Have you ever had one of those days?
The kind where you think it just can’t get any worse? And then it does?
Yeah, Tessa, too. Today.
Napa Valley didn’t bottle enough wine, and Hershey’s didn’t package enough chocolate to help a girl cope either.
“I’m having one of those days, Laurel, so make it snappy.”
Cell phone on speaker, Tessa pulled into her garage and cut the engine, Jason’s truck in her driveway the only good news she’d had since seeing him in her bathroom this morning, looking like a permanent fixture.
“You don’t have to be so mean,” her sister replied. “I’m not the one who screwed up the paint color and sprayed an entire house Balanced Beige when it should’ve been Mindful Grey.”
“I’m firing that painter. After he corrects his fuck-up.”
“It’s almost Thanksgiving,” Laurel chastised. “Let’s keep the f-bombs to a minimum.”
“Considering an incorrect paint color wasn’t even the worse fuck-up I’ve dealt with today, I’m pretty sure the fucks are gonna flow for the foreseeable fucking future.”
Laurel clicked her tongue. “Do you kiss your super-secret boyfriend with that mouth?”
“Yeah, and I f—”
“Don’t you dare say it again! I have little ears surrounding me.”
“They’ve been inside a car with Patti at the wheel. They already know it. And I just got home, so I’m gonna hang up now in favor of alcohol.” It was Friday, so a weekend bender was in order. “I will only say fudge, starting Monday. Oh, and one other thing. I’m bringing my super-secret, super-fine boyfriend to Thanksgiving. Please ask Patti not to embarrass me. Cunnilingus puns are fine because I’ve already warned him, but that’s it.”
She smiled, releasing some of the stress from a terrible day. It helped that she had a smoking hot man inside.
“Got it. No dick jokes. How’s the paint situation?”
“The correct color is being sprayed as we speak, but only after I made a frantic call to the paint manufacturer, picked up the buckets of Mindful Grey myself, and delivered them to the job site. All in heels and a pencil skirt, I might add.”
“And what about Cunty Cathy’s window treatments?”
Tessa groaned. The draperies from her morning installation were all sewn two inches too long. A fabric disaster.
“Being hemmed first thing tomorrow, then hung immediately after. Just in time for Cathy’s book club, because… priorities.”
There were starving children in Africa, but if her worst client ever didn’t have her soaring windows dressed in powder blue silk for her monthly book club meeting, then the sky was falling.
The sound of little boys fighting filtered through the phone.
“Hey, don’t you have children to feed?”
“They’re eating right now. Fish sticks. You’re hearing a heated debate over ketchup versus tartar sauce.”
“Yuck.”
“Nutritious and delicious,” Laurel deadpanned, then declared tartar sauce the winner, pausing to console her youngest, whose favorite food was ketchup. “Moving on to your super-secret boyfriend. Who is he and where did you meet him?
“He’s the pirate,” she whispered, in case Jason was listening from the other side of the garage door.
“Oh, really?” Laurel’s flirty voice was on point.
“Really. So, I’m gonna let you go. After a day like today, only pizza and a good, um, fudging can me feel better.”
Pocketing the phone, she grabbed her purse and several sets of blueprints from the backseat—her homework for the weekend—juggling them as she entered the house.
He was waiting in the kitchen, in the dark.
“Hi,” she said, flipping on a light and dropping her load on the table where he sat, silent and unmoving.
In a rare mood too, given the thick air and tick in his cheek. His vibe almost scary, her pirate was back in spades. When he ran a hand over his jaw, the scrape of stubble made her want to rub against him until he growled low in his throat. The way he always did when she touched him.
Nodding a greeting, he stood, impossibly large and unyielding. On guard.
And still scraping his jaw as he studied her.
She liked him second-best this way, rough and a little dangerous. First best was naked and in bed, still rough and dangerous, but also very, very hard.
“I hope you had a better day than I did, because mine was horrible,” she said, reaching into the fridge and pulling out a bottle of chardonnay. “This will help.”
“Did you change your name?” His voice was so low, she had to strain to hear it.
Too ominous to be described as a whisper, lethal came to mind, but that seemed dramatic. And his question poked a tender spot.
Brow furrowed, she slid her heels off and pasted on a smile. “You’re in a mood.”
“What’s your name?” He didn’t return the smile. “Your real name. Is it Tessa? Or did you change it?”
