I call Craig, the contractor who gave me the astronomical quote, and spend twenty minutes with him on the phone, haggling over the price. When I tell him the other quotes I got were half the price his was, he tells me with a shrug in his voice that if budget is my main concern, I should go with someone else.

I hate to admit I like his chutzpah. A man with unflappable self-confidence is incredibly appealing.

We settle on a ten percent discount if I pay him cash. He laughs when I tell him he shouldn’t charge me sales tax either. “That’s not how it works,” he says.

“Don’t patronize me, Craig, I know exactly how it works. You’re not going to put the job on the books if it’s paid in cash, so you won’t have to pay sales tax, so you should pass that savings along to me. Considering you padded your quote with enough pork to make a politician proud, you’re still way ahead of the game.”

After a short silence, Craig says, “I meant I can’t take off the sales tax because there is no sales tax. Oregon doesn’t have it.”

“Oh. Right. I forgot.”

“But I’ll tell you what. The state just passed a construction excise tax to raise funds for affordable housing. It’s based on a percentage of your building permit valuation. I’ll take care of that for you.”

He tells me how much it will amount to. I think for a moment before saying, “Double it, and you’ve got a deal.”

Into his disgruntled pause, I remind him, “Cash is king, Craig. Even if you don’t have to pay state sales tax, you’ll be paying the Feds on anything you deposit into your bank account, am I right?”

“Have mercy on a poor guy, Megan!”

He suggests another number, then I suggest another, then we agree to split the difference. He tells me he’ll send over the contract for my review on Monday, and we say goodbye and hang up.

Pleased with myself, I look around the front parlor with my hands on my hips. I’m excited for the first time in years.

It’s really going to happen. I’m going to make our dream come true, babe.

The phone rings. I pick it up, expecting it to be Craig wanting to go over some forgotten detail, or perhaps Suzanne, but it’s Coop, sounding bashful.

“Hi, there, Megan, this is Coop.”

“Hi, Coop. What’s up?”

Long, awkward pause. “Uh…I’m still standin’ outside your house.”

I walk to the windows, and there he is, out on the sidewalk near his truck.

“Are you having car problems?”

“No, I’m, uh, just waitin’ on Theo. He’s comin’ out to see you. I texted him what you said, and, uh…” Coop clears his throat. “Well, anyway, he’s on his way. I thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

The circus never stops with this guy. “That’s unfortunate, Coop, because I just got off the phone with Craig from Capstone. He’s going to handle the job.”

Coop scoffs. “Craig? That self-important SOB? You like flushin’ your money down the toilet?”

“No, I don’t. Which is why I negotiated a discount.”

“Lemme guess. He probably quoted you…” He thinks for a moment, looking up at the house, then names a number which is only a few hundred dollars off from Craig’s quote, which is very irritating.

“You seem like a nice guy, Coop, but this conversation is pointless, considering your boss has no interest in working with me.”

“I never said that,” he says quickly. Our gazes meet through the window. I see how serious he is suddenly, his easy grin nowhere in sight.

“I wasn’t going to tell him you did,” I say, sensing this is somehow a matter of great importance.

When Coop blows out a breath, looking relieved, my hunch is proven right. Before I can say anything else, however, he straightens, looking down the street.

“He’s here.” He flashes me a look full of warning, then hangs up, steps out into the street, and holds up a hand.

Fascinated, I watch as a classic Mustang slowly rolls up the street, engine rumbling. It’s black, with windows tinted so dark, I can’t see inside, and chrome wheels that gleam in the sun. The car stops in the middle of the street, then Coop walks over and bends down to the driver’s-side window.

Several minutes pass and Coop is still standing there, talking to Theo. Or drawing pictures or whatever it is he does to communicate with Mr. Incommunicado.

“What the hell is it with this guy?” I mutter, growing more irritated by the moment.

Finally, Coop straightens, and the Mustang pulls up to the curb. The engine shuts off. I want to look away, but I’m rooted to the spot, staring out the front parlor window, waiting for what feels like an eternity until the driver’s door opens and Theo steps out.

Black hair.

