two horrible people who deserve to make each other miserable."

"Archer has terrible taste."

"He bought one of your paintings."

"It was probably a joke like the phone call." Promising myself I would never have to see him again, I said, "Let's get this over with. I have to be at the café at eleven a.m. to start setting up for the lunch trickle."

"You always sell out of sandwiches at the general store at least," Jemma said helpfully.

"Maybe Ida's Instagram post will make more people come. But probably not," I said as I pushed through the tall wooden door into the ornate conference room that looked out over the town square.

I stopped in the doorway, and Jemma slammed into me.

"Move," Jemma said.

But I couldn't. There, sitting at the table, was Archer.

Chapter 4

Archer

I had had very little sleep the night before, and I was dragging. I was hoping to nap out in the sunshine on the terrace while the kids played. But I knew Greg was right, as much as I hated to admit it. If I could score the Art Zurich Biennial Expo, that would put my conference center on the map. It would be wildly successful.

I was still daydreaming about how awesome my conference center was going to be when I sat in one of the large leather chairs in the conference room that looked out over the town square. Josie had to go to Manhattan, and I wondered just how organized this art committee was going to be. I bet it was a pack of senior citizens who thought a couple of high-school-level murals were enough to make Harrogate attractive to the Art Zurich crowd.

I yawned and then almost choked when the door opened and a familiar poofy-haired brunette walked in. She saw me, and I resisted the urge to clap a hand over my balls. The look Hazel gave me said she would gladly remove them for me.

"What a pleasant surprise," I said, turning on the charm.

"You mean unpleasant," Hazel replied. "How dare you show up in my committee meeting?"

"Your committee meeting? Josie said I was going to be running this."

"No, she didn't," Hazel sputtered.

I laughed. "Relax. I'm not trying to steal your committee. I'm here to offer my much-needed expertise."

"Expertise in what, being a jerk?"

"It was just a joke," I told her. "Anyways, you were the one who offered your nighttime services."

"That was a joke," Hazel shrieked.

"See?" I said. "We both do sexual things we regret."

"I didn't do anything sexual with you."

"You said I made you wet."

"You made me sweaty."

"Got her all sweaty," I said to her friends, who each had a hand over their mouths, I supposed to keep from laughing or screaming.

"It's not like your phone sex doesn't leave a lot to be desired," I told Hazel.

"You heard that?" she asked, horrified.

"You called a random stranger and gave him phone sex?" Jemma asked her friend in confusion.

"Not just a stranger, my half brother," I said.

"I didn't do that. He's lying! I just introduced myself and asked for you by the dumb nickname you gave because you can't say your name like a normal person." Hazel's cheeks were flushed, and tendrils of her curly hair had escaped from the ponytail to frame her face.

"Greg's face when you called him Donut Danish." I started snickering, which made her even madder. "I can't." I wiped away a tear in an exaggerated gesture. "It was priceless. Really worth not getting any sleep."

"Get out," Hazel said flatly.

"No," I said, leaning back in my chair. I thought I saw her eyes flick to the tattoo on my chest right under my collarbone. "I need us to win this Art Zurich Expo. And we need to do a better showing than the giant vegetable exhibition or the butter-carving contest."

"If you're trying to insult my Etsy painting—"

I held up a hand and choked down a laugh. "I wouldn't dare. That painting of the naked baby in the squash bucket was a masterpiece. The way you captured the look in his eyes, like he just had a premonition of the apocalypse, was masterful."

"Stop mocking me."

"I'm not mocking," I said, standing up. "I am a gentleman and an art scholar, which is why I really need to be on this committee. See, you don't understand—that man you called and harassed this morning?"

"That was you!" she shrieked.

"Hazel, honestly. Greg won't pay for the Mast Brothers' chocolate factory site unless we win this expo."

"You don't know the first thing about art," Hazel huffed. Her friends looked back and forth between us.

"I know everything about art. My hotels are filled with art. That's one of the things Greyson Hotel Group gets high reviews for. You know Fang Fei?"

Hazel nodded uncertainly.

"I made her. I saw her work, bought up every piece of it, and spun a narrative about how she was the next big thing. Boom, all her paintings are worth millions now."

Hazel's eyes widened slightly.

"Everything I touch turns to gold, and I'm about to do it with Harrogate."

"We don't need your help," Hazel said defiantly.

"Oh, I think you do." I fussed with my collar, exposing more of the tattoos she seemed so entranced by, and watched with satisfaction as her eyes followed the gesture, went down, then flicked back up to my face.

