Chapter 1

It's notmy fault that I set off the alarm on the front door of the Precious Meadows Care Center for the fourth time this week. Stacy, the greeter who sits at the front desk and monitors traffic in and out, should really keep Ambrosia on a leash.

Ambrosia is the center's therapy dog. She's a hundred and forty pounds of gentle fluff and love who would never hurt a fly. And it's really not her fault that she nearly outweighs me (and has a lower center of gravity to boot), and that I always have my hands full when I come in.

Today, most of my stuff is crammed into a messenger bag, but my hands are still full, between Princess Lay-ah's soft-sided pet carrier and the container of snickerdoodle cookies I brought for the staff.

Today, when Stacy buzzes me in through the front door, I carefully balance the tub of cookies in the crook of my arm so that I can open the door and slip inside. Of course, I know better than to touch the push bar. Once the door is open, I catch it with my foot before shifting my belongings back into their correct hands and strolling into the foyer.

As the door closes behind me, Stacy—who is talking to a tall, stupidly handsome man—glances in my direction and gives an obvious sigh of relief that I've made it through the door without mishap. For once.

Except then, Ambrosia comes ambling down the hall.

Ambrosia normally has free rein of the memory center, since she has the energy level of a manatee and the gentle temperament of Nana from Peter Pan. There is one thing that gets her excited though. Chickens.

So as soon as she sees—or smells?—Princess Lay-ah's carrier, she cranks up the pace. But it's okay. I still have this. I raise the pet carrier up out of her reach and take just the smallest step back.

And that's where all my plans fall apart.

She jumps up and puts her paws on my shoulders. I stumble back a step. The panic bar hits me mid-back. The alarm shrieks through the room. I lurch forward, since it will stop as soon as I'm not touching it. But somehow my bag gets caught on the panic bar. Ambrosia knocks the cookies out of my hands. Genuinely fearing for Princess Lay-ah's life, I hold her crate even higher. I finally free myself of the push bar, only to fly forward.

Though by some miracle, I don't land on my face. Ambrosia breaks my fall and doesn't even complain about it.

The chaos will last only a few seconds. Probably. I hope.

But by the time the dust settles, I'm sitting on my ass, clutching the pet carrier to my chest, Ambrosia is eating the snickerdoodles, and the handsome stranger is glaring at me like I just pissed in his Cheerios.

Stacy—who has a limited tolerance for my shenanigans anyway—looks at me from over the rim of her glasses. "Ms. Lewis," she chides with the air of someone very put-upon. "I thought we discussed this."

"I didn't touch the panic bar." I look from Ambrosia to the man, who is watching all of this with total disdain, half hoping one of them will come to my defense. Neither of them do. "Between Ambrosia … and the cookies … and Princess Lay-ah … and …"

Stacy gives the man a long-suffering look. "If you'll just give me a moment, Mr. Harris."

He gives a stiff nod and then glances away to look around the center's entrance, as if put out by the inconvenience of my mere existence.

I get that a lot. I'm high energy and a bit of a klutz. A great many people find me inconvenient.

Stacy picks up the handset on her desk and says coolly into the receiver, "Anthony, if you could come assist in the front lobby, Ms. Lewis could use your help. And while you're at it, inform the cleaning staff that we'll need someone to come clean up…" she looks at the mess Ambrosia is making and then arches a brow in my direction.

"They were snickerdoodles," I offer helpfully.

She clears her throat and says, "We just need someone to come clean up."

She hangs up before Anthony can respond. The too-handsome man just continues to stare at me like he's not at all sure what to make of this.

I'm not sure I can blame him.

"I'm sorry. I'm not normally such a hot mess." I give him my signature plucky-but-apologetic smile. "Only sometimes, I guess."

Not only does he not smile in return, but his scowl deepens, like he's uncertain where I fit in at Precious Meadows.

