Why would Caleb give her such an obnoxiously outrageous tip? Kira wondered for the hundredth time when she rode up the rickety elevator to apartment 3D.

At the moment, she was so exhausted after helping to close Rossi’s, she needed a pair of toothpicks to hold her eyes open. It was a good thing she hadn’t run into somebody on the way home. At least the streets were quieter after midnight. No heavy commute traffic.

Except for the snow, which she could often do without, she had no complaints about living in Denver. Rossi’s was located in the Washington Park area with cute shops, great restaurants, a lake, tree-lined avenues, and sparkling lights that lit up hundreds of newly refurbished older homes.

The hallway in her own apartment was dim, one of the light bulbs having bit the dust. The poor lighting gave the complex an older, rattier appearance.

Digging in her purse for her key, Kira was oddly self-conscious.

Caleb Davenport. Those eyes on hers all evening.

She honestly did not remember him. Had they actually had classes together? Troy was familiar, but that was it. Playing football helped one’s recognizability quotient during the teenage years. The other guys? Not at all. Computer nerds, all of them.

High school felt a million years ago. She’d hardly cared about the gossip or culture or social life. Her pleasures were Concert Choir, weekly piano lessons, and her own small circle of friends. No sports or the Yearbook staff. Kira had only gone to Homecoming once with a boy from her American History class, and then never saw him again.

Her parents had splurged to get her the best piano instructor, and look what their money had gotten them—nothing. An occasional gig playing Barry Manilow or Chopin for someone’s wedding, or How Great Thou Art for a funeral at the downtown St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. In between hymns she’d stare at the beautiful stained-glass windows.

“Oh, drats, where are my keys?” Kira suddenly muttered. “I didn’t leave them in the ignition, did I?” Tears of fatigue burned at her eyes. To walk all the way back down to the apartment parking lot was daunting. She just wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head.

Her next-door neighbor cracked open the door. Insomniac Mrs. Peters. Mid-sixties, pleasant, but always had a sixth sense for when Kira arrived home.

“Kira, is that you?” Mrs. Peters hissed.

“Yes, it’s me, Mrs. Peters. It’s late, what are you doing up?”

“Do you really have to ask? I’m binge watching every version of Pride and Prejudice that was ever produced.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart. Hope it’s a good one.” A smile crept over Kira’s lips. Ever since Mrs. Peters’ grandson showed her how to instant play movies and television shows on Netflix, the woman stayed up all hours of the night. At least it gave her something to do while she waited to overcome her insomnia.

“1940 leaves a lot to be desired, despite Laurence Olivier. A little too stiff and I wish it was in color, not black and white! I think I prefer the more modern Kira Knightly version—and to think you have the very same name!”

Kira gave the woman a weak smile.

“Long day at the restaurant, dear?”

“Very.”

“Anybody interesting come in tonight?”

Kira lifted an eyebrow. “No, why do you ask?”

“Just wondering, no reason.”

Mrs. Peters was just as eager as her parents were for Kira to find the one and get married. It was sweet, she supposed, but finding her soul mate seemed as far away as Mars.

“There’s something taped to your door, dear,” Mrs. Peters added, pointing one, long finger, nails painted a chipped bright red.

“There’s no water or gas leaks are there?”

“No, no.”

Mrs. Peters pretended not to know what the notice was, but Kira knew better. She’d probably already read it word for word and memorized it.

“Well, goodnight. Enjoy P&P. I hear it ends pretty well.”

“Oh, it does. This is my second time through, but I just love the happily ever afters.”

“That’s called a HEA nowadays—it stands for Happily Ever After,” Kira told her.

“HEA? How interesting. Sounds like a homeowner’s committee, not a romance.”

Kira gave a chuckle and a small wave. Inserting her house key—found at last in the bottom of a side pocket of her handbag—she ripped off the paper taped to her front door.

Sleepiness hit her like a ton of bricks and she fell inside her door, and then kicked it closed with her foot, holding up the sheet to the light so her blurry eyes could take in the words.

To: Kira Bancroft

YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED that your tenancy of the premises is hereby terminated due to two months past due rent and late charges.

This is a demand for payment. You must pay the full amount owed as stated in this notice within the next 72 hours. If you fail to make full payment of the amount due, your right of possession to the property will be terminated and eviction proceedings will begin immediately. Only full payment of the amount owed will prevent the termination of your lease. No partial payments will be accepted without the written consent of the landlord.

The words ran together in a long string of dreadfulness.

Kira sagged to the floor, her knees crumpling as she slid down the entryway wall to the floor. The dingy paint peeling on the corners stared at her balefully. The yellowing linoleum. Scratched kitchen sink. Frayed carpeting. Her second-hand furniture.

She paid too much for this dump and now they were kicking her out?

“But I paid my rent! You’ve got the wrong person.”

Miss Pixie meowed plaintively, appearing around the corner of the living room. “Hey, sweet thing,” Kira said, reaching out to pick up her cat and hold her close. The white cat with black paws was soft and warm as she pressed her face against her neck. “Got some bad news, Miss Pixie.”

Kira had adopted the feline a few months ago at the animal shelter and it was so nice to come home to someone, even if it was a cat who could only follow her around the apartment and demand to be fed. She was a pretty good listener though. Cats usually were. Miss Pixie was a small cat, despite the fact that she had to be about a year old now. Kira figured she must have been the runt of the litter, and she was incredibly sweet.

