Chapter 1 #3
Via opened her unlocked apartment door and entered her eclectically styled living room. Earl had never locked his door either.
After he died and no one had showed up to claim his things, she’d considered packing them up, but she didn’t have the will
to do so. Possibly a good thing, if Leo was really Earl’s nephew and the shop and apartment were now his. Big if. She walked into the living room—
Crash!
Luna jumped from her arms and darted out of the apartment. Someone was here!
Frantic, Via searched the living room for a weapon. Past the teal papasan chair with the bright tangerine cushion, the glass-topped
coffee table that had four gold-and-black cheetahs for legs, and behind her purple plaid couch was her thin, tall lamp with
a chartreuse-and-yellow beaded fringe shade. It would have to do.
She yanked the cord out of the wall and grabbed the lamp, holding it like a sword close to her body. The plastic beads clicked
together as she crept down the hall, ready to smash the intruder.
A tall figure dashed out of her room.
She wound up and swung at it.
“Hey, it’s just me—”
Leo?
Whack!
His legs flew out from under him and he hit the floor.
Leo gave his head a hard shake. He’d never been hit with a beaded lampshade before. First time for everything. He was more
surprised than hurt, having already been off-balance from skidding into the hallway.
After he’d gotten into Second Chapter using the key he’d picked up from Pipkin’s secretary, he went upstairs to find Earl’s
apartment. Bennett wasn’t due into the office for another hour or Leo would have had his meeting right then and there. Bennett’s
receptionist, Marge, had neglected to tell him which apartment was his uncle’s, so he had to guess. As was his habit, he’d
taken off his shoes and entered into what he was 99 percent sure wasn’t his uncle’s place.
Initially, he thought maybe his uncle took safety for granted and liked crazy-quilt-type decor. He’d never met the man. But
when he walked down the hall into a definitely feminine bedroom and saw the hot-pink dresser with a picture of Octavia holding
her strange cat that looked like he’d just said “cheese,” he knew he was in the wrong apartment.
“Are you okay?” she asked, hovering over him.
Octavia Dalton. She looked more like an Ashley or a Taylor, or any number of equally common names. Definitely not an Octavia.
“Maybe you should wait a minute,” she said, sounding surprisingly concerned. “I hit you pretty hard.”
“I slipped and fell.” But he was feeling a tad off-kilter.
Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d been back in Los Angeles, working his hedge fund job and planning to take a long-overdue vacation .
. . eventually. Then he’d gotten the phone call that had him throwing a few clothes in a suitcase and racing to get to Pecan Corner by ten thirty this morning.
“You don’t look so good.” Octavia placed the back of her hand on his forehead.
A pleasant tingle went through him. Unexpected. Even nice. But unwanted. “Don’t worry. You didn’t give me a fever when you
smacked me.”
“Why are you upset?” They both stood and she crossed her arms, the lamp on the floor at her feet. “You’re the one who broke
into my apartment.”
“I was looking for Earl’s place.”
“You mean Uncle Earl?”
The name sounded foreign to him because it was. No one was more surprised when he found out he had an uncle who had given
him an inheritance. “Yeah. Him.”
“You sound so sure.”
He met her peeved gaze. Then for some bizarre reason, his mind started shifting faster than his Gran Turismo. She’d taken
off her colorful hat, and luscious auburn waves tumbled over her shoulders, wild and lovely, resting on her rust-colored suede
jacket that was buttoned to the neck. Her faded jeans were paired with gray, platform tennis shoes. Nothing matched, nothing
was current, but it all bizarrely coordinated.
Her eyes were honey-colored, wide, and questioning. Small nose, a few freckles across the bridge. A bottom lip that jutted
out a little farther than the top. A kissable bottom lip.
Another unexpected jolt ran throughout his entire body. Attraction. He’d felt it toward other beautiful women. But this mismatched woman wasn’t anything close to his type. Yet the shocks running through him were stronger than he’d ever felt.
His head started to pound. He wanted to be back in his mansion in Los Angeles, working sixty hours a week managing venture
capitalists’ money, living the life he’d spent so much blood and sweat building for himself. Not in small-town Ohio on the
verge of a splitting headache with a fetching yet crazy woman who had a thing for cats.
Leo rubbed his throbbing temples. He needed food, water, and some real sleep. He hoped Earl—Uncle Earl, he’d have to get used
to calling him that—had a decent bed. At this point a lumpy couch would suffice. He took a step forward, his legs shaky. “I’ve . . .
got to go.” His voice sounded tinny. Far away. And where did those spots come from?
“Leo?”
He looked at her, her image growing blurry. His upper lip broke out in a sweat.
Everything went black.