It’s my first thought when his broad shoulders rise up over the roof of the car. I’ve only seen him in a raincoat, his head covered, but now I see he has a lot of thick, black hair, the length past the collar of his leather jacket. It’s messy. Windswept and untamed, like he only ever combs it with his fingers.

When he turns and looks toward the house, it’s like he knew exactly where I was standing. Our eyes meet with the sensation of a key fitting into a lock: a smooth, inevitable click.

A tremor runs through me, something close to fear but more primal, a pulse of restless energy that makes me want to break into a run.

I’ve never met anyone with more naked emotion in his eyes. His face is stony, but his eyes burn with a thousand unspoken things, all of which are dark.

I resist the urge to step back. We stare at each other until it becomes uncomfortable. I move first, turning to head to the front door, taking deep breaths to calm the sudden throbbing of my heart.

When I open the door, Coop and Theo are walking up the brick pathway toward the porch. Coop is in the lead, smiling nervously. “Hi, Megan!” he calls, as if he hasn’t seen me in forever.

“Hi, Coop. Long time no see.”

Coop ambles up the steps onto the porch that wraps around the front of the house, but Theo stops at the first step and looks at me, as if for permission.

“Sure, Dracula,” I say drily, unamused by this strange situation. “You’re welcome to come in. I’ll put away the garlic and crosses.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. He doesn’t look amused either. He steps slowly up, one big boot at a time, until he’s on the porch and I have to look up as he walks toward me with thunderclouds churning over his head. He stops a few feet away and stares down at me as Coop looks back and forth between us, visibly worried.

But I can’t pay attention to Coop anymore. Not with the boiling cauldron standing in front of me. The rumbling mountain of magma about to blow. The seething pool of silent emotions clad in a leather jacket and jeans. If I were a cop, I’d arrest this guy on the spot for disturbing the peace. All by himself, he’s a riot threatening to destroy the entire town.

On the left side of his neck, a snarl of scar tissue peeks over the collar of his shirt. His nose was broken once and not fixed well. There’s a ragged white scar above his left eyebrow that disappears into his hairline, and he walks with a barely perceptible limp, favoring his left side. And those dark, dark eyes. God, how they burn.

Whatever the accident was that he was involved in, it’s left its mark on this man, in more ways than one.

Coop does the introductions. “Megan, this is Theo Valentine. Theo, Megan Dunn.”

When he glowers at me, as he does, I sigh, because I’m really over this. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to formally meet you, Theo, but my mother didn’t raise a liar.”

In the depths of his bottomless black eyes, there’s a flicker of humor. His lips twitch as if he’s about to say something, but then they still, and I realize that was his version of a smile.

“I told Coop that I’ve already agreed to work with Craig from Capstone, so there’s really no need—”

Theo brushes past me and walks into the house.

I turn and look at him, a huff of outrage on my lips, then turn back to Coop, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

“Sorry.” He shrugs. “But you did say he could come in.”

Theo heads to the staircase, then takes the stairs two at a time like he owns the place, his boots echoing hollowly off the wood. As he disappears from view, I shout, “Where are you going?”

Coop says, “He wants to start work on the master bedroom first so you’ll be comfortable while the rest of the house gets done.”

“How thoughtful.” My tone drips sarcasm. “But he’s not working on anything, Craig from Capstone is.”

Coop makes a face like we don’t have a say in it, which is ridiculous because this is my house!

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I mutter, heading toward the stairs. Coop closes the front door, then we’re both clomping up the stairs, me leading the way with steam pouring out of my ears.

I don’t care what happened to make Theo Valentine such a jerk. This nonsense stops now.

I find him in my bedroom, standing at the end of my bed. He’s staring down at the mattress, strewn with sheets and a blanket, all a twisted mess because I toss and turn all night every night and I haven’t made my bed since I became a widow. I stop in the doorway and fold my arms across my chest. Coop is right behind me, breathing down my neck in palpable anxiety.

“Theo.”

He turns his head a fraction, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“I appreciate you coming out. I do not appreciate your manners, which are atrocious, or that chip on your shoulder, or whatever the heck it is you’re doing right now. Which is all sorts of creepy, by the way.”

