Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

They’d had her at petting zoo. Although Maisie O’Shea hadn’t been to a Buchanan Brewery party in months, let alone one of their notorious staff parties, she’d finally relented. Because she was feeling lucky—adopting out four puppies and finding a foster home for a senior dog in one night would do that for a woman—and maybe a little reckless. Because it was a beautiful night in November, cool but far from cold, perfect for an outdoor party. And because she’d really, really wanted to see what kind of animals would be in a petting zoo put together by the Buchanan staff.

“I thought there were just going to be goats,” Jack Durand commented, his eyes wide.

She patted his back. “Amateur. You’ll get used to it.”

Jack had moved to Asheville just two months ago to join the brewery as events director. Although his half-sister Adalia was good people and had become a close friend, Maisie could count on one hand the number of times she’d spoken to him. She took him for something of a straight man—the sort of stoic, humorless figure who watched in silent judgment as the world went mad around him. Then again, she was in the habit of making snap judgments about people, and she had to admit they weren’t always correct.

Jack just stared into the pen for a moment. And it was a sight to see. There were four goats, a pygmy and three full-sized ones, but someone had also brought a donkey, and a goose wandered around at the other animals’ feet, its neck occasionally darting forward for a vicious peck. They’d been corralled behind what looked like two zip-tied plastic baby playpens, which would almost certainly collapse sometime in the night. Especially since someone had inadvisably placed the food table directly next to it. One goat was already pressing against the plastic side of the gate, which had been insufficiently staked into the ground, attempting to reach for what looked like a breadstick. Whoever had set up the lighting in Dottie’s back yard had done a poor job of it—half the yard looked like it was in full daylight, and the rest was cast in shadow. At least the animals were in the daylight part. If you were going to get attacked, it was best to see it coming.

“Aren’t geese mean?” Jack asked.

“Positively vicious,” she responded with a grin. “I’ll bet Lurch was supposed to get a duck.”

Lurch, the former head brewer at Buchanan Brewery, wasn’t known for his intelligence. Then again, he hadn’t been hired for it. Rumor had it the old owner, Beau Buchanan, had brought him on as a thank-you for helping him out of a lurch, and so the name had stuck.

She glanced at Lurch, who stood to the side of the zoo, talking with someone who looked like an animal wrangler, and thought, Must’ve been one hell of a lurch .

Dottie burst out of the house, accompanied by a woman with long white hair that had been piled into a bun on her head. The woman held a canvas and what looked like a collapsible easel. A large, sagging bag hung from her arm.

“Is she going to be painting out here?” Jack asked, although his voice wasn’t pained like Maisie would have expected. Just interested.

She patted him on the back again. “I’ll tell you what—it’s going to be a long night for both of us if you keep asking questions like that.”

The woman set up what was indeed a painting station in a patch of light right next to the makeshift animal pen, just in front of where they stood. Meanwhile, another former Buchanan staffer, Josie, had set up shop behind a couple of crates fronted with a handwritten sign that read, Palm Reading. 13% Accuracy Guaranteed. Be prepared for the bitter truth. She stood in near darkness, but a little lantern under the sign made it readable. An overturned goldfish bowl with a small tea light under it apparently served as some sort of crystal ball, but what a palm reader needed a crystal ball for was anyone’s guess.

No, thanks. Josie had read her palm a year ago, and once was enough. Dottie had all but shoved her into the line at a party much like this one, and Maisie, rolling her eyes, had succumbed to the pressure. They all knew Josie’s fortunes tended toward dark. The victim before Maisie had been told that he’d contracted syphilis from a Norwegian prostitute, only for his wife to pour a beer over his head—apparently he had been to Norway recently. So she’d prepared herself for something like that. Or to hear that she was going to die in a Zamboni accident or have her arm bitten off by a killer whale. But Josie had taken one look at her palm and said, “You’re in love with someone, and he has no idea. But he’s going to marry someone else, and you’re going to die alone.”

