When I finally get myself together and trudge back inside, a half hour has gone by, and I’ve missed four calls from Suzanne on my cell.

I text her back that I can’t talk and we’ll touch base later. Then I change into dry clothes, turn on the TV in my bedroom, and watch the local news with a feeling of cold disbelief.

According to the newscast, the lightning strike on Capstone’s building was massive. The resulting fire engulfed the building within minutes. The whole thing was captured on video by a security camera at a building across the street. The images are insane, like something out of a movie.

The newscaster mentions several times how unusual it is that the lightning didn’t hit the telecommunications spire on the high-rise building one block over—the spire that’s twenty times the height of the tallest point on Capstone’s roof.

There’s a brief discussion about the weather system that caused the lightning, then the station breaks for a commercial. I want to call Craig, but I’m sure he’s got much more important things to deal with this morning. I’ll give him a few days to get his bearings before trying to determine what this means for our project. In the meantime, I send him a quick email just to say I saw the news and am sorry, but grateful no one was hurt, and to take his time getting back to me with the contract.

Within five minutes, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Megan, it’s Craig Kennedy.”

He sounds understandably tense. “Oh, Craig, I’m so sorry to hear about what happened! I just sent you an email.”

“I know. It came through on my phone. Thank you, that was thoughtful.”

“I know this is a stupid question, but are you okay?”

“As good as can be expected. I’m out at the building now. It looks like a bomb went off. We’re lucky it didn’t happen during work hours, or there would’ve been a body count.”

A grisly image of barbequed bodies pops into my mind. I force it back, along with a brief wave of nausea. “Yes, that’s true. Equipment can always be replaced.”

There’s an awkward silence, then a rough throat clearing. “Yeah. If my insurance hadn’t lapsed a month ago.”

“Lapsed?” I repeat, my voice high.

His voice comes over the line in a frustrated growl. “My fucking incompetent bookkeeper just informed me that I never signed the check to renew the policy. It was cut, but for some reason never made it to my desk for my signature, and she forgot all about it. Until now, because the goddamn fire reminded her!” He groans. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be using that language, I’m just so frustrated.”

“Of course you are. Totally understandable,” I say faintly, focused on a large, meandering crack on my bedroom wall that’s been growing since the day I moved in. It bears an uncanny resemblance to a bolt of lightning.

“That’s not the worst of it,” says Craig grimly.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.” He sighs heavily. “I found out this morning that my general contractor’s license is being suspended.”

My jaw drops.

When I don’t say anything, Craig continues. “There was a labor code issue with a disgruntled office employee a few years back. Total bullshit, but she filed a complaint with the state license board. Long story short, we were investigated, and I found out a few minutes ago the investigation didn’t go our way. My attorneys are going to appeal—”

“Appeal! Yes, that’s great!” I know I’m clinging to that possibility like a drowning swimmer clings to a life vest because then I wouldn’t have to deal with this disturbing idea my brain wants to run away with that somehow the lightning, the lapsed insurance policy, and the suspended license have destiny’s fingerprints all over them.

Because I don’t believe in destiny. I don’t. I won’t. I know better. I’ve spent too much money on therapy to start believing in providence now. This situation is just one of those random things that happen in life, a misfortune, an accident. A fluke.

This isn’t the universe trying to tell me I should hire Theo Valentine to renovate my house.

Craig sighs heavily. “Yeah, but in the meantime, I can’t work on a suspended license. And the appeal process could take months. So, unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to take your job, Megan.”

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Craig. I was looking forward to working with you.”

His voice comes out gruff. “Well, that’s good to know, because now that we won’t be working together in a professional capacity, I was wondering if you’d let me take you on a date.”

Shocked, I stare at the lightning-bolt crack on the wall until my vision blurs.

“Hello?”

“Yes, I’m here, I’m just…surprised.”

“I know my timing’s weird, but it occurred to me after I got off the phone with my attorney a few minutes ago that life is short. Things can change at any minute, in ways you can’t predict.”

“You don’t say,” I murmur, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

“So I thought, shoot—why not just go for it? I think you’re a beautiful girl. Ballsy too. There aren’t many guys who negotiate as hard as you do. I like that.”

He likes how I negotiate? What the fuck is happening right now? I have to take a moment to compose myself before I answer.

“That’s…very flattering, Craig. But I have to be honest and tell you I thought you and Suzanne really hit it off at dinner. Why don’t you ask her for a date?”

In the pause as he chooses his words, I hear street noise in the background. “She’s not really my type.”

“Smart, sexy career girls aren’t your type? I find that hard to believe.”