He turns all the way around and stares at me. His eyes are like lit fuses, scorching the air.

“Oh, hi! Nice of you to join us back here on earth! Are you done with your little inspection of my bed? Because if you are, you know where the front door is. Don’t let it hit ya.”

Behind me, Coop smothers what could be a laugh or a groan with his hand.

Then—surprise!—Theo’s black brows draw together into a scowl. From an inside pocket of his coat, he whips out a pen and a small spiral notebook, flips open the cover, then scribbles something, his hand moving like lightning over the page. He thrusts the pad out so I can read what he’s written.

Not good with people? Hello, understatement of the century. “That ship has already sailed, Sunshine. Craig’s sending over the contract Monday.”

More furious scribbling. Then he walks closer and thrusts the pad right into my face.

I bat his hand away. “You’re also a pain in my ass. And, frankly, maybe a little unhinged. The thought of having you around for the six months or so it’s going to take to finish work on my house is less than appealing.”

He stands there, nostrils flared, scowl darkening, vibrating annoyance and frustration, until Coop clears his throat. Theo’s black gaze flashes over my shoulder.

“Maybe you should show her the plans, T.”

I ask, “Plans? What plans?”

But Theo has decided this is a good idea, because he’s already shoving past us and heading back downstairs at a run. The front door opens, then slams closed.

Astonished, I look at Coop. “Seriously, he’s abnormal. I can’t believe anyone would hire that guy.”

Sounding apologetic, Coop says, “He’s not usually this bad.”

“How comforting. Can you give me a single good reason I’d hire someone who hates my guts?”

Coop’s blue eyes soften into something that looks suspiciously like pity. “He doesn’t hate you,” he says gently. “Believe me, if he did, we wouldn’t be here. You just…agitate him.”

I laugh, because that’s another whopper of an understatement. “You don’t say? Wait, don’t tell me—he’s secretly in love with me, right?”

Coop solemnly shakes his head. “No.”

I inspect his face, which is devoid of anything even approaching laughter. “Please tell me you realize that was a joke.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I lift my brows. “Do they not allow sarcasm in this town? Because if that’s the case, I might as well scrap the whole project and move somewhere where people can appreciate my biting sense of humor and deep love of snark.”

Before he can reply, the front door opens and closes again—with a resounding slam, because apparently Theo Valentine doesn’t do anything gently—then three loud thuds vibrate the floorboards beneath my feet.

I look at Coop in disbelief. “Did he just stamp his foot on the floor to call us downstairs?”

Coop’s sigh is resigned. “’Fraid so. We better get down there before he loses his patience.”

I bark out a laugh that’s half humor and half outrage. “This is him being patient?”

“You really don’t want to know,” Coop mutters, then heads out of the room.

When we get downstairs, we find Theo in the kitchen. On the marble island, he’s set a large, rectangular book. It has a blue linen cover, embossed with the words “Buttercup Inn” in silver foil, in an old-fashioned typestyle with lots of swirly lines. Beside the book are several rolled-up folios that appear to be architectural drawings.

My curiosity piqued, I walk closer. “What’s all this?”

Theo simply gestures to the book, as if to say, Look.

I open the cover, start to turn pages, and lose my breath.

The book is filled with page after page of gorgeous, full-color computer renderings of the Buttercup Inn. Only not the way it is now—the way it would look after extensive renovations.

There are lavish gardens and splashing fountains and a rolling green lawn in the front. The exterior of the house is painted a soft shade of butter yellow, trimmed in white. Inside, the rooms are decorated with beautiful furnishings that pay homage to the era the house was originally built, paired with more modern pieces that effortlessly update the ambiance.

The wraparound porch features several seating areas where guests can congregate, and the backyard has been turned into the most amazing adult playground, with fire pits surrounded by sofas, a dining table under a retractable awning, several lawn game areas including one featuring a giant Jenga, and an infinity pool overlooking the sea.

It’s exactly how Cass and I envisioned it would be, down to the smallest detail.

This isn’t simply a project rendering. This book is a blueprint of the inside of my head.