No words could have cut into her more efficiently. Because she had been in love with her best friend, River, for years—more or less—and she’d gone to some lengths to ensure no one knew. Not River, certainly, and most definitely not Josie.

And from the slightly bored, slightly high look in Josie’s eyes, Maisie couldn’t be certain if she knew or was only delivering another flip yet devastating fortune.

So no, no palm reading for her.

Rich, deep laughter drew her eyes to Jack.

“So you do laugh,” she said.

“Is there any other appropriate response?” he asked, waving a hand back toward the petting zoo.

The goat had nudged the gate far enough that he’d managed to reach the breadstick, but the goose had jumped onto his back—its wings must have been clipped, which sucked, but there was no clipping those instincts—and was pecking at the breadstick with fervor. The goat looked rightfully terrified and was jostling around to get the bird off its back. Meanwhile, the artist was painting furiously. She’d only gotten in the outline of the goat so far, but she’d painted an obscene amount of blood on its back. Did she hope it would come to that?

This could only be the infamous Stella. Adalia had visited her studio a couple of months back while planning the Asheville Art Display—the event they would be celebrating at this after-party…if the back yard didn’t explode into chaos before it officially started.

Dottie was looking over Stella’s shoulder, nodding knowingly. “Marvelous, marvelous.”

Although what was so marvelous about it, Maisie would never know. She might not be an artist like Adalia, but she knew what she liked to look at. Bleeding animals didn’t make it on the list.

The goose was pecking the goat now, as if encouraging him to get another breadstick to avoid becoming a replacement meal. Maisie winced. It looked painful, and she didn’t care if it made her a bleeding heart that she didn’t want to watch.

The animal wrangler was still deep in conversation with Lurch, their voices raised. The sweat on his face indicated he was questioning his life decisions, as well he should.

“Hey,” Maisie called out, clapping her hands. They all turned to look at her, puzzled. “Is anyone going to help that goat?”

“Help him?” the artist bleated. “He’s my muse! Diego knows that. He’s doing this for me.”

“I take it Diego’s the goat?”

“No, he’s the goose,” the artist said, giving her a look that suggested she was stupid. “I would never name a goat Diego.”

The animal wrangler’s lack of response indicated he was only there for the donkey.

Looked like Maisie was going to have to handle this up close and personal. Luckily, years of running a dog shelter made her the right woman for the job. In the early years of Dog is Love, before she had a volunteer network, she’d done nearly everything herself.

She marched up to the animal pen with purpose, and to her surprise, Jack was right beside her.

“I don’t need your help,” she said.

Which was when Diego pecked her shoulder, making a liar of her.

“Oh, this is good!” Stella exclaimed from behind her.

Jack made a grab for Diego, but the bird hustled out of reach, somehow managing to stay on the goat’s back.

The goat rammed the gate, clearly panicked by his persistent rider, and his pygmy buddy joined in, hitting the gate at a lower height. Still, the goose clung on, giving its mount another good peck. This one created a welt, easily visible under the bright lighting.

“We’ve got to get him off,” Maisie said. She made another grab, got another peck. She was about to say screw it and step into the danger zone beyond the baby gates, but Jack started to sing softly, crooning under his breath. An old Mamas and the Papas song about shining stars and dreams. Her mother used to sing that to her when she was a toddler, sleepless at night, and for a second she just gaped at him, mouth open. Just like that, her initial impression of him floated away, leaving something like wonder in its wake.

Then the goose came to him—it came to him.

He gently lifted it off the goat, who took a mouthful of his dress shirt for his efforts. At least he’d taken off the jacket. It seemed to think the shirt was tastier than the breadstick, or maybe it shared her sudden curiosity about what was under that shirt. Jack looked to her for help.

Bread wasn’t great for goats, but they could eat it in small quantities, and desperate times and all that. She grabbed a handful of breadsticks from the table and lured the goat away from Jack—only for the rest of the animals to come charging over, butting the straining baby gate.