As elder care centers go, Precious Meadows is posh AF. Other than the panic bar on the door, nothing in this room would indicate it's a health care facility. The furniture is all heavy wood, oversized poofy chairs, and glistening light fixtures. It looks like it belongs on the cover of Southern Living. Everything here is designed to fool the patients into feeling at home. Needless to say, I don't fit in here, but my grad school advisor had an in with the staff, and it's close to my apartment, so it's where I'm doing my practicum.

The man is not someone I've ever seen here before, which says something, since I come visit the center several times a week to study the benefits of therapy animals for patients with dementia.

He's at least six feet tall, with silky brown hair that's a little long and scruffy on the top, and several days worth of growth on his jaw. Between his skin tone and his hair, he could be one of the millions of Texans of Latino descent, but it's impossible to say. He's in cargo pants, boots, and a slouchy leather jacket, all of which look worn but expensive. Like he's the kind of man who has the money to buy the nicest things, but not the vanity to care whether or not he looks impressive. He exudes casual wealth without pretension.

Precious Meadows is one of the most exclusive and expensive memory care facilities in the country. So if he's here talking to Stacy, either he has money, or a loved one does. Or both.

If the way he looks me up and down and then seems to dismiss me as if I'm nothing more than an inconvenience makes me think it's both.

Before I can give the matter any more thought, Anthony strolls into view, and the man turns his back to me to continue his quiet conversation with Stacy as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Anthony is one of the physical therapists. He gives a chuckle when he sees me. He reaches out a hand to help me up. "Hey, T-Bone. How do you manage to do that every damn time?"

Once I'm on my feet, I brush off my butt with my free hand, wishing I could dust off my dignity as easily.

"That time, it wasn't my fault. I swear."

"Sure it wasn't." He's still laughing as he pats his leg and gives a short whistle. Ambrosia pads over to his side, back to her normal glacial energy level, but leaving a trail of cookie crumbs in her wake. Anthony walks with me out of the foyer.

Right as we turn the corner, Princess Lay-ah offers a feeble cluck from inside the carrier as if she's just now waking up. I glance back at the man one last time, to see him looking at me in concern, as if he thinks maybe I was the one who clucked.

My cheeks burn, not because I'm embarrassed. No matter what Stacy thinks, that wasn't my fault. And Anthony, for all his teasing, certainly doesn't judge me the way Stacy does. As for the overly handsome man … well, what does it matter if he does think I'm a hot mess and a menace? He's nothing to me. Besides, if he really is here for the first time, that means he's looking for top notch care for someone he loves. He's got enough on his plate that he'll probably never give me a second thought.

I'm certainly not going to judge him for being cold and scornful under the circumstances.

Before I can wonder anything else about the handsome stranger, Anthony asks, "Snickerdoodles?"

"Yeah." I sigh. One of the patients I work with is always talking about her mother's snickerdoodle recipe and I've been trying to recreate it. "I think I finally got the recipe right this time, too."

He clutches his chest in mock horror. "Say it ain't so, T-Bone!"

I laugh at his exaggerated response, even though the tub of destroyed snickerdoodles kind of makes me want to cry.

As if he knows how bummed I am, Anthony bumps his shoulder against mine playfully. "Hey, there's always next week, right?"

I force a bright smile. "Totally." My steps slow. "How is Margaret doing?"

Margaret is one of my favorite patients and Anthony is her PT. I know he won't give me too many details, but I usually can read his expressions well enough to know what to expect.

Today, he offers me a sassy grin. "Same old, same old." Which is what he always says, but the grin tells me it's a good day.

I stop outside Margaret's room. This is where the nurse will buzz me in, and he'll peel off to go back to work.

He walks backwards a step or two and shoots finger pistols at me. "May the force be with you."

"Hey, have you watched Rogue One yet?"

"You know I don't do those depressing movies."

"But it's so good!" Still, I get it. Working here takes a toll on you, so I can't blame him for avoiding depressing things outside of work. "I can loan you a therapy chicken to cuddle while you watch it."

