49. Structural Rehabilitation
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
STRUCTURAL REHABILITATION
Claire
“I found a baby goat in Nadine’s bedroom.”
I pause with one hand on my office door. “I’m sorry, what?”
Marisol pinches the bridge of her nose. “Apparently, Nadine thought it looked lonely and decided Juniper House should be more... inclusive.”
I stare at her for a long moment, then settle at my computer and pull up my email. Some questions are better left unanswered.
“Do you know what you’re wearing tonight?” she asks with a suspicious grin.
I continue typing on my computer. “Clothes.”
“Very specific.”
“It is a business meeting.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
I glance up. “You’re thinking it.”
“I am absolutely thinking it,” she says, her grin widening.
“What do you want?”
She drops a folder onto my desk. “Daniel Mercer.”
“What about him?”
“He’s worth more money than some small countries.”
“Good for him.”
“He specifically requested this dinner just with you.”
I tip my head toward the ceiling and count to three before responding. “Still not a date.”
“I’m not sure anyone has informed the rest of the town about that distinction.”
I open the folder, and Marisol’s teasing is forgotten. Daniel Mercer wants to build a second residential program. For boys.
It’s more than just an idea. According to these documents, Daniel intends to personally fund and champion the proposal. I hadn’t expected it, but now I’m actually looking forward to dinner.
I’m passing the time before my dinner meeting when Lucy and Sloane barge in, shattering my tranquility. As usual, they want me to settle an argument about something trivial.
Our conversation is interrupted by the distant rumble of an approaching vehicle, the sound growing louder as it nears the house. The three of us instinctively move to the windows as a black luxury SUV, polished to a mirror shine, makes its way up the drive toward the house.
Sloane whistles. “Well.”
Lucy’s gaze remains fixed on the vehicle. “That’s a very expensive vehicle.”
“That SUV costs more than my house,” Sloane replies.
“You live for free on your parents’ vineyard,” I remark.
She shifts her weight to one hip. “Rude.”
The vehicle glides to a stop directly out front. The driver’s door opens as a man in a dark suit steps out.
Sloane claps her hands with delight. “Oh, yes.”
Before I can stop her, she strides toward the front door, with Lucy and me close behind. By the time I reach the foyer, she has already flung open the door, planted herself on the porch like a suspicious security guard.
The driver approaches politely, his footsteps soft on the wooden porch. “Good evening. I am here for Ms. Bennett.”
Sloane’s eyes narrow. “Are you now?” The poor man looks momentarily confused, a flicker of uncertainty in his professional demeanor.
Lucy appears behind her. “Ignore her. We all do.”
The driver hands me a crisp business card. “Mr. Mercer asked that I drive Ms. Bennett to dinner this evening.”
Sloane turns to me with an alarming grin. “He sent you a car.”
“It’s just transportation, and I didn’t say anything to either of you because I knew you’d make a big deal out of it,” I insist, though my cheeks are burning.
“Transportation that comes with a chauffeur.”
“And a blush. You’re definitely blushing,” Lucy says.
“I am not.”
Lucy grins. “Tell that to your face.”
Before I can defend myself further, another voice joins the conversation. “What’s happening?” I turn to find Ellie peeking around us. Her eyes dart from the imposing SUV outside to the driver, then back to me. Realization dawns on her face in stages. “Oh.”
I already dislike that tone. “Ellie.”
“Mom. Is that car here for you?”
Unfortunately, the driver steps forward just then, his voice politely clear. “Ms. Bennett?”
Sloane makes a choking sound that suspiciously resembles stifled laughter.
“It is a business meeting,” I state firmly.
“Sure,” Ellie replies, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“That is definitely why a billionaire sent a chauffeur to pick you up.”
“Sloane.”
“I am just pointing out the facts.”
I grab my coat from the hook by the door.
Ellie follows me, her gaze fixed on the SUV. “Can I tell Grandpa?”
“No.”
“Can I tell Mona?”
“No.”
“Can I tell literally anyone?”
“No.”
Sloane is already pulling out her phone, the screen lighting up her face. “I’m live-texting the family chat right now. Full commentary.”
“You are not.”
“Claire, if a mysterious luxury SUV arrives to transport my recently separated cousin to dinner with a wealthy developer, that is a five-alarm family event. They need to know.”
Lucy nods, her expression serious. “She has a point.”
My voice is a frustrated hiss. “I hate you both.”
A minute later, I climb into the waiting SUV. Through the tinted window, I watch Ellie, her expression is an odd mix of concern and curiosity. As the vehicle pulls away, I glance back toward the house.