Kira lifted the eviction notice up to her eyes again with a shaking hand. Yep, it was real. There was her name in big black letters. Her apartment number. 3D. With a slow-chugging elevator that groaned like an elephant in labor. And an emergency button that had been broken off. Even so, it was her home, even with the dingy lighting and peeling paint. Her place of respite and quiet from her parent’s problems and working too many hours. Except it lacked her piano. The one thing she missed more than a perfectly clean, perfectly furnished residence.

She never invited her friends or parents here. It was too depressing. Although she did have lovely windows and her mother had helped her sew some pretty yellow gingham curtains to brighten it up during the day.

“I paid my rent,” she said now, voice rising in hysteria at yet another problem demanding her attention. “Every month. I’ve never missed!”

Kira took a deep breath to calm down while she rose to her aching feet. She kicked off her shoes and they flew under the brown sofa.

The panic and tears were right there. Just waiting to dribble out of her eyes.

As if things weren’t bad enough with her father and his medical bills.

The only reason she’d moved out a year ago was because she got even more agitated being around her mother. Who probably needed medical attention herself for an overactive dose of melancholy that was getting worse, not better.

Her father tried to stay positive, that was the kind of man he was, but his active, healthy life and career had come to a screeching halt. At the age of sixty-four.

When Kira quit grad school and began working full-time to help pay some of the medical premiums and deductibles for her father, she moved into her own place just to have some separation. Besides, after losing the family home Kira had grown up in, the house her parents bought held no memories or nostalgia and it was much too small for all of them.

Her apartment became a refuge. A place to feel normal for snatches of time. Whatever normal was.

Staggering to the fridge, Kira snapped open a Diet Coke. Filling a glass with ice, she switched on the television.

The late-night newscaster droned on about the politics of the day. A flood disaster in California. A dam about to burst. A Boy Scout met the president. A fender-bender on Highway 25—which was nothing new, the traffic through Denver on I-25 was horrific any time of day.

Talking out loud Kira said, “I paid my rent. I know I did. I never miss.”

Sipping her soda, she went back over the last few weeks, trying to piece together the timeline of work and bills. It was only a week past the first of the month. Flipping through her check register, Kira saw that she was short a hundred bucks to pay November’s rent—because she had paid September and October. If the rent checks hadn’t been sent or cashed she’d have an extra fifteen hundred in her account.

Miss Pixie circled the armchair, mashing down the extra pillows to find the perfect spot while Kira dumped out her purse to search for a tissue.

The envelope from tonight’s waitressing tips fell into her lap. She had almost seven hundred dollars in tips from tonight alone. Five hundred just from Caleb Davenport.

What on earth possessed the man to give her a five-hundred-dollar tip? He was crazy. Or he just got a bonus and was throwing hundreds around for the fun of it.

Kira narrowed her eyes. What did Caleb Davenport want from her that was worth five hundred dollars? It did not make a bit of sense.

Even so, the five hundred dollars was like manna from heaven. She could pay for groceries, the light bill and fuel for her vehicle—after she figured out what happened to the last two months’ rent checks.

Maybe there was a simple explanation. The landlord had neglected to deposit them into the bank or the office staff didn’t register them properly.

Kira counted the tip money one last time and then hid the envelope in her sock drawer, suddenly starving. Shoving her purse onto the bureau, a card fell to the bedroom floor. Caleb’s business card.

She flipped it over, studying the logo, DREAMS. Make your dreams come true. For pennies on the dollar.

What sort of business was he in that he flew all over the world? The company was an app for crying out loud.

Draining the drink from her glass, and splitting open a bag of Doritos, Kira sat down on the couch again, opening her laptop. Her fingers flew and within seconds the DREAMS Ultimate app came up.

Scrolling through the pages, she began to understand what Caleb did for business. DREAMS dealt in—well—a little bit of everything. Clothes, toys, furniture, jewelry, costumes, furnishings, draperies, vacations, hotel rooms. You name it.

You could get expensive Disney plush toys for a fraction the cost.

Diamond earrings for wholesale prices.

A king-sized bed for a couple hundred dollars. Brand new.

Cruises for a few hundred dollars to the Caribbean. Including island snorkeling and scuba diving excursions.

Customers put out bids and companies around the globe supplied them.

Goods in Asia, South America, and Africa, sold at wholesale prices, or less—through the DREAMS app.

What a genius idea.

And Caleb was the genius behind DREAMS. From the conversation, she caught in snatches tonight, Adam was the computer wizard and the rest of the guys found suppliers, flew around the world making deals, and somebody—maybe Ryan or another employee—was in charge of the shipping end of things. Somebody else customer service.

The categories of goods—and services—was staggering. DREAMS was a monolithic company. Ten thousand variables and suppliers to supervise and oversee.

Kira closed the lid to her laptop and switched off the TV, her mind buzzing from orange-dusted Doritos and caffeine.

She got dressed for bed, put on thick socks, turned up the heat a little, and climbed under the thick comforter. Staring at the ceiling, she was thunderstruck all over again.

Caleb Davenport was a freaking millionaire.

Somebody she had gone to high school with.

Reaching over to her night stand, she snagged his business card again. No address was listed. Just an email, company website, and a customer service 1-800 number.

Flipping open her laptop again, she typed in Caleb’s name. How many Caleb Davenports were there in Denver? Only two. Caleb and his father. So Caleb was a junior. A Number 2. Caleb Davenport II.

No address listed though.

Heck, maybe he had homes in several places around the world.

The guilt she’d been feeling over accepting a five-hundred-dollar tip dissipated.

The guy could certainly afford it, despite the incongruity of the entire evening.

With thoughts of Caleb swirling in her mind, the pure exhaustion from her day finally claimed Kira as she fell asleep, Miss Pixie curled around the bottom of the comforter.