HARPER HAD ALL the gift bags stacked together in boxes. Cathy had texted to say she wouldn’t be picking them up until tomorrow, after all, which left Harper nearly frothing. She could have had an extra two days to maybe get some sleep instead of staying up for two nights to get them done. She didn’t know if she was angrier at Cathy for playing her or herself for being played.
She heard a knock at the front door, then Lucas walked in. Thor immediately raced toward him. Lucas bent over and greeted the dog before calling out, “It’s me.”
Harper set the last box in place by the sofa and looked at her client/friend. Despite having worked all day, Lucas looked as fresh and handsome as he had that morning. His shirt was barely wrinkled, he was rested and tanned, while she was a hot mess. No, she thought, thinking of her mom jeans and stained T-shirt. Even her messiness wasn’t the least bit hot. She was a cold mess.
“Hi. Catch any bad guys?”
“A couple.”
“Want to stay to dinner?”
The invitation was automatic. She wasn’t sure when or how it had started, but Lucas ate dinner with them at least three nights a week. Thanks to Bunny’s skillful tutelage and years of training, Harper chronically overbought and overcooked, so there was always plenty for unexpected company. Lucas was funny, charming and a lovely distraction when things with her mother got too intense or moments with her daughter got too quiet.
Harper already had a salad made. She’d prepared vegetables for steaming and had Chicken Piccata ready to brown and simmer. The drama of this evening’s meal would be the—wait for it—store-bought pasta.
“I’d love to,” he said. “Thank you.”
“I bought the noodles. Bunny’s going to have a fit. Just so you’re warned.”
“Unarmed drama doesn’t faze me.”
They walked into the study together. Lucas crossed to the wall safe that had come with the house. It was a silly thing, really, but kind of sweet—whenever he came to dinner from work, he locked up his gun. She’d tried to explain it was unlikely that either Becca or her mother were going to lunge for it, and if they did, she was sure he could take them, but he insisted.
“What if I had a breakdown during the meal?” she asked. “I know the combination. I could take out everyone.”
He put the gun in the otherwise-empty safe and turned the lock to secure it. “It’s a plain black gun, Harper. You couldn’t possibly use it without gussying it up in some way first. I’d have time to subdue you while the glue set.”
Even as she chuckled, she wondered if there was an uncomfortable truth in his words.
They returned to the living room to find Jazz waiting for them. She ran over to get her greeting from Lucas. When he’d finished rubbing her face, he grabbed one of the rope toys the dogs loved and got on the floor with the two of them. There was much growling, yipping and wrestling as man and dogs vied for the precious toy. Harper retreated to the kitchen to continue prepping the meal. Per the rules of the universe, or maybe just per her mother, the salad plates should be set on the table at precisely six-thirty.
To that end, she got out a small mixing bowl, along with the ingredients for her Smokey Paprika dressing. She poured it into a dressing-size crystal pitcher, then whipped up the sauce for the chicken.
Lucas wandered into the kitchen and went to the sink to wash his hands. “Those dogs are smart. I have to up my game.”
Harper nodded at them feverishly drinking from their bowls. “If it makes you feel any better, they’re saying the same thing about you.”
He dried his hands, then leaned against the counter. “I saw the gift bags. They’re impressive.”
“Thanks. It’s a fiftieth wedding anniversary party. I’m sure it’s going to be lovely.”
Lucas’s gaze settled on her face. For a second, she was terrified that he was going to ask her how long they’d taken or had she been paid enough. He was always ready with the unexpected question. Thankfully he only said, “You’re busy these days.”
“I am.”
She walked into the dining room and studied the table. They were still celebrating spring, so the tablecloth was a pale mint color. She’d already stacked plates, patterned napkins and place mats on one end of the table. Now she just had to deal with the rest of it.
“Misty is going to be on an HBO special,” she said, as she headed for the craft room.
Lucas followed her. “That’s great.”
“I know. She’s so sweet. I love working with her.”
“If you say she’s your favorite, I’ll be crushed.”
Harper grinned. “She is, but I won’t say it.”
“Thank you. Let me know when the special’s on. I’ll want to watch.”
“Some of the humor is fairly subtle. I’m not sure Persimmon will get it.”
“Persimmon and I are reaching the end of our time together.”
“Because she’s turning twenty-three?”
“Something like that.”
Harper flipped on the lights to her craft room. She kept her dining room supplies at one end. She pointed to several clear, plastic drawers.
“Napkin rings. Pink, rose or silver. You pick,” she said as she studied her collection of vases and bowls, wondering what would be the easiest to put on the table.
Lucas held up four ribbed silver napkin rings. “These okay?”
“They’re great.”
She grabbed small, silver tone boxes in various heights and thrust them at Lucas, then chose flameless candles that would fit inside. Before turning away from the wall of crap she kept just because she was expected to decorate her table every single night for dinner, she flashed on her small, cramped office space and realized that, as always, Lucas was right.
“Oh no,” she said. “I’ve been doing this all wrong.”
“Your table?” her mother asked, appearing at the craft room door. “I’ve been telling you that for years. You need to layer your linens. Really, Harper, a tablecloth, place mats and napkins? A monkey could be more creative. At least make shorter, contrasting runners to drape widthwise. It will add visual interest.”
Harper found herself automatically considering her mother’s idea. In that nanosecond, she thought about the fabric she kept on hand and how easy it would be to pull out her sewing machine and—
“No!” She literally took a step back and shook her head. “No, Mom. Stop, please. I’m not looking for more ways to waste time decorating the table for dinner.”
“Waste