"I can offer money and expertise, and as soon as I have the Mast Brothers' chocolate factory under option, we can have a huge fancy gala there. You have to have a fancy gala with art people. You know that. We'll even buy all of you, since you're on the committee, very nice dresses."

"Fancy ones?" Jemma asked.

"Very fancy," I assured her. "Couture."

"Jemma, have some integrity," Hazel hissed.

"Speak for yourself," her friend snorted. "Dude wants to buy me a fancy designer dress, I'm taking it. You can show up to the gala in overalls and no bra, but I won't."

"You're not wearing a bra?" I blurted before I could kill the words.

Hazel looked at me in shock.

Well, shit, there goes my conference center.

Then her eyes narrowed, and she unhooked the buckle of her overalls and pulled her shirt down to show me the lace bra she was wearing. If I didn't know any better, I thought I saw the barest pink crescent of nipple before she released the collar of the springy shirt.

Now I was the one to be awkward and tongue-tied.

"I can't believe you just flashed a strange man," Hazel's other friend shouted.

"People in the subway do it all the time, Olivia," Hazel remarked.

"No one should be flashing you in the subway," I growled.

"I don't need you to look after me," Hazel reprimanded, "and we don't need your help in Harrogate. Harrogate is already great." Hazel glared at me. "We can win the Art Zurich Expo without you."

I looked at her. I was starting to see what the deal was.

"Possibly," I said slowly. "But can you win without me?"

Hazel looked slightly guilty.

"I know exactly why you want Harrogate to win the biennial expo," I continued. "There's an individual grant that only five people receive, and one of them goes to an artist in the winning conference location. You want to be one of them. You don't actually care about the town winning the grant."

Hazel opened her mouth.

"Don't protest," I said, cutting her off before she could speak. "We're all here for our own self-interests. No judgement from me."

"In Hazel's defense, Olivia's pursuing it too," Jemma said.

Hazel kicked her friend and pursed her lips. "Fine, yes, I do want to win it."

I grinned and took a step toward her. "It'll be fun, Hazel. You and me, the dream team, making art together."

"I thought we were the dream team," a sultry voice said.

Oh shit.

Mckenna, my ex. I don't know if I should call her an ex-girlfriend, because girlfriends don't do what she did to me. She was more of an ex-parasite.

"Worst day of my freaking life," Hazel said under her breath.

"No kidding," I muttered. Hazel scowled at me.

McKenna sauntered into the room. She looked the same, walked the same, and smelled the same. She sidled up to me and reached up to kiss me on the cheek. "It's been such a long time, Archer."

"So, you're a stalker now."

McKenna laughed. "You're always such a jokester. No, I have a gallery in town. I heard you're going for the Art Zurich Biennial Expo. As an art gallery owner in this town, it behooves me to make sure Harrogate puts their best foot forward."

"We have it under control, McKenna," Hazel said. "I'm sure you have other more important things to do like scare small children."

McKenna looked down her nose at Hazel. I tried not to smirk. So Hazel had some spine.

"We need to start the meeting," Hazel said. "I have to open my café for lunch soon."

"Lunch?" I said. "I hope it's as good as the popcorn you made me last night." I was teasing her partly because it was funny to see her blush and partly because I knew it would make McKenna insanely jealous. "It was a magical evening, wasn't it, Hazel?" I prompted, hoping she would join in. Clearly she didn't like McKenna any more than I did.

But it seemed Hazel was still mad about the phone call prank. "We weren't doing anything," she scolded. "That was a business transaction."

"I can't believe you thought of it that way!" I exclaimed. "I poured out my heart and soul to you."

Hazel rolled her eyes. "If we could commence with the meeting. Some of us have real jobs," she grumbled.

We sat around the table. McKenna bullied her way into a seat next to mine. I scooted the chair as far away as I could.

"I'll go over some background information since this is your first meeting," Hazel said. Her hair was escaping its ponytail, and I itched to tuck it back in place. "We're in a competition with several other locations to host the Art Zurich Biennial Expo in two years. The search committee is trying to find unique places to host it instead of the usual big cities. We have the Harrogate Trust, which has some funds for improvements. But we don't have an unlimited budget. So I was thinking more along the lines of strategic interventions, like murals, gallery visits, and Olivia offered to lead a tour of historic Harrogate architecture."

I waited a beat. "That's it?"

"We have a limited scope to work with," Hazel protested.

"Small, dinky, and uninspiring," McKenna sniffed. "I'm glad I came today."

"Why don't you go back to Manhattan?" Hazel hissed at McKenna.

"I like it here," she said and flipped her hair.

"Look," I said. "I need to win this expo at all costs. I have funds. We need big ideas, emphasis on big. Money is no object."