“Don’t let Grumpy eat wheat!” Stella shrieked. “He’s gluten-free!”

Maisie exchanged a glance with Jack, who was still holding the goose and miraculously didn’t have a bloody face.

“Which one’s Grumpy?” he asked.

“It’s clearly that one,” Maisie commented, nodding to the one in front. Part of Jack’s shirt was hanging out of his mouth—he’d chomped the sleeve—and he had a look in his eyes that implied he would happily chomp Jack’s arm to get more of it.

“Nah,” he said, rearranging the goose. “That one’s got to be Dopey.”

Stella had finally left her painting for long enough to approach the gate, and the one she tugged away from the buffet was the little pygmy.

“I would have pegged that one for more of a Tiny Tim,” Jack muttered in an undertone.

Huh. So he did have a sense of humor. And a lovely singing voice. And a talent with animals, obviously. Not that she hadn’t already known that part. Jack lived with Adalia, in a house the Buchanan brothers and sisters had inherited from Beau, their grandfather, after he passed away. They’d also inherited his cat, the infamously evil Jezebel, who needed a double dose of sedatives to be brought to the vet. According to Adalia, the hell cat cuddled with Jack as if she were sweet as sugar.

And there was something else she knew about him. Adalia had told her that he had a little sister, one he’d helped raise, and she was about to move in with them. Which meant he was a pretty solid guy. One who was good with kids, no less.

Looking at Jack now, holding that goose as if it were a puppy, his face stretched in a rare smile, she felt a powerful punch of attraction. With his dark hair and soulful dark eyes, Jack Durand was a handsome man, something she hadn’t noticed until this very moment. Of course, maybe she was just feeling the effects of her months-long man drought. Ever since River had accepted the brewmaster job at Buchanan Brewery and started seeing Adalia’s sister, Georgie, she hadn’t had the heart to go on a date or engage in one of her usual casual relationships.

She hadn’t had much of a heart left to do anything.

But she’d come to terms with it, mostly. Josie was probably right—the man who’d played such an important role in her life had fallen in love with someone else.

So why not have some fun? No one needs to know.

Because from the way Jack was looking at her, with a crooked smile that spoke of attraction and amusement, he wouldn’t be opposed to the kind of fun she had in mind.

Because he’s Adalia and Georgie’s brother, you idiot.

Then she heard the pop of a breaking zip tie, and the plastic baby gates came down, the animals rushing in a stampede over the fallen plastic. The next instant they were treating the buffet table like it was a trough. It had probably been inevitable, the way things were set up, but Maisie hadn’t helped things by dangling a carrot—or some breadsticks, as it were—in front of them. Oops.

There was a backyard fence, so there was no real danger of them getting away. The only threat to their safety lay in whatever delicacies Dottie had included in the spread, but they were probably safe. Goats could eat practically anything.

“Oh, that happened earlier than expected,” Dottie said without a hint of alarm. “I was hoping everyone would be here by the time they got out.”

The animal wrangler finally shook out of his stupor. “You said nothing like this would ever happen again!” he shouted at Lurch.

“And you believed him?” Maisie asked in amusement, glancing at Jack again. The goose flapped its wings a little, and Jack shrugged and let him loose.

“Doesn’t seem fair that they should enjoy the feast without him.”

“I predicted all of this!” Josie said victoriously from behind her booth. “Feel free to approach my station for a painfully accurate reading.”

“She shouldn’t feel so vindicated,” Jack said in an undertone. “I think anyone could have predicted this wouldn’t go well.”

Maisie laughed out loud at that, then laughed a little harder when Stella bustled up to the buffet, shrieking, “No! Blitzen is lactose intolerant.” She released Grumpy to go after Blitzen, a rotund goat with a brown and black coat, only for Grumpy to immediately latch on to a breadstick and chow down.

