I kneel down, gathering the hem of my long cotton dress. “C'mere, Steve. Come on, sweet dog.”
The pug gives me a bored glance then turns back to the end of the new reception desk, sniffing its leg.
“He'd better not use that as a bathroom,” Max mutters.
“No, Steve never pees indoors. He's a good boy.” I make a kissy noise to try to get his attention, but the dog wants to stay near Tate.
“He really shouldn't be here at all.” Max's forehead wrinkles, and we watch as the guest who's checking in bends to scratch Steve under his chin.
“She's made a friend for life,” I murmur.
The dog's no longer obese, but he could still lose a pound or two. He's also not the fastest-moving animal in the world. Or the smartest. But we all adore him, and I'm totally Team Steve now.
“She sure has,” Max chuckles. “And I think she's gotten the interest of Tate, too.”
Giggling, I wrap my arms around Max's neck. Tate's always flirting with someone. “I bought steak. Want to grill tonight? I also wanted to tell you about the real estate agent I met today. She pulls tarot cards before she shows clients any homes. Says the house has to match your energy or it'll never feel like home.”
Max brushes his lips against mine. “Absolutely on the steak.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. “And the tarot thing — do you think it works?”
“She pulled a card for me.” I pause. “Then she showed me a place on Magnolia Street with a wraparound porch and a fig tree in the backyard.”
“Sounds like we should call her.”
“Mmmm, okay.” I nuzzle his warm skin, inhaling his lime-spice aftershave. “It's hard not to want to kiss you.”
“I know, babe. Hard same. But I have to get back to work.” Max glances around the nearly empty lobby and pulls me close. “Dang, look at that. Tate moves fast. He's already chatting that woman up.”
“All you Hastings men move fast.”
“That woman looks really familiar.”
I twist in Max's arms to peek. The woman has the most gorgeous, shiny, straight brown hair I've ever seen. Long, past her shoulders. She looks like she should be watching a polo match or some luxury sport played by men with accents. A sleek black suitcase sits nearby, and I'll bet she's the kind of traveler who can pack a month's worth of impossibly stylish clothing in a carry-on.
“One of your old girlfriends, perhaps?”
“No. Definitely not. You jealous?”
“Nope.” I give his shoulder a soft bite. “You're mine. I know it. You know it.”
“Damn straight I'm yours. No, she looks like someone I've seen in the news.”
I watch as Tate — dressed in a charcoal gray suit, not his usual faded T-shirt and cargo shorts — blasts her with his dazzling grin. The woman tucks her straight, brown hair behind her ear, and a blush creeps across her tanned cheeks.
“Oh, she's under his spell already. I think this is a record for Tate,” Max says.
“Shhh.”
“We're far enough away that they can't hear us.”
“Don't stare.”
“I'm serious. We've seen her somewhere. Who is she?”
The woman, who is taller than I am and wearing crisp white pants, a pink polo, and white sneakers, swivels her head in our direction and gives us a wary glance.
“Wait a minute,” I mutter, taking my phone out of my purse. “Wasn't she —”
I swipe and tap, and there she is on a celebrity news app, in photo after photo. “Babe. I know who she is. Her fiancé was caught in some scandal in Las Vegas a few months ago — it was everywhere.”