"Are you sure?" Hazel asked me.

"Why don't we meet separately and report back?" McKenna breathed and trailed her hand on my wrist, "since we're obviously the most qualified people here."

I jumped up.

"Actually that's a fantastic idea," I said as I hustled to the door, "except instead of small groups, we'll just all brainstorm alone and report back."

Chapter 5

Hazel

After Archer made his abrupt exit, I went back to my café for the lunch trickle. I wished I could have a true lunch rush, but no matter how many power poses I did in the morning, the café wasn't that busy. As I prepped for lunch, I thought about what we could do to make Harrogate appealing for the Art Zurich search committee. If Archer was paying the tab, I had some big ideas I was itching to implement.

A few people trickled in mainly to grab to-go orders. They were all professionally dressed, healthy-looking people. I knew the majority of them worked at Svensson PharmaTech, making the big bucks while sitting in air-conditioned comfort.

I slumped down at a table after the last person left. I didn't have to count my earnings to know I was in desperate need of more customers.

"It could have been me," I said sadly, thunking my head on the café table. "I could have gone to accounting school and found gainful employment at a corporation."

Instead I had to prepare for the art retreat that afternoon. When I first opened the Art Café, I thought having people there painting would add a cool atmosphere. It would be like having live music, but you could actually talk to the person next to you. I had a grand vision of an active three-story café. But the only live painting was the veggie-patch baby. The art retreat was an attempt to recoup some money.

Olivia: My grandma said to remind you about finding a nude model. She thinks you should invite Archer to do it.

Hazel: Tell Ida this is a wholesome art retreat.

Olivia: Really?? Because you flashed him. She thinks it's only fair.

Hazel: I can't believe you're telling people about that! Please put me on an ice float and send me out into the Atlantic.

Olivia: It's the middle of summer. Besides I thought it was a total power move. You know, show dominance. It's like those hyenas that pee on things. Also it's already on the Harrogate Facebook group.

Hazel: Stop! You're making it worse. People are going to think I'm crazy. You need to cut me off when you see me starting to derail. This is why I'm lonely and single.

Olivia: I didn't realize Archer was on the table. Now that I know, I'll be a better wing girl. I'll only let you bat your eyes and make appreciative noises when he makes inane comments comparing the size of his portfolio to his dick.

Hazel: I refuse to acknowledge how attractive he is. Also he's a massive douche and I am not that desperate.

Olivia: Except we are pretty desperate. We need his money if we want a chance to be the host city for the expo. Plus you need that grant.

Hazel: You have a better chance of winning than I do.

Olivia: Neither of us has a good chance. The snobby Art Zurich snobs probably want to give it to people like McKenna.

Hazel: If she wins it I will die.

Olivia: Put good vibes into the universe. And think of things to spend Archer's money on.

Hazel: *sigh* right be positive. Maybe the stupidly attractive guy will treat you like a joke and your terrible menace from college will appear in your safe space.

Olivia: Turn that desperation into determination!

I hated to admit it, but Archer was right. We did need him to win the Art Zurich Expo. Grand ideas were what would put Harrogate on the map, and Archer's money and influence would help make the ideas a reality. More importantly, I needed Harrogate to win so I would score one of the coveted individual grants. It would be enough money to pay off my building and jump-start several of the art programs I wanted to host.

The art retreat was a big piece of my grant application. I had billed it as a way to connect people to an authentic place and their heritage through art. In reality, there weren't a lot of cool thirtysomethings who wanted to paint and talk about art. Instead it would mainly consist of day-drinking octogenarians.

"At least they're paying," I reminded myself as I went upstairs to set up for the art retreat. My three-story brick building had the café on the bottom, gallery space in the middle, and my studio apartment on the third floor. The whole place reeked of acrylic and desperation. I opened the large floor-to-ceiling glass windows and listened to the noise from the street below while I set up easels and chairs.

Even though the retreat goers were less than ideal, I was still looking forward to the retreat.

"Hello?" someone called up the stairs.

"I'm coming," I shouted and ran downstairs. "Please look at the menu—oh, hi, Meg."

"I came in to buy a sandwich," my sister said.

"You don't have to buy pity sandwiches from me. Besides, once the Grey Dove Bistro gets here, I'm dead in the water anyway."

"I heard you sold a painting," Meg said, sitting at one of the metal café tables. "Congrats."

"Word sure travels fast."

"It's all over Facebook," Meg said. "Ida was very excited."

"You could buy a sandwich at her general store," I said.

"I'd rather buy it fresh from you."