The donkey wrangler had apparently had enough of this circus and departed without another word, literally riding off on his donkey to wherever he’d parked his trailer. Maisie and Jack exchanged a look, both of them laughing now, but they stepped forward to help wrangle the animals. By the time they got the goats back into the pen, Jack’s dress shirt was torn in three different places, and the bottom of Maisie’s dress was covered in some kind of bean dip. Lurch tried to do his part, too, and lunged for Diego, somehow managing to get a goose footprint on top of his bald head, made with some kind of red dip, it looked like. Apparently it burned—Dottie was sometimes big on making things look like they tasted—because Lurch shoved Diego at Jack before running to the ice bucket someone had put out for beer and sticking his whole head in.

As soon as the goats were contained again, Stella had run into the house in dramatic fashion. Maisie had thought she was going inside to change her clothes, but the back door opened again, and when Stella walked out, she looked much the same as when she’d gone in—dress eaten away in parts by Grumpy, a green stain on what remained of it. She was carrying a blank canvas, and she hurried over to her abandoned easel, threw the painting in progress on the ground, and started painting on the fresh one.

“She’s inspired!” Dottie announced joyfully. “I can’t wait to see what comes of this!”

She seemed genuinely excited, like she cared not one bit that the buffet table looked like a swarm of locusts had descended on it. People hadn’t even started arriving for the party yet.

Josie sat silently in her booth, staring into the fishbowl as if studying all of the secrets of the universe.

“Dottie, do you have any clothes Jack and I can change into?” Maisie asked. “And maybe somewhere safe we can stow the goose?”

“Oh, Diego can go anywhere,” Stella said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s sweet as can be.”

“That poor goat would beg to differ,” Maisie said, although perhaps she was just arguing for the sake of arguing. The “poor” goat in question had bitten her leg.

Stella glanced at them and then tipped her head. “Oh, don’t be surly. Just look at the way he’s cuddling with that fine man.” She lowered her paintbrush, her gaze narrowing on Jack. “You know, I had my heart set on the other one—the one named after a fish—but his girlfriend is a harridan.” The harridan being Adalia, and the “fish” being Finn, Adalia’s boyfriend. “You’ll do just fine. You’re the Buchanan bastard, aren’t you?”

Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Probably he’d been called that before.

But he just said calmly, “I prefer to be called that for the content of my character, not the circumstances of my birth.”

Which was just about perfect as far as responses went.

“Stella,” Dottie snapped in what was maybe the only time Maisie could remember hearing her lose her temper. “That’s an awful thing to call my grandson. Now, I don’t want you to leave, not when you’re clearly in the throes of inspiration, but you should apologize.”

Jack wasn’t her grandson, not really. But Dottie had been Beau’s partner for something like twenty years, and it was clear she saw his grandchildren as her responsibility.

Stella let the paintbrush fall—literally fall—into the grass, spraying red.

“I am sorry,” she said, walking toward Jack with arms extended. He took a step backward, almost tripping on the baby gate, and Maisie moved in front of him.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said. “If you think Adalia’s a harridan, you’ll find my bite is much worse than my bark.”

The goose in Jack’s arms nudged Maisie with his beak, but she didn’t yield any ground. Jack had apparently shifted the bird into the crook of one arm, because she felt his other hand wrap around her hip. Maybe he was just trying to keep her from walking into the goose’s danger zone, but his firm touch was putting her into a whole different danger zone.

“Oh, so he’s yours, then,” Stella said with a pout. “I never get to have any fun.” But she paused, then said, “Like I said, I’m sorry. I have an artist’s temperament, I suppose.”

Maisie didn’t attempt to hold in a guffaw. “And I’m sure it allows you to get away with all manner of things.”

Lurch looked up at them, head sopping wet from his dip in the bucket, water dripping all over his shirt. “I sensed that when I first saw you,” he said to Stella. “The artist thing.”

What gave her away? The paint all over her clothes and hair, or the fact that she had a literal easel out on the lawn?

“Oh, aren’t you a big, strong man?” she said.

