Saving Her Heart (Hibiscus Harbor #7)

Chapter 1

Kendall

My phone buzzes against the marble countertop of the poolside office. Three new complaints. I scroll through them quickly, sorting them by what needs handling first.

I tuck the phone into my blazer pocket and stand, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my pencil skirt.

Time to investigate before the HOA president arrives for our monthly inspection.

Valerie Thornfield has the personality of a paper cut and twice the sting—the last thing I need is ammunition for another one of her campaigns to get rid of me.

I've been here three years, and each month she tries to find something to complain about to the board, yet they love me and all I've done to improve this complex.

The elevator ride to the third floor gives me thirty seconds to review my rules. Three simple guidelines have kept my professional life spotless and my personal life... well, that's irrelevant because I don't have one.

Rule one: Never let emotion override logic.

Rule two: Control what you can, accept what you can't.

Rule three: Never, ever trust someone who's already proven they'll leave.

The elevator dings softly as I reach the third floor.

The hallway stretches ahead, all hardwood flooring and tasteful sconces, the understated luxury that justifies the astronomical HOA fees the residents pay each month.

Everything appears normal until I hear it—a sound that definitely doesn't belong in a pet-free building.

"Maaaaaah."

I freeze. That can't be what it sounds like.

"Maaaaaah."

The sound comes again, distinctly from unit 320. My stomach drops somewhere around my knock-off designer heels. I knock on Mrs. Parsons' door—three firm taps, not too loud.

"Mrs. Parsons? It's Kendall Greene from building management."

Shuffling sounds come from inside, followed by what sounds suspiciously like hooves on hardwood.

The door opens six inches, held by the security chain, and Mrs. Parsons' face appears in the gap.

Her silver hair is pinned in neat curls, but her pale blue eyes hold that unfocused quality I've been noticing more often.

"Oh, hello dear. Is it time for Harold's medicine already?"

"Mrs. Parsons, Harold..." I start gently, but another "maaah" interrupts me. "Mrs. Parsons, do you have an animal in your apartment?"

The elderly woman's face brightens. "Oh yes! Gertie's such a comfort. Harold brought her home yesterday. Said I needed company while he's at work."

My mind races. Harold Parsons has been dead for eighteen months. "Mrs. Parsons, I need to come in and check on something. It's important."

"Of course, dear. Gertie loves visitors."

The door closes, the chain rattles, and then it swings open fully. I step inside and immediately wish I hadn't.

A small brown and white goat stands in the middle of Mrs. Parsons' pristine living room, contentedly chewing on what looks like a very expensive throw pillow. The coffee table has been pushed against the wall, and there are suspicious dark-brown pellets scattered across the Persian rug.

"Mrs. Parsons," I say slowly, maintaining my professional composure despite the absurdity of the situation, "this is a goat."

"Yes, dear. A Nigerian Dwarf. Gertie's a therapy animal. Harold got all the paperwork." Mrs. Parsons shuffles to an antique secretary desk and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. "See? It's all official."

I examine the document. It's a receipt from "Bob's Feed and Seed" for one female baby goat, not exactly the therapy animal certification that would be required to override the building's strict no-pet policy. Not that any certification would allow a goat in a luxury condominium.

"Mrs. Parsons, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. This building doesn't allow pets, and especially not—"

The goat chooses that moment to hop onto the cream-colored sofa, leaving tiny hoof prints on the pristine fabric.

"Gertie, no!" Mrs. Parsons scolds gently. "We only jump on the furniture after five o'clock."

I pull out my phone to call animal control, but before I can dial, the goat—Gertie—makes a decisive leap from the sofa to the floor and darts between my legs toward the open door.

"Oh no. No, no, no—"

The goat is already in the hallway, its hooves clicking against the hardwood like castanets. I lunge after it, my pencil skirt restricting my movement to an awkward shuffle-run.

"Gertie! Gertie, come back!" Mrs. Parsons calls from her doorway. "She's very spirited in the morning."

Spirited is one word for it. I watch in horror as Gertie gallops toward the elevator, which is opening to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from unit 324. The elderly couple's eyes widen as a goat charges past them into the elevator.

"Hold that door!" I call, abandoning all pretense of professional dignity as I sprint-shuffle down the hall.

Mr. Wilson jabs at the buttons while Mrs. Wilson presses herself against the elevator wall. Gertie stands in the center of the elevator, tail wagging like a dog's, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

"Is that a goat?" Mr. Wilson asks, as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing.

