Prologue
SHANNON
Now
Iwas thefuckingboss.
I negotiated multi-million dollar real estate deals, juggled at least six major crises before lunch every day, and tamed lions for fun.
Notactuallions, but my brothers came damn near close enough.
I ran marathons, wore heels no shorter than four inches, and could file injunctions faster than most people responded to text messages.
But I was a whore for superstitions.
Horoscopes, full moons, palm readings, Friday the Thirteenths, even freaking black cats. All of it.
It defied logic but I had to believe there was an order to the universe and everything—everything, everything,everything—happened for a reason. I needed to believe it all meant something, and that maybe if I paid careful attention, I could protect myself and my family from whatever the universe was throwing at me next.
So waking up an hour late, snagging three separate pairs of tights before they made it over my knees, and drowning my new iPhone in coffee not more than sixty seconds after the barista handed it to me were giant neon signs warning that my Monday was a special kind of cursed.
I needed a shaman and some burning sage, and I needed it now.
Sprinting up the Walsh Associates office stairs with my dead phone in one hand and a fresh coffee in the other, I tried to remember what was on the agenda for this morning’s status meeting. Me and my five business partners—the ones who did double duty as my brothers plus Andy Asani, our newest architect and the object of my brother Patrick’s affection—we held these meetings sacred. Lateness wasn’t tolerated.
I didn’t stop when I reached the landing for my office, instead yelling to my assistant while I started up the next flight, “Tom! Get me something to eat and I need a new iPhone before this meeting is over.”
“On it,” he called.
I cleared the last landing before the steep stone staircase to the attic conference room, slowing my steps to avoid wiping out. I could handle my heels in most situations, but these medieval stairs were thirteen feet of uneven, winding granite torture.
Especially in a pencil skirt.
I was out of breath and fully disheveled by the time I reached the conference room, but I cast a warning glare around the table and dropped into my seat without comment. I wasn’t regaling Sam, Andy, Riley, Matt, and Patrick with tales of my crazy morning.
Andy sent me a questioning frown and pointed to her hair, an indication that my still-damp ponytail was more than likely a wreck and my bangs were undoubtedly askew. Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes and mouthed “Not now.”
“I tried calling you,” Patrick muttered. He was almost a full year older than me, and together we managed our family’s third-generation sustainable preservation architecture firm. He handled the architecture, I handled everything else that went into running a business, and it had been this way since forever.
“Phone disaster,” I said.
He groaned. “I believe that’s your third phone disaster this year, Shannon.”
“Thank you for that reminder, Patrick,” I said with a saccharine smile. I’d been bossing his ass around for thirty-three years, and that wasn’t about to stop. “Suck my dick.”
Matt did nothing to conceal his laughter, and he ignored my raised eyebrow. He was a year younger than me, and too much of a big, happy puppy dog to let some brusque frowning kill his vibe.
“If we could focus on the agenda—” Patrick paused when Tom bustled in, a plate in one hand and his tablet tucked under his arm.
“Which size iPhone do you want?” He angled the tablet toward me, pointing at the device options. “You have small hands, so—”
“You have a directive. Solve problems without my involvement,” I said.
Tom nodded, chastened. “On it.”
He set a plate with two cartons of yogurt, two mixed berry muffins, and a large latte beside my other cup of coffee. Patrick watched, tapping his fingers on the table, and it was clear his patience was depleted for the day.
When Tom hurried down the stairs, Patrick said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to—”