“Listen, I don’t want to say anything negative about your friend, okay? She’s just a little too obvious for my taste.”

A flash of irritation hardens my tone. “Obvious. That’s guy code for desperate, slutty, cheap, or all of the above, right?”

He pauses again, longer this time. “I’m sorry if that was offensive. Maybe it wasn’t the right choice of word. I just don’t find her as attractive as I find you.”

“You could’ve fooled me. You two were all over each other at dinner.”

“No, she was all over me. I kept trying to get your attention, but you seemed distracted.”

I was distracted by all the hormones in the air, but from what he’s telling me, his hormones were aimed in my direction. God, are my instincts that off? Maybe being celibate for five years has dried up my intuition along with my poor uterus.

I stand from the bed, walk to the windows, and stare out at the restless sea. It’s the same leaden gray as the sky, and my heart. I muse aloud, “I haven’t been on a date since I was a teenager. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, his voice warm.

“It wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t a no either.”

I have to smile at his cocky tone. “I hate to be a downer, Craig, but I’m pretty sure you just told me you’re unemployed. Dating might not be in your budget right now.”

He chuckles. “Oh, you think I only want you for your money, is that it? I can honestly say that’s the last thing on my mind when I look at you.”

Now he’s outright flirting. I’ve always been the absolute worst at flirting and am generally suspicious of people who are skilled at it. But his resiliency in the face of disaster is something I admire. If I were in his shoes, I’d be a sobbing mess right now, not calling up some dude I like to ask for a date.

“I tell you what. I’ll think about it, how’s that?”

“Deal,” he says instantly. “How long will this thinking process last? Just so I know when to make reservations at this awesome restaurant I’m gonna take you to.”

I shake my head, smiling. This guy is unbelievable. “Call me on Wednesday. And be prepared to be disappointed, because I’ll probably turn you down.”

Craig’s chuckle is full of self-confidence. “Nah, you’re gonna say yes. I’ll talk to you Wednesday.”

He hangs up before I can contradict him.

I disconnect and stand watching as four huge pelicans swoop down from the sky and skim the surface of the waves, wings outstretched, hunting for food. I follow their path as they fly north toward the curve on the shoreline, until my attention is caught by something else.

Someone stands alone and unmoving on the deserted beach. Even from this distance, I can see that the person is large, with wide shoulders and long legs. He’s wearing a black windbreaker with the hood pulled up over his head, gazing south down the shore like he’s searching for something.

He’s too far away for me to see his face, but I have the strangest sensation he’s looking right at me.

He stands there a long time, motionless, hands shoved deep in his pockets, until he turns and walks away, head lowered into the cold morning wind.

* * *

Though the weather isn’t good, I’m too restless to stay indoors, so I decide to get some exercise. I put on my walking shoes and head toward the historic seaside promenade that borders the ocean for a mile and a half, ending in a large turnaround that boasts a huge statue of Lewis and Clark in the middle. The turnaround is made to redirect tourists to get back down Broadway, but also signifies how Lewis and Clark turned again for home after reaching the Pacific Ocean.

Surprisingly, a lot of people had the same idea I did. Once I get near downtown, I encounter a lot of walkers, runners, couples with strollers, and dogs of various sizes happily enjoying the windswept day. Out on the beach, kids dig for clams in the wet sand left by the low tide. Someone flies a red kite. The view of Tillamook Head, a rocky, wooded promontory jutting into the Pacific, is gorgeous.

The east side of the prom is lined with condos, shops, restaurants, and the Seaside Aquarium, where I admire a skeleton of a gray whale displayed in the front window. I eat a corn dog from a street vendor, then, still feeling hungry, head over to Booger’s to get something more substantial.

The entire time, I think about Theo Valentine. He’s on simmer in the back of my mind, a restless disturbance just beneath the surface.

We can never be friends, Megan. We can never be anything.

It’s the second part of that statement that bothers me most, though I can’t say exactly why. If we’re going to do business together, we don’t have to be friends, but we have to be something. More than acquaintances, certainly. Partners, at least in a business sense.

But I don’t think he was talking about business. It felt personal. It’s almost as if he was refusing an offer for intimacy that hadn’t been made.

Or warning me not to make it.

Which is ridiculous, considering I find him about as attractive as a rabid gorilla. I mean, he does bear a striking resemblance to Keanu Reeves: exotic dark eyes, a razor-blade jaw covered in scruff, an appealing look of befuddlement, like he’s lost his way home.

When he’s not glowering like an axe murderer, that is.