"It's a therapy animal," I say breathlessly, squeezing into the elevator. "Allegedly. Please, nobody make any sudden movements."

The elevator doors close with us all inside—two bewildered residents, one harried property manager, and one escape artist goat. Gertie immediately begins investigating Mrs. Wilson's grocery bag.

"She's eating my Bok Choy!" Mrs. Wilson exclaims.

"Gertie, no. Drop it." I reach for the vegetables, but Gertie has already scarfed down half a bundle and is eyeing the green onions with interest.

The elevator dings on the second floor. The doors open to reveal Valerie Thornfield, HOA president, and my personal nightmare, standing with her clipboard and disapproving expression already in place.

"Ms. Greene, I—" Valerie's voice cuts off as she registers the scene in the elevator. Her mouth opens and closes twice before she manages, "Is that livestock?"

"It's a therapy animal," Mr. Wilson offers helpfully. "Very spirited."

Valerie's face turns an alarming shade of purple. "This is a violation of sections 3, 7, and 14 of the HOA bylaws. Ms. Greene, I demand an explanation."

Gertie, apparently offended by Valerie's tone—as am I—lowers her head and charges out of the elevator, bowling the HOA president over like a bowling pin in designer clothing. Valerie's clipboard goes flying, papers scattering across the hallway like oversized confetti.

"My hip!" Valerie screeches from the floor. "That animal assaulted me! I'm calling the police!"

"Please don't—" I begin, but Valerie is already pulling out her phone with the determination of someone about to ruin everyone's day.

Gertie, meanwhile, has discovered the stairwell. The sound of tiny hooves echoes up from below, followed by surprised shouts from residents on the first floor.

I look at the scene—Valerie on the floor making her phone call, the Wilsons still in the elevator clutching their decimated groceries, Mrs. Parsons, who somehow beat us down to this floor in the stairwell, wandering down the hall in her slippers, papers everywhere, calling for Gertie.

My perfectly controlled morning has descended into complete chaos in less than ten minutes.

Rule one is already out the window—I'm definitely feeling emotions, primarily panic and disbelief. Rule two is hanging by a thread because how can anyone control a rogue goat? And rule three... well, at least that one is still intact. No trust issues with barnyard animals... yet.

"Ms. Greene!" Valerie barks from the floor. "Don't just stand there! That creature is destroying property values as we speak!"

More shouts echo from the stairwell, followed by what sounds like a potted plant crashing. I kick off my heels—I'll need mobility for this—and head for the stairs. Behind me, I hear Valerie saying something about "multiple ordinance violations" and "immediate police response."

The morning sun is no longer painting pretty pictures on the pool. It's highlighting the disaster zone my perfectly ordered world has just become, complete with a goat-shaped cherry on top.

I find Gertie in the lobby, standing on the concierge desk eating the welcome flowers while the night security guard watches in stunned silence. Several residents have gathered, some in robes and slippers, all pointing phones at the spectacle.

"Don't just film it!" I snap. "Someone help me catch her!"

But Gertie has spotted the automatic doors leading to the pool area. With a delighted bleat, she hops off the desk and trots toward freedom, leaving a trail of chrysanthemum petals in her wake.

I follow, bare feet slapping against the marble floor, my professional composure completely shattered. Through the glass doors, I can see the pool area filled with residents doing morning water aerobics. They haven't noticed the approaching chaos yet.

This is about to get so much worse.

The automatic doors swoosh open, and Gertie charges through with me right behind her. The water aerobics class turns in unison, twenty pairs of eyes widening as a goat gallops past the pool toward the perfectly manicured gardens.

"Is that a goat?" someone calls out.

"It's a therapy animal!" I shout back, though at this point, I'm not sure who I'm trying to convince.

Gertie has found the prized rose bushes, the ones the gardening committee has been cultivating for the annual Hibiscus Harbor Garden Show. She's sampling them with the dedication of a sommelier at a wine tasting.

"Not the roses!" Mrs. Patterson from the gardening committee wails from the pool. "Those are heritage breeds!"

I creep closer, trying to look non-threatening. "Nice Gertie. Good goat. How about we go back inside and—"

The sound of sirens cuts through the morning air. Multiple sirens. Valerie hasn't just called the police; from the sound of it, she's called everyone with a badge in Hibiscus Harbor.