I don’t know who Sloane is furiously texting, but I am absolutely certain I won’t like the answer. Judging by the smug expression on her face, I have a feeling the entire town might know about my dinner meeting before I arrive at the restaurant.
Perched on a bluff overlooking the water in Saltwind Point, the restaurant's floor-to-ceiling windows make it look like the inside of a magazine. The valet area is a gleaming testament to expensive cars. Elegant icicle-shaped lights wind around the bare trees, illuminating the entrance.
Stepping out of the SUV, I smooth my dress and remind myself this is a business meeting. Sloane’s seventeen “Billionaire Summit” references before I left the ranch are irrelevant.
Inside, the air carries the faint scent of garlic and expensive perfume. I’m greeted by a hostess who leads me through the lit dining room.
Daniel rises from his table as I approach.
Marisol’s description of him as “dangerously handsome” is unnecessarily dramatic, yet not entirely inaccurate.
He’s tall and impeccably dressed, but what strikes me most is his palpable comfort in his own skin.
There’s no arrogance or need to impress, just a confidence born from self-knowledge.
“Claire. Thank you for coming.” His voice is a smooth baritone.
“Thank you for the invitation.”
He pulls out my chair, waiting until I’m seated before taking his own.
Within minutes, we’re discussing the proposal.
He knows far more about residential programs than I expect.
He asks thoughtful questions about staffing models, educational partnerships, transportation barriers, and long-term sustainability.
Instead of dictating how the program should operate, he seems interested in understanding its current workings.
The more we talk, the more impressed I become. Most wealthy donors seek to put their names on buildings. Daniel wants to understand how to help the children who will live inside one.
“What makes you interested in this?” I ask.
A subtle shift occurs in his expression.
“My father died when I was young. My mother struggled after that. Eventually, I ended up in a group home.”
His initials on the grant paperwork—D.C.M. The same initials I’ve seen a hundred times in margin notes, in the acknowledgments of papers I’ve admired. I thought he was just well-read and curious.
“A residential program saved my life,” he continues, his gaze distant. “Not overnight, but someone invested in me when I wasn’t worth much.”
“You were always worth the investment.”
He smiles at my words. “That’s what one of my counselors used to say.”
“I believe that about all the kids I work with.”
The rest of the evening passes quickly. We lean over architectural renderings, debating the need for more outdoor recreational space versus the cost. I find myself defending the need for qualified staff with a passion I haven’t felt in months.
Dinner arrives at some point, but I don’t notice the food, absorbed in the project discussion.
Eventually, I excuse myself to use the restroom. The clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations fade as I push through the door.
Several minutes later, as I’m halfway across the dining room returning to my table, a familiar laugh catches my attention. I freeze mid-step, one heel still lifted off the floor, and slowly turn my head.
Of course, Ethan would be here. This is the place he frequently brings clients. I consider turning around, but he’s already seen me.
He’s at a large, round table with Reid and several people I vaguely recognize. When his eyes meet mine the laughter at his table dies. His smile vanishes, replaced by something unreadable.
His gaze shifts toward the direction I was headed and lands on Daniel. Color drains from his face and I know what he’s thinking. Reid catching on quickly, his eyes widening.
“Claire,” Reid speaks first.
I force a polite smile. “Reid.”
Ethan rises from his chair, a deliberate movement, his eyes never leaving mine. “Claire.” His voice is careful and controlled. There is a subtle shift in his stance—it’s a possessiveness I haven’t seen in years.
“Ethan.” My voice is devoid of emotion.
An uncomfortable silence settles over their group. Reid looks like he would prefer a root canal to participating in this conversation.
Ethan glances toward Daniel. “Date?” The question is transparent enough to be amusing.
“Business dinner.”
“With Daniel Mercer.” Not a question, just confirmation, delivered with a hint of accusation.
“Yes.”
Reid clears his throat. “It’s good to see you, Claire.”
I look at him, a genuine smile touching my lips. “You too.”
Ethan remains standing, which is undeniably awkward. I offer a polite, dismissive smile.
“I should get back to dinner.”
“Right.”
His expression is unguarded, stripped of the easy charm—before he pulls himself back together.
My pulse doesn’t settle until I slide back into my chair.
Daniel studies me, a slight furrow in his brow. “All okay?”
“My husband.” The word feels foreign.
“I thought so. Small town. I’ve worked with Bennett and Cross a few times over the years.” Daniel then glances discreetly toward Ethan’s table. “I take it that things are complicated.”
“Might be putting it mildly. We separated last summer.”
He nods and redirects the conversation back to the project.