An odd chill ran down her spine. Yeah. Lethal.
“Why?” Grabbing a corkscrew, she jammed it into the bottle, concentrating on her task. “I’m starving. You wanna go out or eat in?”
“You can’t evade the King of Evasiveness. Answer the question, Tessa. Or should I call you… Matilda?”
The room was so quiet, she could hear her pulse pound, heavy in her ears. Tilting her head, she stared at him, rolling her lips inward to stop any quiver.
“Did a little digging today, huh? Google me just for shits and grins? Must’ve been a slow day at work.”
He stood stock-still, eyeing her like a bug under a magnifying glass. Feeling his judgmental gaze, she yanked out the wooden cork with a hard pop, shaking her head.
“Really, Jason, I’ve had a shitty day today, so if you’ve got a problem with my law-abiding right to change my name, you’re gonna have to deal with it on your own.” Not bothering with a glass, she lifted the bottle to her lips, adding, “Write a letter to your local congressman,” before taking a fortifying sip.
“Write a letter,” he repeated coldly, and the hair on her arms stood up.
His unblinking stare didn’t help. No wonder the enemy ran from him. It was disconcerting as hell.
Waiting for the wine to kick in, she took an insurance gulp and grinned, hoping to break his odd trance.
“Maybe you could request a bill be drawn up, making it illegal to name your child Matilda. Even though Patti would look great in prison stripes.”
Her dad, though? Not so much. She’d seen it with her own eyes.
Using a wine glass like a civilized person, she filled it to the rim and drank, blocking the memory.
“Joke all you want.” Still lethal. “I’m not laughing.”
“Would you wanna go through life with that name? Not me. Changed it while I was still in design school. Best career decision I’ve ever made.”
“You’re not Tessa Johns.” He looked, well… shell-shocked.
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re Matilda Johnson. Matilda. Fucking. Johnson.” They were accusatory statements.
“No, I’m Tessa Johns. Matilda was an awkward child who grew into a gangly teenager. She doesn’t exist anymore. She’s long gone.” And the life I had when I was her. “I fail to see why this is such a big deal to you.”
“Why’d you change your last name? Why not Tessa Johnson?” he pressed, a relentless dog with a fresh bone. “What are you trying to hide?”
That struck a nerve and she plopped her glass down hard, spilling wine. Cursing, she grabbed a paper towel, irritated he was pushing the issue.
“What’s with you tonight? I changed my name to suit my profession. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m working my ass off to build an empire. My name is my brand and it needs to be short and catchy. Johnson is too common when name recognition is key.” She refilled her glass, adding, “Make sense?”
“No.” Eyes narrowed, his voice was razor-sharp. “I think it’s the other way around. I think Johnson would’ve gotten you noticed, and it wouldn’t have been complimentary either. That’s why you changed your name. You see, I did dig a little deeper, but not into you. As I was cleaning out my mom’s house, I came across an interesting newspaper article. About Frank Johnson.”
“Yeah, so what?” Her father’s crime was his, not hers.
His. Not hers.
And the mention of his dead mom’s house was a splash of cold, distracting water, her heart squeezing for what he must’ve endured today. Alone.
Always alone, always by choice.
It made incorrect paint colors and extra-long drapes seem foolish.
“Aw, Jason, I’m sorry. I forgot. How did it go?” She reached for him. “Was it awful?”
He backed up, out of her reach, and crossed his arms. “You’re Frank Johnson’s daughter.”
She hid how much that hurt. Both his sidestep of her touch and correct assumption of her parentage. To shake off his chill, she sipped more wine.
“Like Matilda, Frank is long gone, and your mom sounds like a hoarder who collected old newspapers. I’m sure she was a fantastic woman because she bore a handsome son I dearly love, but that’s a fire hazard.” Not the best time to drop the L-word, but it flowed from her mouth naturally. “I’m not following why you’re so hung up on this name thing and really, I’d rather not have this conversation. I need a shower. Care to join me?”
She turned, untucking her silk top as she headed for the bedroom. “Afterward, we can order deep dish from that joint down on Center Street. It’s not as good as the Last Stop’s, but they make an amazing chocolate chip cannoli.”
His echoing reply bounced off the walls, freezing her in place.
Stealing her breath and stopping time.
“Frank Johnson murdered my father.”