Maisie was half tempted to stick around to watch what was sure to be the strangest mating dance known to humankind—or animalkind for that matter—but the other guests would be here soon. Even if she was mostly resigned to the whole Georgie and River thing, she didn’t want to have food on her dress in front of Georgie, who never seemed to have a single hair out of place.

“Dottie?” she pressed.

Dottie had been watching the whole Lurch–Stella exchange with fascination, but she shook it off and gestured for them to follow her into the house. “It’s those pheromones Stella wears,” she said in an undertone. “They bring men to their knees.”

Jack shot her a dubious look, but his next comment was for Maisie. “Thanks for saving me back there.”

“No problem,” she said, her mouth tipping up at the corners. He still had the goose cradled against his chest, his grip gentle but firm. She wondered if he’d hold a woman like that too. “You let Adalia get away with fostering a dog while you were away for the weekend. Stella would have eaten you alive.”

“Now, children,” Dottie said, tutting her tongue. “That artist’s temperament does get Stella into trouble sometimes, but she’s a good-enough sort. I wanted to do a little something for her since Adalia was hesitant to allow any of the goats at the Art Display.”

Maisie snort-laughed. She could imagine it now—the puppies barking at the goats, the goats chowing down on paintings. It would have been chaos.

“So the after-party was her consolation prize?” Jack asked. The goose in his arms looked cozy enough to take a nap. Who was this guy?

“And so are you, apparently,” Maisie said with a wink. “Sounds like she had her heart set on Finn.” Finn was handsome, but to Maisie he’d always been “just Finn,” the way she hoped River could someday be “just River.” She wasn’t quite there yet, but she was trying.

Dottie pointed down the hall. “Help yourself to anything that appeals to you, dear. You know your way around. I’ll get Jack and Diego here sorted.”

Maisie met Jack’s gaze, taking in the amused tilt of his mouth, the dark wells of his eyes. “Good luck,” she said. “You might just need it.”

Once in Dottie’s room, she let herself into the closet and flipped through the clothes, feeling the bittersweet wash of memories. How much time had she spent here over the years? Dottie was River’s great-aunt, but she’d raised him since he was a teenager, and Maisie and River had been so close growing up that this house had been like a second home to her, just like the O’Shea house had been a second home to River. Most of these outfits were ones she’d seen before. Birthday parties. Halloween parties. Just-because parties. Dottie Hendrickson was a woman who liked to celebrate.

She found a green summer dress, one that would be a little long on Dottie and maybe just a tad short on her, and took off her ruined dress and put it on. It fit, and when Maisie looked in the mirror, she wasn’t ashamed by what she saw.

But you’re not blond, and your hair will never be orderly, and most of all, you’ll never be her.

Which she was okay with, really. She didn’t want to be someone else. She liked herself just fine the way she was, and to hell with anyone who didn’t. But she couldn’t help feeling a little heartsick. Because for years she’d thought her life would be one way, and now she knew she’d been lying to herself, which was the worst kind of lying a person could do.

“Get it together, Red,” she told herself, tapping the forehead of her reflection. It was a nickname her dad had given her for her hair, which had been fiery since birth. Out of three O’Shea sisters, she was the only one who was a true redhead, although her younger sister had strawberry blond hair.

She slipped out into the hall and nearly tripped over a warped floorboard when she saw Jack. He’d changed into a long-sleeved thermal T-shirt and a pair of jeans. If he’d looked good in a suit, he looked even better like this. The sleeves hugged his arm muscles, making her want to pull the shirt off to get a good look at them. And the way he was eyeing her said he thought she looked pretty good in Dottie’s dress.

But then she realized that he was wearing River’s clothes. Was that why she was suddenly so attracted to him? He had dark hair like River too, and although his eyes were several shades darker, they were still brown. Was she just looking for an imitation of River in someone else? Would she spend the rest of her life doing that?

Josie had been right: she was totally screwed.