Stunned, I stand in frozen silence until Theo takes charge and unfurls one of the rolled folios. It’s an architectural drawing of the Buttercup, white schematics on a background of pale blue illustrating the technical particulars of the building, including floor plans, site plans, and detail drawings, giving an engineering perspective of the work to be done.

If the book was a blueprint of my mind, these drawings are a map of my heart.

Unnerved, I flip back to the first page of the book, hunting for a small detail that struck me. I point at the row of purple flowers lining the front porch on both sides of the house. In a low voice, I ask, “What kind of flowers are those?”

Theo writes on his pad, then holds it out to me.

Knife to the gut. Bullet to the head. Free fall from a fifty-story building. I slam the book shut, say hoarsely, “Excuse me for a minute,” and walk out of the kitchen, my stomach in knots. I head to the back patio in a half run and burst through the French doors out into the backyard. Then I stand there, gulping air, letting the sun blind me and the sea air play with my hair as I try to get a grip on myself.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry, you big sissy. DO. NOT. CRY.

One of the first shrinks I went to after Cass died told me that the brain has a hardwired need to find correlations, to make sense of nonsensical data by making connections between unrelated things. Humans have evolved a universal tendency to seek patterns in random information, hence the existence of fortune-tellers and dream interpreters and people who see the face of Jesus in a piece of toast.

But the cold, hard truth is that there are no connections between anything.

Life—all of existence—is totally random.

Your lucky lottery numbers aren’t really lucky, because there’s no such thing as luck. The black cat that crosses your path isn’t a bad omen, it’s just a cat out for a walk. An eclipse doesn’t mean that the gods are angry, just as a bus narrowly missing you as you cross the street doesn’t mean there’s a guardian angel looking out for you.

There are no gods.

There are no angels.

Superstitions aren’t real, and no amount of wishing, praying, or rationalizing can change the fact that life is just one long sequence of random events that ultimately have no meaning.

I really hated that shrink.

But he’s with me now, reassuring me in that flat voice of his that the sweet peas planted along the front porch in Theo’s vision of the Buttercup Inn have no relevance to the nickname Cass used to call me. There’s no connection whatsoever between a mute stranger creating an exact replica of what my dead husband and I had envisioned for this exact house. It means nothing at all that we spent years dreaming and scrimping and planning to find this property, in this town, with that view of the rolling surf and those flowers in the front yard, and here it all is, coming together like it was fated.

It’s not fated. It’s a fluke. It’s just life, doing what it does best: screwing with me.

If only my stupid heart would believe it.

“Megan? You okay?” Coop stands in the open doorway, one hand on the frame, his brow crinkled with worry.

“Yep. Fine.” Just super, thanks a million, I’m not at all having a breakdown on this lovely September day, nosirree. I swipe at my eyes, angry with myself for this show of weakness. I straighten my shoulders, take a deep breath, and plaster a smile on my face. “Just needed a bit of air.”

Coop doesn’t look convinced. I don’t blame him, because I’m a terrible liar. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to admit I’m a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown, seeing ghosts in the blueprints of my house.

I walk back inside, sending Coop another reassuring smile, and find Theo waiting in the kitchen, standing in the same spot I left him. I smile at him too, my lips stretched so tight, they hurt, but he doesn’t reciprocate. He simply stares at me, a furrow carved between his black brows, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

Then he writes something on his pad and holds it up.

I don’t know what he’s apologizing for, but that part of my brain wired to make connections is screaming that he knows I’m upset…and why.

“No worries. I’m fine.” I decide not to give him some lame excuse for why I ran out, because I suspect he’ll see right through it, but I don’t have the energy to power the fake smile, so I let it die out. Then we stand there, staring at each other in tense silence.

It’s becoming our thing.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” calls Coop on his way through the living room. A door closes a few rooms away. He’s obviously giving us a moment alone.

Theo’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I’ve never met anyone who could stand completely still yet give the impression he’s about to burst into dangerous motion. He’s like a cobra, coiled to strike.

In a muted voice, I ask, “How do you have all this prepared without ever meeting with me or being inside the house?”

He glances down at the book, flattens his big hand over the cover, exhales a slow breath through his nose. The he picks up the pen and pad.