I stared at my sister for a moment. "You just want to hear about the guy."

"Ida was under the impression that you practically ripped off your shirt and had sex with him on the floor."

"Ida wasn't even here," I complained as I took out the ingredients for Meg's sandwich. "Prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella arugula sandwich with pesto aioli?"

"You know it! You make the best sandwiches," my sister said. Then she prompted, "Ida said the guy was a Svensson and he left a card?"

"Yes and yes, but don't worry. He's clearly a piece of shit, and I will never get involved with him."

"Good," Meg said, looking relieved. "Svenssons are bad news."

"I know. I was there." It went silent for an uncomfortable moment. Meg didn't like to talk about what had happened between her and Hunter Svensson.

"Minnie and Rose miss you," Meg said, breaking the silence. "You should come by for dinner. They're almost in high school. Soon they'll be off to college." She took out her credit card to pay me.

"You don't have to. It's not going to keep," I said.

"I'm paying you anyway," Meg said firmly. "You're running a business."

I always felt crappy when my older sister treated me like a child. It felt condescending. However, the cold hard truth was that I really didn't have much to show for myself.

"This was a mistake," I said, wrapping up the sandwich.

"What?"

"All of it. Just go ahead and say, 'I told you so.'"

Meg looked sad. "It would have been fine if Uncle Barry had done what he promised our parents and used the inheritance to pay for your college education like he was supposed to."

"Where is all the money?" I asked, handing Meg her sandwich.

"I don't know." Meg pursed her lips. Along with Hunter, Uncle Barry was a sore point. Our father hadn't legally left my sisters and me anything when he'd died. Uncle Barry was left in charge of all the funds and property from my father. Barry was nice enough, but he was starting to grow a little senile. I had long ago given up hope that he would see me and my sisters as anything other than cute but useless little girls.

"You should be mayor," I grumbled. "Uncle Barry is barely cognizant. There should at least be a term limit or something. You do all the work. And he treats you like a secretary."

"That's just how it is," Meg said brusquely, standing up to leave. "Don't forget about dinner."

I sulked after Meg left. It seemed like she and I could never have a normal sisterly conversation without it derailing.

Ever since our parents died, Meghan had been irritable and stressed out. The only time I really saw her relaxed and happy was her brief stint with Hunter. Of course it had all gone horribly south. Was that what happened with the Loring girls? Were our lives destined to be train wrecks?

Another Svensson wandered into my thoughts as I finished setting up the second-floor studio. I forced myself not to think about him. It was just his tattoos; I was attracted to the pictures.

Right, Hazel, of course. I couldn't think about Archer. I had bigger problems.

"Yoo-hoo!" Ida called. "I'm ready to do some nude painting."

Olivia's grandmother huffed up the stairs. She was wearing a stereotypical painter's outfit complete with a beret and striped tights.

"Sorry it's a little warm up here," I said.

"Why don't you make us some cocktails?" Ida suggested with a wink.

"Isn't it a little early?"

"I bought the alcoholic beverages package," the old woman said.

"There wasn't really one…"

"Yeah, but that was the extra I paid," Ida said, showing me the email receipt.

I inspected it. Apparently she had paid extra.

"Besides," Ida continued, "I told everyone there would be booze. That and the nude painting is why all the girls signed up."

I felt a little faint. "I don't have a nude model."

"Yet," Ida said. "What about your boyfriend?"

"I don't have a boyfriend."

"Archer Svensson. Josie is dating his twin, you know."

"I didn't know Mace Svensson was a twin. He and Archer seem like complete opposites. Mace is an upstanding citizen, and Archer is a jerk. Jemma told you about the mean trick he played on me, right?"

"It's because he likes you," Ida insisted. "Men are basically twelve-year-old boys inside. But not on the outside. If you know what I mean."

I did know.

"I'm going to go make some drinks," I chirped, hoping to cut off the conversation before it could wander into the dangerous territory of how much of a man Archer was on the outside.

I went downstairs to make pitchers of vodka lavender thyme lemonade. More of Ida's elderly friends arrived. They all were very excited about drinking. Painting, too, but mostly drinking.

I placed the drinks in the dumbwaiter to move upstairs. The dumbwaiter was another of my favorite elements in my building. Did McKenna have a dumbwaiter in her building? I thought not. But she did have Archer. Screw him. They could have each other and make perfect artistic babies.

The door opened. A breeze cooled the back of my neck.

"Go on upstairs. Drinks are coming, but there's no nude model today," I called out as I fiddled with the dumbwaiter.

"I can volunteer my services," said a familiar male voice. "I've been told I look pretty good without any clothes on."