After she added her contacts, she beamed at him again. “Are we your first clients?”

“Actually, after my family, you’re number two. I bagged another a couple hours ago.”

“No moss on you. Zane, come here.” She cupped his face, kissed him softly on the lips. “You were the first boy I loved. I want you to meet Nathan. He’s the last man I’ll love.”

“Seeing you just made my day, Ashley. That’s the truth.”

“Then you make good use of the rest of it. Now Fiona and I, and Caleb, or possibly Connor, unless he’s Chase,” she added giving her belly another rub, “have to go earn our keep. You call me, you hear? And if you don’t come into our place for a beer, I’ll want to know why.”

“Count on it. Bye, pretty Miss Fiona.”

He watched her go, hair swinging, looked back at his little porch, his open door.

What the hell, he thought. It was all going to be just fine.

* * *

Within a week he’d made real progress. Since both Emily and Britt held very definite opinions about paint colors and decor, he let them pick, choose, debate over shades, form, and function.

Then went with what he wanted anyway.

He hired painters, bought furniture in Asheville and online, debated selections of art in local shops, and asked Darby to take a look at his porch, do something about it.

A few days later, he drove up to meet Micah—his IT guy for the office system—and found his porch decked out with a bench that looked as if it had been hewn from a sturdy oak and polished by elves, and a glossy blue pot full of yellow and blue flowers, trailing greens.

Somebody else didn’t grow moss, he thought as he stepped out of the car. And damn if it didn’t look just exactly right. He hoped to hell he didn’t end up killing the flowers.

He walked up, pulled the folded note she’d taped to the door.

She’d listed the names of the flowers—which he’d never remember—clear instructions for how to handle the self-watering deal, and, as agreed, the cost of the bench.

Thanks for leaving me the key. The porch pot and flowers, the money tree with pot in reception, and the bamboo plant for your client restroom are pro bono. If you don’t like the indoor plants I added, you’re just wrong. You have that really tiny patio out the back. You should get a small umbrella table, a couple of chairs, add some small planters. Think about it.

Oh, and I like your paint colors. DM

He started to unlock the door, see what the hell she’d gotten him into plant-wise, then turned as someone called his name.

Not Micah, but Micah’s mom. He’d had dinner at her house two nights before, really caught up with Micah, Dave, Maureen.

“Hi! Hey, do you want to come in, see what’s what? Micah should be here in ten or fifteen.”

“I would.”

She wore a simple rose-colored dress, good heels. Her hair, shorter than it had been in his youth, waved around her face.

He remembered thinking as a teenager that she was pretty for a mom.

She still was.

“I love that bench. What a nice entrance.”

“The landscaper.”

“She’s a clever girl, isn’t she? I’ve been out to see the bungalow she finished, and the one she nearly has. I might have to have a talk with her myself. Oh, Zane, this is really nice.”

She stepped in, scanned.

He’d done the walls in a pale gray. Though he’d yet to hang any art, he’d put his old desk so it angled in a way that whoever sat behind it could face both the door and the big window. Rather than the sofa, which he deemed better used in the law library, he’d used his living room chairs—oversize, dark gray.

The plant—note taped to the pot—grew about four feet tall with a thick, braided trunk. It stood in a corner where the light spread over it.

He pulled the note off. “It’s a Mexican fortune tree, or a money tree. It’ll like the light, is low-maintenance. Offices with plants are happier, have better air quality. And this one will bring me good luck.”

“Darby McCray again?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a nice touch. I know you’re busy setting up, and when Micah gets here … So.” She reached in her purse, pulled out a manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“My résumé.”

“Your … really?”

“You’re looking for someone to take that desk who has some office experience, who can handle a computer, and, hopefully, has some experience in a law office. I worked at a law firm in another life a million years ago.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“A million years. In this life, I’ve helped Micah set up his IT and security business. And … it’s all in the résumé. I didn’t bring this up at dinner the other night because it wouldn’t have been fair. Now it’s just you and me.”

“I didn’t know you were looking for a job. How about you’re hired.”

“No, Zane, you sweet boy. You read my résumé, and you give it the same consideration you do any others you get.”

“But I know you. I know you’re steady just like I know that sitting at that desk needs steady. People come in or call, and they’re trying to end a bad marriage, or sue the neighbor they’re pissed at, or they just got really bad news from their doctor and realize they never bothered with a will. I know I can depend on you. I could always depend on you and Dave.”

Her face took on a stubborn look he didn’t know she had in her repertoire. “I don’t want you to give me a job because you feel an obligation.”

“Hell, I want someone I know I can depend on. Say yes, and we’ll figure out salary and the rest.”

“Read the résumé, contact my references. You can depend on me, Zane, so listen when I tell you to do your due diligence.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’ll get out of your way. And that?” She gestured toward the money tree. “It really adds to the space.”

He supposed it did, for now.

Alone, he carried the résumé back—glanced in the powder room, saw what he assumed was the bamboo in a little pot. The attached note proved that to be the case, and came with instructions. Low-maintenance.

He walked back to his office, saw yet another note on his new lawyerly desk. This one told him exactly what plant he needed for that space, why, and where.

Curious, wary, he looked in the attached full bath—full, he thought, if a closet could be considered full. But it had a skinny corner shower so the space could be rented as an apartment.

No note.

But he found one in what would be the law library, another in the stingy kitchen. Frowning, he looked out the equally stingy window to what only an optimist would call a patio.

It was, to his eye, a square of concrete.

But yeah, it could hold a small table, a couple of chairs. Might be a nice place to break the day or end it.

Maybe.

But for now, he went back to his office—deeper gray there, dignified, because, you know, lawyer.

He sat at his newly purchased desk, back to the less stingy window, and opened his best friend’s mom’s résumé.