He’s the polar opposite of my golden, happy-go-lucky Cass, a man whose laugh came easy and often. I wonder what Cass would’ve made of Theo. He had an almost spooky intuition about people. I used to joke he could read people’s auras, but he’d reply that a man’s true heart was always in his eyes. You just had to look close enough to see.

Shaking myself out of the dark spiral my thoughts are about to dive into, I pull open the heavy wooden door of Booger’s and step inside. In my haste and distraction, I don’t look up, and bump hard into the back of someone standing at the hostess stand, waiting to be seated.

“Oh! God, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was…”

The person turns to stare down at me. Black hair. Black eyes. A razor-blade jaw covered in scruff.

Theo Valentine.

“Right this way,” says the hostess to Theo, gesturing for him to follow her. But he isn’t paying attention to her. He’s gazing at me with a look of intense concentration, those dark eyes unblinking.

A flash of anguish surfaces in them, there then instantly gone.

We stare at each other. I experience a sensation of weightlessness, like cresting the peak of a high hill on a roller coaster, that split-second lack of gravity before you plummet over the edge.

“Sir?”

When Theo turns his attention back to the hostess, it’s a snap of disconnection, as if a little flame inside my chest has been snuffed out.

He holds up two fingers.

“Oh, sure.” The hostess smiles at me, pulling another menu from the basket on the side of the wooden stand, then turns and walks away.

Theo follows her without looking back. I stand frozen for a moment, unsure, then blow out a breath and decide to see where this interesting little detour takes me.

I follow behind Theo as we make our way to a table in the back. This time it’s me getting all the curious stares. I wonder if King Crabby Poo has been seen in public with a woman since his accident, because judging by all the shocked looks I’m getting, this is a momentous event.

Either that or a pigeon crowned my head with a big, hairy turd.

The hostess stops beside a table in the farthest corner of the restaurant. “Here you go!” she says brightly, in a tone that makes me think this is Theo’s regular spot. He pulls out a chair, then looks at me.

I sink into the chair he’s holding and send the hostess a nervous smile. Instead of sitting in the chair across from me as I expected, Theo lowers himself to the chair beside me. Now I’m in a corner against the wall, with no way to exit unless he lets me out.

I try not to be freaked out that this is always the way Cass and I sat at restaurants. Next to each other at a table against a wall, me on his right, looking out at everyone so we could watch all the people and speculate on their conversations and their lives.

The hostess hands me a menu. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” Then she leaves, abandoning me to my fate.

Being the well-mannered extrovert that he is, Theo ignores me. He pulls out his cell phone from the inside pocket of his leather coat and begins to compose a text.

“Hey.”

He glances at me, a lock of hair falling into his eyes.

I look pointedly at his phone. “That’s rude.”

He hits Send, sets his phone down on the table, folds his hands on the tabletop, and stares at me. Then my cell phone chimes with an incoming text.

I fish my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans and look at the screen, already knowing who it is.

I flash him an exasperated look, only to find him doing something with his mouth that looks like it could turn into a smile if it only knew how.

“I’ve seen you smile before, Theo. Go ahead. It won’t kill you.”

He covers his mouth with his hand to hide the fact that he’s smiling so big, he’s actually showing teeth. That feels like a victory, like I’ve just scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl.

I type him a response.

His phone chimes, he reads the text from me, then composes his response, his thumbs moving so fast, they’re a blur.

“Okay, Sunshine, it’s on,” I mutter, then type.

He snorts.

I hazard a glance around, and sure enough, almost everyone is looking at us. Some more obviously than others, but the general level of interest could be compared to that of an audience awaiting the opening act at a circus to begin.

So of course I have to smile widely and wave.

Eyeballs scatter like marbles. Beside me, Theo makes a low noise deep in his throat that sounds like something close to a chuckle.

I want him to make that sound again.

“I suppose the good citizens of Seaside are all shocked to see you out of your coffin during the daytime, Dracula. Oh, wait, there’s one guy over there who isn’t staring at us. Must be a tourist.”

I turn to find Theo gazing at me, his eyes bright with laughter. This close, I can see that they’re not black like they appear from even only a few feet farther away, they’re a deep, rich brown, velvet dark as espresso, just as warm and inviting. But also filled with that indecipherable longing like a secret message waiting to be decoded. Waiting for someone to look close enough to see.

My heart skips a beat. I haven’t looked this deeply into a man’s eyes since my husband died.

I look away, toying with the fork at my place setting, fumbling it between my fingers because they’re trembling. Breathe, Megan. Just breathe.

After a moment, my phone chimes.

I stare at my fingernails, which are in dire need of a manicure. “Stop being so observant. It’s irritating.”