It’s an answer, but a careful one that sidesteps the actual question, so I think of how best to proceed. If he grew up in Seaside, he’s obviously familiar with the house. Maybe he even stayed here when it was an operating B&B. But that doesn’t explain why he’d have all these schematics and renderings done in such detail if he didn’t already have a client who wanted to refurbish the property.

Unless he did.

“Oh, I get it. You bid on the repair work after the fire in the kitchen, right?”

He blinks, once. I’m not sure if we’re using our telephone code and that’s a yes, or if he’s just blinking. “For the last owner, I mean.” I gesture to the book and blueprints, because he’s not answering, and I can’t tell if that look he’s wearing is annoyance or constipation.

Finally, he tilts his head to the side, a little jerk toward his shoulder that’s not a nod or a shake, it’s more like a Maybe. Or a Whatever. Or possibly a You’re irritating me with these stupid questions.

Dealing with this guy is too much work. It’s only half past nine in the morning, and I already need a drink.

“Forget it. Moving on to the elephant in the room. You and I have a problem. Let’s be nice and call it a personality conflict. This job is going to take a long time, and I’m not the kind of girl who’s going to sit up in my bedroom knitting while the men make all the decisions and run the show. This is my house. If I decide to hire you for this job—and I’m only saying if—I won’t tolerate your attitude.”

Slowly, he arches one of his eyebrows.

“Yeah, you heard me.” I wave a hand up and down, indicating his general impression of a volcano about to erupt. “This whole grouchy caveman thing you’ve got going is already on my last nerve, and you’ve only been here for fifteen minutes. I understand that you’ve been through some kind of trauma, but so have I, and you don’t see me going around glaring daggers at total strangers. Either you rein in your nasty mood monster, or we have nothing more to discuss.”

I fold my arms over my chest and wait for the volcano to blow.

But it never comes. Theo just stands there, gazing at me, his expression softening until it almost looks as if he’s about to break into laughter.

He props his hands on his hips, looks at the ground, shakes his head like he can’t believe what a psycho I am, then meets my eyes.

He nods—slowly, emphatically, an unmistakable yes—then smiles.

Beyond my shock that the man actually knows how to smile, my sense of relief is overwhelming. I feel like I’ve successfully negotiated with a terrorist. “Okay. Good. Well, like I said, I’ve already made a verbal agreement to work with Craig, so I’ll have to think about this over the weekend.”

Theo’s default scowl snaps back into place. He snatches up his pen and pad and does his thing, then thrusts it out at me, almost hitting me in the nose.

I am this close to smacking that pad out of his hands and cracking him over the head with the Buttercup Inn book.

“Wow, you’re just determined to try my patience, aren’t you? Do you remember a few seconds back when I said rein it in, Sunshine? I fucking meant rein it in.”

His face falls, his shoulders slump, and he stares contritely at the floor like a five-year-old who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s ridiculously adorable. My heart softens toward him, this riddle of a man who’s a snarling bear one moment and a sad little boy the next.

From several rooms over, Coop loudly clears his throat, closing the bathroom door firmly enough that the sound echoes down the hallway.

Lord, these two men have all the finesse of a pair of grenades. “I’ll call you Monday,” I tell Theo in a gentler tone. “Okay?”

He glances up at me from under his lashes, then with his pen slowly circles something on his pad that he’s already written. When he holds it out to me to read, I sigh.

“You don’t have to be sorry, just stop acting like I ran over your dog. Deal?”

His eyes search my face. His gaze is filled with unspeakable loneliness, and that naked antipathy that I don’t understand but that raises all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck and sends a charge like electricity over my skin. It’s the same feeling I had at the diner and in the backyard at the party. That sense of unwilling recognition.

Of being seen by someone who doesn’t want to see.

Without responding, Theo turns abruptly and leaves. The sound of his boots heading toward the front door and disappearing through it are quickly followed by Coop’s farewell shout.

“Thanks, Megan! See you soon!”

The front door slams, and I’m left alone in my ruined kitchen, wondering what the hell Theo Valentine’s problem is.

And why I’m becoming so eager to find out.