A moment later, I hear the familiar chime that indicates one of the nurses at the nearby station noticed me standing outside her room and opened the door for me. I slip into her room to find Margaret sitting in the armchair in front of the TV. I've seen pictures of Margaret when she was young, and she was beautiful. Tall, athletic, vibrant.

I can see vestiges of that woman in her now. She's still sturdy and strong, even though her shoulders slope. Her hair, once lush and long, is short and brittle, but still mostly dark with only a scattering of gray. She's in her eighties, and I know they don't dye it, so I guess it's just good genes. But it's always been her smile I love the most.

Of course, I love all smiles, so that's no surprise.

I walk into the room, letting the door click audibly behind me. She looks up when I enter and smiles. It's the same soft, friendly smile she always gives me, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Oh, hello," she says. "I'm Margaret. Are you new here?"

So much for it being a "good" day.

I nod, setting my messenger bag down in the corner and carrying the pet carrier over to her. "I am. I'm Trinity. I brought a chicken for you to cuddle today. Would you like to meet her?"

Margaret frowns. "Oh, I don't know. I don't like birds."

This isn't the first time I've had this conversation. It's probably not even the twentieth.

Honestly, doing the math on how many times I've come in and she hasn't recognized me would just be depressing. So, I don't do the math. And let me tell you, I love doing the math on things, so that's really saying something.

"I think you'll like Princess Lay-ah."

I roll Margaret's walker over and sit on the seat, before unzipping the pet carrier and allowing Princess Lay-ah to peek out. I have three therapy chickens and I rotate through bringing them to "work" with me. They are all Silkies, which are known for their adorable floof of feathers on their heads and sweet temperaments. Princess Lay-ah is a buff, so her feathers are a beautiful strawberry blonde.

I drape a flannel, waterproof changing pad on Margaret's lap before gently extracting Princess Lay-ah from the carrier. Margaret's eyes light up when she sees her.

"She's so pretty!"

"Isn't she? Let me show you how to hold her."

Margaret frowns, clenching her hands in her lap. "Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't want to hurt her."

This is the segue I was hoping for. "You won't. Holding a chicken is a lot like holding a baby. You just have to keep them close to your body so they feel safe."

I show Margaret how to cradle the tiny hen close to her body with one hand and how to pet her with the other. Within minutes, Margaret is telling me about her own children. Her trip down memory lane is circuitous. Progress is slow but satisfying.

At some point, Princess Lay-ah starts to fidget, but Margaret is still chatting with me and clearly enjoying our time together, so I take the hen from Margaret and set her down. She waddles off to explore, and I know she's safe. There's nothing she—or Margaret—can get into that would hurt them.

After about an hour, just as I'm about to pack up and leave, I hear the click of the door opening. I assume that it's one of the orderlies, since it's almost dinner time. I stand and turn toward the door, but it's not one of the orderlies. At least not one I know. Instead, it's the tall, stern-looking man from the lobby.

He stops short, just inside the doorway looking from me to Margaret then back. "What are you doing here?"

Assuming he merely entered the wrong room, I ask, "Who are you looking for?"

His frown deepens and I feel my own expression shift to match his. I take a step closer, ready to escort him to whatever room he meant to enter. I'm here often enough that I know all the residents in this wing.

Except, that doesn't make sense. One of the nurses would've had to buzz him in. And they certainly wouldn't buzz him in to the wrong room.

I look back over at Margaret to see a smile blossoming on her face. "Martin!"

The man freezes, looking startled for just a moment, before quickly recovering.

Oh no … That's when it hits me. Stacy called him Mr. Harris. This must be Margaret's grandson. The lawyer who never visits. Obviously I know the full names of the patients I work with, but I rarely think of them that way. Margaret is Margaret Harris.

Of course a man who glares with such disapproval would be a lawyer. The jerk.

He gives me a long, hard look, his gaze no less stern than it was out in the lobby, before taking a few steps further into the room to cross to where Margaret sits by the window.

He leans down and brushes a kiss on her cheek.

"Hello, grandma." He straightens and looks at me. "And who are you precisely?"