Uncomfortable, I laugh. “I just remembered this place has really awful food. I had some calamari the other night I still haven’t completely digested.”

He’s about to type something into his phone when the waitress reappears at our table side. She holds a pad and pen in hand, ready to take our order. Looking at me, she asks, “Have you decided?”

I haven’t even looked at the menu yet, so I go with my default food choice. “Could I get a Denver omelet with extra bacon on the side?”

She blinks, glances at Theo, then looks back at me. Her smile is uncertain. “Sure. And, uh, will you be having the key lime pie for dessert?”

I lift my brows. “Is it on special or something?”

She blinks again, looking nervous, then laughs.

I have no idea what’s going on, but the poor girl seems to be completely freaked out by Theo—who’s now sitting stiffly in his chair, staring at her in a weirdly challenging way—so I make an effort to move the conversation along so she can flee. “Yes, I’ll take the key lime pie. Thanks.”

She nods, notes it on her pad, then turns around and sprints off toward the kitchen before I can shout after her that she forgot to take Theo’s order. She never even gave him a menu, come to think of it.

Bemused, I watch her go. “Well, that was strange.”

Slowly, Theo turns his head and looks at me. All the warmth has leached from his eyes, his shoulders are stiff, his nostrils are flared, and his lips are flattened. His jaw is so hard, it could cut glass. He looks like he’s about to jump up and start screaming.

I lower my brows and level him with a look. “Sunshine. Do you recall our little chat about the mood monster? Because he’s making a reappearance.”

He stares at me, breathing erratically.

“The waitress will come back,” I reassure him. “We’ll get your order in. Don’t throw a tantrum, it’s a minor deal. Damn, you’re even crabbier than normal when you’re hungry.”

He swallows, then props his elbows on the table and drops his head into his hands.

People are beginning to stare again. I decide a change of subject is in order. “So did you hear the news about Capstone?”

Theo’s sigh is a giant gust of air that sends the paper napkin on his placemat flying.

“I’ll take that as a no. Let me fill you in.” I take my own paper napkin and spread it over my lap in case any more dramatic sighs might be forthcoming. “So there was that storm last night, right? All that thunder, lightning, stormy stuff? Apparently, a lightning bolt struck Capstone Construction’s headquarters in Portland, which caused a fire, which burned the entire building to the ground. No one was hurt, but the place is toast. The video on the news was pretty trippy. Some other business’s security camera caught the whole thing. It was like Zeus throwing a thunderbolt from the sky—bam!”

I slap my hand on the table. Theo doesn’t move. Now people are really looking.

I should’ve moved to New York. You can act like a complete lunatic there, and no one even blinks an eye.

“C’mon, Sunshine, you’re gonna give me a bad reputation in this town, and I only just moved here. The way you’re acting, people will start a rumor that I made you cry over breakfast.”

He turns his head a fraction, peeking out at me from between his fingers.

I send him a big smile. “I usually don’t make men cry until lunch.”

Radiating annoyance, he leans back into his chair, slouching like a surly teenager. He grabs his phone and starts to stab his thumbs over the keyboard.

I slowly set my phone back on the table after reading his text. I’m abruptly so mad, I could spit, and deeply insulted, though this turn of mood shouldn’t be a surprise. Though he can be charming when he wants to be, his default mode is Hate Megan.

“Tough. I’m here, you’re here, I’ve got food coming, and I’m hungry. You can go back to hating me after I eat.”

He exhales. Even that sounds aggravated. He starts to type something into his phone, but I cut him off before he gets two words in.

“Don’t bother, Theo. If you want to leave, go right ahead, but my butt is parked in this chair for the foreseeable future.”

He looks at me. I refuse to look back at him, so then he’s staring at my profile. After a moment, almost imperceptibly, he leans toward me. Then I could swear I hear him quietly inhale.

Is he smelling me?

The waitress arrives with two plates. She sets one in front of me, the other in front of Theo. Both plates hold Denver omelets with extra bacon on the side.

“Wait, this is a mistake,” I tell her, gesturing at the food. “We only ordered one omelet. You actually forgot to take his order.”

The waitress looks panicked. Wringing her hands, she looks at Theo. “You didn’t want your usual order, sir? I’m so sorry, I just assumed. That’s what you always get. That and the key lime pie. Every time you’re here, at least as long as I’ve worked here. But I can certainly take it back and bring you a menu…”

She continues to blather on nervously, but I’m not listening anymore. I’m looking at Theo. I’m looking at his face. At his eyes.

His beautiful, haunted, secretive eyes, which stare back at me with all that horrible anguish and longing.